The War of Life

Tyler R. Martin

From the warmth of his home, he critiques the world,
In his mind he’s a martyr, his black flag’s unfurled,
He votes with his passion, his news sources he reads
Not knowing these monsters seek to shatter his knees!
In bed with the monsters, the serpent of envy and greed,
That demonic leviathan to him it still lies and it pleads,
By indulging his fears and his pity his empathy is seized
And engage with his sympathy to spread its disease!
For each day’s a battle, in some book each day is wrote
And for those who defy this, their armies go up in smoke.

It is him who I shall watch and it’s at him I shall stare
For whose existence is resisted will decay in despair,
To resist life is pointless and this nihilism is terrible to grasp
So that fallacy becomes the cocoon of a fabricated mask!
He who is sickened by everything that knows chaos and strife
Forgets that what batters down walls will hone down his knife!
So accept the violence and chaos, man, don’t shy from life
And know that life is a war, man, please engage in the fight,
Whether in battle with gloves on or at your table to write!
For each day’s a battle, in some book each day is wrote
And for those who defy this, their armies go up in smoke.

The Real Intro aired today!

The real introduction to my podcast Bourbon, Cigarettes and Syllables aired today! Link included below. Let me know what you think. Criticism and suggestions will be greatly appreciated!

Every Wednesday here after Ill be posting a video where I’ll be discussing the topics talked about today in the introductory video. Primarily boxing, poetry and meaning in a nihilistic world along with many other topics. Watch subscribe and comment please!

What is below in the Hungry Black Maw?

Tyler R. Martin

There’s a house at the end of the street where
All the little ghouls collude to meet and,
In plumes of smoke and cigarette ash, they
Invade the solace of a forgotten past. Where
All window panes are thoroughly smashed by
By wonton bottles of boozy glass
And the drywall bursts in thick sullen clouds of the
White plaster shrouds of those thrashes, so loud! .
These white plaster shrouds precipitating down
On scratched oak floors anticipating the sounds,
Of the words to be spoken and pentagrams drawn
In the black hope of inciting a terrible dawn!
Here the ghouls all read the Book of the Law
And call the basement below “the Hungry Black Maw” and
Scamper on down engulfed by the sound of the
Steps below creaking, in tremors they’re bound!
As below the cob webs of many a year are
Imagined to them the apex of fear! In the dark
Below, in all superb drear, the ghouls surround
In a worshiping pose, a sight so queer in tranquil repose!
The skeletal remains of the man of the house, now quiet
And still but with a lesson espoused! For the man in shambles
In the darkness below had died as he lived
And bitterly so!

Combat: that Which Alleviates Difference

Tyler R. Martin

An essay I wrote…thought it was interesting

By. Tyler R. Martin

Do you know yourself as well as you can possibly know yourself? I ask. I’m sure we all ask ourselves this from time to time if we are to have even an ounce of self reflection. We ask ourselves, do we know our peers as well as we could? Or, how well do they know themselves? And do our peers struggle with the same manner of self reflection? How, collectively, or individually, can we grow to understand our own capabilities and limitations and, simultaneously, the capabilities and limitations of our peers? Will they accept you if you’re different? Better? Worse?–at whatever arbitrary task at which we all compete. Perhaps you’re a different color? Have a different upbringing? A different genetic heritage? In this essay I will explore my own journey through these questions. My own self reflection and competition, both collectively and individually, as a white teenager, competing in a majority non white sport.

