4 Poems by Tyler R. Martin

Punk Noir Magazine


Love and Anarchy

We will be together when it all falls down,

When everything is trashed, 

And all lies ashen in the past.

We will be together when the Cities have all drowned

Or some rational is found

To burn them to the ground.

We will be together when the government is gone

And all the politicians have been relieved

Of all presumptive efforts

Towards the spread of their disease.

We will be together when the nanny state is gone

And the final card is drawn

For a new order to awake

And embrace it’s gorgeous dawn.

We will be together

When the Congress hall has burned

And every well coiffed leader

Has been fired and been spurned.

So don’t yet fret, perhaps the time isn’t now,

But we will be together when it all falls down.


What is Below in the Hungry Black Maw?

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!


Waiting for a Commercial

Tough to gain your footing on the black ice under feet

As you stumble with your bottle down the dark dreary street.

The change in your coat jingles, the last few cents not spent,

As you’re staggering toward home to imbibe, sigh and lament.

Trudging through slush toward steps stacked with snow

While you’re swearing at yourself for all the effort you forgo.

Turning your key to enter, hands and feet are frozen numb 

As you grip your bottle tighter, with just one finger and a thumb.

The door swings open slowly and you quickly step inside

Then you close the door behind you, to this place in which you hide.

Spend a minute searching, and find the remote control

And then peruse the television, through the sitcoms you do stroll.

Icing down your bourbon, small glass and a frozen cube,

As you surf the daytime networks and stare blankly at the tube.

Feet up on the table, sipping slowly at your booze

And you savor tastes of poison and the comfort that ensues.

When that glass is empty, exert the effort for one more

And you drain that one even faster, then the third is quite a chore.

Now you’re feeling so lightheaded, best you’ve felt all week

And then you wait for a commercial

For there’s a task you must complete.

Picking up your pistol, laying right beside your chair

Then you cock the hammer slowly 

And blow your teeth right through your hair.


Another Dead Bird

My dog, with a dead bird in his mouth, was waiting for me

This morning on the stoop of my home’s back door.

I stood in the doorway, waiting to let him in, hung over, 

Bleary eyed, still naked at six AM, drowsy and half asleep, 

Desperately wanting him in the house so I could grab 

Another hour of sleep without fear of him pissing on my floor.

And there he was, staring up at me, ears up, tail wagging,

Dead bird in his mouth and big blue eyes popping from

Their sockets with excitement. “Put it down!” I told him,

“Fuck you,” his eyes responded, I looked down at him,

Dead bird in his mouth, gray sloberry feathers hanging from

His jowls, tail wagging very rapidly. “My bird,” his eyes said.

Fuck it, I lit a cigarette and let him and his dead bird inside,

Head high, tail wagging, he trotted into the house, almost skipping

Towards my bedroom to show his prize to the hungover blonde 

Still comatose in my bed. I sat at my kitchen table smoking,

Head back against the back of the chair blowing plumes of smoke 

Into the stagnant air and waited for the inevitable screams.

Tyler R. Martin is a 23 year old U.S Army veteran of the Iraqi conflict and now full time writer/poet. He has had struggles with drugs and alcohol having been diagnosed with depression and PTSD due to his military service. These struggles reflect in his search for meaning in an unforgiving world as he explores this in his writing. He appeared on the By the Moonlight Writers podcast and his work has previously been published by Czykmate Productions, Versification and the Daily Drunk Mag.