Tyler R. Martin
Today is the day
All mother’s are given thanks
For their tyranny.
“Mother’s Day Haiku”
Tag: tyspoems
“False Punks and Weekend Drunks”
Tyler R. Martin
Go out don’t get arrested,
Go out and get real drunk.
Rocking to The Clash in your black leather,
Calling yourself a punk.
Then wake up in the morning,
Shave your face and comb your hair,
Shower early the next morning,
Tightening a tie with some “flair”.
It’s the one your mother bought you,
The one with a red black hue,
Then bathe in some cologne,
On Mondays this is what you do.
Then once more it’s a Friday,
You’re leaving work at five,
To once more imbibe imported beer
At the club called “IT’S ALIVE!”
You repeat this on Saturday
And on Sunday night too,
Back to the office on that Monday
‘Cause this is what you do.
I am officially self published!
Compiled a chapbook of some of my older poems last night. It’s called “Rotten Man’s Throne”. You’ll find the link below!
https://amazon.com/dp/B08541HSXH/ref=cm_sw_r_tw_awdb_t1_x_tSuvEb3PJX0EX…
“Useless Persistence”
Tyler R. Martin
If I can break through a wan demenior
And befriend the guard dogs guarding your brain,
I’ll chisel through your cracked exterior
And southe a fragile heart at it’s frays.
But there’s a fracture left from convalescence
Too many times your minds been unwound
Way too often long dead demons come to haunt you
Slip past your soul’s sentrys without sound.
Below your damage there’s a sweet little girl
Whose craving marriage and a man of the world,
Whose craving art work that don’t make her apathetic
And avoiding heart break from sad boys she calls pathetic.
She’s sad and lonely but in her mind she’s numb,
In her body she’s a tenant, and her arms and legs are dumb,
Drew under by the tidal wave her needs and her resentment
And her soft despair now is but fading remnant.
Passed out on the floor contemplating her existence
Seeking joy but she still can’t find the door,
Cause she knows that it’s useless her persistence,
Makes the decision not to try anymore,
The bitter end is now no longer in the fleeting distance,
Feels the joy well up in her core.
“adventures another of a stuipd schmuck”
Tyler R. Martin
Reading a Bukowski poem out loud to my dad
And giggling like a retarded jackal,
Sipping slowly at a beer
And wistfully wishing it was bourbon,
Lighting a cigarette with an entire book
Of matches and burning
My eyebrows off,
Driving 95 mph on post
In Fort Drum
After drinking a gallon of Jack
And wondering why everything
Is blurry,
Making shitty alcoholic friends
And hating them,
But hating them less than
My friends who don’t drink
Too much,
Watching the news and
Feeling weird that I really don't give flying fuck
About anything those assholes are
Over-analyzing,
Scribbling somber stanzas and
Wondering why
My depression continues to
Progress,
Eating beautiful blonde pussy--
Eating A-LOT of pussy,
Fucking as much as I fucking can,
Sitting-- sad, stoned and
Watching Nirvana and Jim Carrol
Records rotating for hours….
...this how a simple schmuck like me
Likes to waste the dreary days
Of his lonely life,
“part 5”
Tyler R. Martin
Much too seldom do we:
Embrace apathy and disillusion,
To which the resulting liberation,
Compounded with inebriation
Will frequently culminate in:
An improved mindset for exaltation….
“part 4”
Tyler R. Martin
Ever too often,
Do we strive to attempt
The seizure of language to reveal our disposition,
Only to find the glare of a cruel, empty void,
Utterly lacking our desired exhibition.
“part 3”
Tyler R. Martin
Far too often,
Do I bawl and stress as a tactless tactician.
Utilizing irreverent nouns and verbs
For a rhymeless commision,
Only, in spite, to scrap the stanzas in dismission.
“To Write, To Decay”
Tyler R. Martin
I don’t shave, rarely shower,
Haven’t cut my hair
Since I left the service,
I stink, I sweat, I don’t brush
My teeth,
I don’t care.
No, no I was born to be a drinker,
A drunk, a lush, a fuck up,
And all drunks
Are just writers
With not enough effort
Towards the written word.
Too many sober people writing
I think,
And also,
Not enough money to spare for bourbon.
“part 1”
Tyler R. Martin
Too often do I see,
Prose with absolute ambition.
And all too often it fails to surpass
The faintest intellectual expedition;
Or reveal the workings of human condition
bourbon, cigarettes and syllables 