“Storms Down South”

Tyler R. Martin

Well the sky’s gone ebony now,
The winds pick up when it’s dark,
They’re all from the north now,
With each gust as the limbs bow
And the trees are stripped of all their bark.

The hurricane comes from Atlanta,
Now the rains are here to stay.
Season of terror here in Georgia,
Now those storms will have their day.

All the stray cats seeking shelter,
Fishermen have hunkered down.
All winds are from the north now,
Every hunter wears a frown.
The rivers have become whirlpools,
We’re at the Apex, by the sound,
The sky’s gone ebony now
All the fish are set to drown.

Hope you enjoyed the poem! If you did, my chapbook is available on Amazon for 1.99 and if you message me I’ll definitely send you a free one! Id love to get some reviews on my work. I’m new to selfpublishing and trying to promote myself anyway I can! There is a link below

Check this out: Midnight Mourning by Tyler R. Martin https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0878SXJBM/ref=cm_sw_r_sms_awdb_t1_iU.MEbDX2GJ4V

“Morning Ensues”

Tyler R. Martin

His dad’s ashes                 up on the mantle

Empty wine bottles            litter the rug

And there’s a mirror           above the dresser

For the poet to oggle         his own ulgy mug

A shiny Zippo                    he likes to flip up

Watching flames dance     up on the wall

And with just one flip         lights a cigarette

As his bottle makes him    ten feet tall

Old mellow music              hums in the background

Each puff of smoke            smothers the room

With each sip                     the wine’s less bitter

The sky is brighting and     morning ensues

“Ebony Sky”

Tyler R. Martin

Well the sky’s gone ebony now,
The winds pick up when it’s dark,
They’re all from the north now,
With each gust as the limbs bow
And the trees are all stripped of their bark.

The hurricane comes from Atlanta,
Now the rains are here to stay.
Season of terror here in Georgia,
Now those storms will have their day.

All the stray cats seeking shelter,
Fishermen have hunkered down.
All winds are from the north now,
Every hunter wears a frown.
The rivers have become whirlpools,
We’re at the Apex, by the sound,
The sky’s gone ebony now
All the fish are set to drown.

“Work Week Blues”

Tyler R. Martin

Thirty seconds down,
It’s not even nine thirty.
My brain it won’t come ’round
From this purgatory.
Now sixty seconds down
Wishing the weekend would come early,
But it never does
Fridays always hurt me.
Three hours till lunch,
Still not near nine thirty.
I just want to explode
And sleep in the infirmary,
Till next Friday comes around
And awake after four thirty
In time to clock out
For the work week shows no
Mercy.

“Every Fucking Day”

Tyler R. Martin

Ever wanna die so bad it hurts?
Ever wanna die so bad your tears
Become nothing but hot ash,
Charring your eyes with puffs of smoke
As your irises become clouded
In steam and stressed veins?
Ever burn inside so hotly you wanna run,
With screeching tires on unforgiving asphalt
Until they wear so thin they explode
And send you tumbling in crushed streel
And shattered glass?
You wanna die that way, sure, but know you won’t
And you bitterly dread the inevitable walk after,
Knowing you need to keep moving
Until your shoes are shredded and your
Feet blister and bleed?
Ever wanna die so bad this seems preferable
To living another day?
If yes, welcome to my world you dreary fuck…
… Pour yourself a drink, we’ll toast together…

“The Ballad of the Punk Rock Star”

Tyler R. Martin

In a dank dive bar
Sat an old punk rocker,
Said he was a star back when,
At old CBs he played off key
And pissed on the crowd
As they shouted in glee.

This is the ballad of the punk rock star,
Now just a dour old drunk in an old dive bar.
But with stories to tell of his days of glory,
All different versions of the same old story.

In a dank dive bar
He sits and slowly sips his whiskey
And sings along to the jukebox,
Belting out “anarchy in the U.K!”
As he coughs out his lungs
Saying, “the tunes of my day!”

And after a few it’s always the same:
“The songs of today are a total shame!
And a disgrace the singers way back when
I played old CBs with all my friends!”

In a dank dive bar
Sits the old punk rocker,
He sips at his whiskey and orders a beer,
Slamming them down till he’s too drunk to stand
And mumbles the lyrics
To songs he sang in his band.

In the dank dive bar
No one cared too much for
The punk rock star and his time in the sun,
Never paying much attention to any of his tales
Of blood and the piss
While the feedback it wailed.

Now the old punk rocker went home one night,
Loaded up a needle held it up to the light,
Said, “missed you old friend, been too many years.
Just one little prick and it’s away with my fears.”
And with one rubber band, his bicep he bound,
Waiting and waiting till a fresh vein he found
Then the punk rock star shot it on home
Took his final breath in his room all alone.

This is the ballad of the punk rock star,
Was just a dour old drunk in an old dive bar.
But his stories to tell of his days of glory,
Were just different versions of the same old story.

“The Ballad of the Punk Rock Star”

Tyler R. Martin

In a dank dive bar
Sat an old punk rocker,
Said he was a star back when,
At old CBs he played off key
And pissed on the crowd
As they shouted in glee.

