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.