Never Much Better

Tyler R. Martin

Went to bed a babbling incoherent mess
And didn’t wake up much better.
I had been up the better portion of the night,
Carton of Indian reservation reds,
Bottle of Jack from the local liquor joint,
Reveling in some strange semblance of
An almost spiritual degree of thought.
Racing through my booze soaked brain were
Thoughts concerning this and that,
Contemplating the whiskey on my breath,
The smoke clouding my lungs,
Reviewing the various variables in relation to the value of my words.
Who would marvel at the malice inherent in me as I do?
Who would gaze upon the words issued from me upon the page
As if they exist with some degree of eloquence and tact?
Who would ever view me as more than a boozehound hack with nothing of substance to say?
I had awoke to an empty bottle and an angry hungover angel beside me,
Ashes assembled in neat concentric circles on my coffee table,
Window open, A/C on, blinds billowing in the breeze.
And I awoke sweating with my thoughts still damned,
Damned to the same degree as before, just now clearer, more coherent
And now coexisting with a pounding headache,
Still baffled just as much by potential of interest some might show my savage mindset,
Damned still to consider the frailty and meaninglessness of me.
I had went to bed a babbling incoherent mess
And didn’t wake up much better.

I Wrote A Riddle

Tyler R. Martin

I exist a once when darkness convalesce,
And do what I will at no man’s behest.
From granting wishes at my very best,
To causing mayhem, trouble and distress,
Both by way of existential dread and of a tiny biting pest
I can shake even carefee birds from their little nests.
What am I?

“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

“Burn The Polack at the Stake!”

Tyler R. Martin

When has poetry become political?
And poets devoid of emotional depth?
Why has color or creed or cock you suck or don’t
Become more about the syllables and structure and sentiment?
Does minority status a poet make? Or degree of social justice theme imbue a poem with worth?
Do you care about my sexual orientation when you read this poem?
Do you scoff at my lack of melanin?
From here I can hear you thinking
“How could Ty ever be a poet? Ty is white and white is wrong and I betcha he’s never sucked a cock,
he’s got to suck at least 50 cocks before he gets published, and some of those cocks better be black!
Hell! He’s nothing but a miserable, white, drunk! He doesn’t even take political stances! And if he did they’d likely be incorrect, his social justice score is in the tank!
Holy fuck, he might even be a natural blond!
Forget the thought of publishing, Ty, you Nazi fuck, you alcoholic, misogynistic piece of shit,
Your intolerance is intolerable!
Burn the Polack at the stake!”