Perhaps you’re young, immature, inexperienced. Perhaps you embody a false bravado due to a very natural insecurity. Despite the “self esteem” doctrine drilled incessantly into your head from childhood, you know, deep, deep down, that you’re 12 years old and haven’t experienced one iota of the real world. As a consequence of this lack of experience, you haven’t the faintest idea what your own capabilities are and cannot comprehend what you should feel “esteemed” about. Accomplishment is a long hard road made even longer by the antiseptic environment most white, middle class children find themselves raised in. There is a lot of knowledge in a bloody nose, a bruised knuckle, a snarl at an opponent in the ring of combat, that most teenage in suburbia never have the privilege of experiencing. Boxing, the sport of controlled fury, coherent violence, not just against your opponent, but also against yourself, is where I honed my razor edge. I wasn’t liked. I wasn’t liked due to immutable traits, and therefore was not accepted. Numerous black and brown faces singled me out as the physical embodiment of “weak suburbia” as “a frail white boy” shielded from the inherent violence of existence. But I was there, bearing the slings and arrows of contempt, sharpening my tools in the ring of combat, the ring of fury. I sharpened my skills against those who had shown me disdain, pushed my own limits, as well as pushing theirs, in the inferno of breathless body shots and ear ringing blows to the head. We sharpened our skills as well as our perspectives. Our perspectives not only of our own capabilities, but also of each other. This, in the ring of combat, the ring of fury, did we see that it was the heart and muscle that mattered, only guts and the skill, the fury and the violence, the control and the dedication. Beyond this, we taught each other and ourselves, nothing else mattered. 

To challenge yourself, physically, mentally, and thereby understand your own limitations, has the perverse effect of raising just as many self reflective existential questions as it provides the answers for. At a certain point it became glaringly clear that I wasn’t sure exactly who my most proximal peers where? Against whom do compare my abilities? Into which hierarchy do throw my preverbal hat? Was it in the academic sense? In my own public school, no degree of competition of physicality interested me. School sports seemed pompous in comparison to the raw primal grit of a boxing gym. There was, even in suburbia, a group of my schoolmates who wrestled with their own capabilities in a very nervous and clumsy way with the false bravado I spoke of earlier; they interested me not at all; they were ghosts, miles behind me in the grueling marathon of life. So, to compare myself to those more academically inclined seemed to be a suitable challenge. The boxing gym didn’t provide much in that regard, it was not an environment overly crowded with academics. Though, it’s interesting to note, that to say that a boxing gym is not an environment conducive to creating academics is not at all saying that a boxing gym is not an environment void of intellect or not conducive to attracting and promoting intellectualism. Those are grossly different things. Understanding the depth of Shakespeare, although beneficial, is not the same as understanding the depth of your own capabilities, nor is it the same as understanding the depth of life, which is often a complex, competitive and violent affair. I learned this as I progressed on these two different fronts; the academic and the physical. My peers in the former were academically inclined and often of substantial intellect, however, I noticed that they often suffered an inordinate amount of stress when exposed to any potential roadblock in their path. A difficult test approaching, the formulation of a college resume, a potential physical confrontation, an essay such as this, void of blatant factual knowledge, would send them spiraling. I could only imagine what six minutes in the ring of combat would do to their fragile psyche! 

Yet, this is not the correct perspective, even then I was still ignorant to some degree, for now I realize that jest is pointless. The true hallmark of an actualized individual, something that cannot be gleaned in a classroom, would be to aid those who are interested in progressing down the path that has helped me immensely, and, in doing so, hope that they will benefit as I had. It’s not in a classroom that you are able to understand the depths of your own metal fortitude, or the limits of your physicality. It’s not in the classroom that you realize that it’s not the culture or the race or economic prosperity, the college you attended or the books you’ve read that’s sets apart men and women, it is, in fact, the level of self reflection and the knowledge you’ve gleaned through combat with existence.

My Seraph in Disguise

Tyler R. Martin

A beauty thought reserved only for nature,
Somehow now resides within your eyes,
How can such magic be earthly normal,
Is it real, or just some clever guise?
I wonder, are you a true mortal woman
Or a Seraph, an angel in disguise?
–Your hair of a goddess, with golden streaks
Falling gently on tan, smooth skin;
I envy it, caressing your neck,
Cascading down your back, touching your chin.
You’re speaking softly, with love in your eyes,
Giving me a glimpse of your gorgeous mind,
Such a serene, tantalizing feeling,
Something of heaven and earth combined.
And with a pitch like some divine instrument,
Yours: a voice that serenades so sweetly,
From a grin like a summer sunrise,
A few notes and I’m enthralled completely.
Because truly, I wouldn’t be surprised
Were you to admit to me tenderly:
You’re not just my love, my prize,
But my Seraph, my angel in plain disguise

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