This is the ballad of the punk rock star,
Now just a dour old drunk in an old dive bar.
But with stories to tell of his days of glory,
All different versions of the same old story.

In a dank dive bar
He sits and slowly sips his whiskey
And sings along to the jukebox,
Belting out “anarchy in the U.K!”
As he coughs out his lungs
Saying, “the tunes of my day!”

And after a few it’s always the same:
“The songs of today are a total shame!
And a disgrace the singers way back when
I played old CBs with all my friends!”

In a dank dive bar
Sits the old punk rocker,
He sips at his whiskey and orders a beer,
Slamming them down till he’s too drunk to stand
And mumbles the lyrics
To songs he sang in his band.

In the dank dive bar
No one cared too much for
The punk rock star and his time in the sun,
Never paying much attention to any of his tales
Of blood and the piss
While the feedback it wailed.

Now the old punk rocker went home one night,
Loaded up a needle held it up to the light,
Said, “missed you old friend, been too many years.
Just one little prick and it’s away with my fears.”
And with one rubber band, his bicep he bound,
Waiting and waiting till a fresh vein he found
Then the punk rock star shot it on home
Took his final breath in his room all alone.

This is the ballad of the punk rock star,
Was just a dour old drunk in an old dive bar.
But his stories to tell of his days of glory,
Were just different versions of the same old story.

“Mad Dogs, Bred for Chaos”

Tyler R. Martin

My grandfather died at 78
A chain smoking alcoholic,
Miserable and strong till his last day.
I watched my dad get hit with a wine bottle,
A big heavy glass fucker, swung like
A billy club right across the dome,
He didn’t go down.
My uncle’s an alcoholic,
Fifty years going strong,
Once took twelve hits of acid,
All at once at a Stones concert.
He still stood.
I got tased twice and punched once
In a scrap with ten cops,
I didn’t go down….
Mad dogs don’t go down easy,
I come from a pedigree of mad dogs.

“The Almighty’s Comic Relief”

Tyler R. Martin

I was suicidal long before I knew
That living was essentially dying.
I craved death from the beginning,
Tried to hang myself with the umbical cord at birth
…..To no avail.
I followed up by jumping off slides at the playground,
Jumping off roofs, out of windows.
Broke my arm twice, but nothing fatal.
The Almighty caught on to this when I was 12;
My appendix burst spilling gangrene
Throughout my body.
This is how I go, I thought, sick and tired
in a hospital bed while the Almighty has his laugh at
Making me wait so long.
And the Almighty did have his laugh, but it it didn’t
Come with my demise.
According to the surgeon, the Almighty had
Blessed his hand, his scalpel and my soul,
All of these blessings allowed the surgeon
To clean up my insides.
I awoke to pain and scars, but I awoke all the same.
Road rage at twenty, screaming at an asshole
From the Carribean in rush hour Manhattan,
Tried to run my Cadillac through a concrete divider.
I was outside my flattened Caddy smoking a cigarette
When the medics arrived, shocked they hadn’t
Driven up on a corpse.
They demanded I seek medical assistance;
By the third increasingly persistent request
I told them in no uncertain terms to fuck right off.
The Almighty once more had his laugh,
Leaving me with not a scratch and a whopping
Auto bill for my troubles.
Booze, pills, tasers, fights, tried them all;
Nothing seems to slow me down;
I feel I’ll live to a hundred, miserable, battered and broken
But not dead, no that’ll be too easy.
I must have been a cruel man in my past life,
Or maybe I’m just the Almighty’s comic relief.

“On Being a Good, God fearing Drunk”

Tyler R. Martin

I have been a fall-down fucked-up, apathetic,
Puking drunk since I was nineteen.
It has taught me much.
Being a drunk teaches one
How to vomit with grace and poise,
This occurs after years of practice.
A good drunk learns how to shift gears artfully
Driving home from his bar,
Down shifting as he corners on side streets
And narrowly misses parked cars
On the streets of suburbia.
Drunks learn quickly whose girls they can hit on,
And whose they cannot.
Being a drunk teaches you
Whose bark is worse than his bite,
And whose bites you should avoid.
Being a drunk accelerates the learning curve.
This is due to every good drunk’s contempt for all that he is not;
The booze provides this self reflection and it isn’t often pretty.
For being a drunk does not diminish or distort or provide escape from reality,
Being a drunk simply enhances it, puts reality beneath a magnifying glass to reveal the pocked, Scarred and blemished skin hiding beneath the porcelain facade.
Booze will break her drunk down so low he can only look up
And the view is nothing but decay, and this decay is toiled in by the world’s worker ants too blind to see, too innolaclated to smell the stench for the world’s trash fires.
Yes, drunks learn their lessons, and yes, drunks often swear off their medicine, tiring of reality.
But a good drunk always returns to the bottle like a devoted lover, a good drunk cannot stand his own hypocrisy..
They learn their lessons, they learn them harshly, and they learn them truly.
All this for the low low price of a 10 dollar bottle of wine.