by Tyler Martin
Walking streets that drip with pussy winkers,
Man is tempted to leave it all behind
And pursue the beauty he feels would lift
Him up from the depths of ordinary
Existence, to a great place where having
A heavy woman is reality.
But remember, fuckwads, your real woman
Is heavy in her way, gorgeous and sweet,
More than enough for a dimwit like you:
Be thankful you found a place in the shade.
This is the fork in the road. Go one way,
And you will get further lost in darkness,
Toward Byronic fate of blackened madness,
Raving at the moon in morbid whispers.
This, you are still convinced, is the true path
Of the artist: He must reject the world
In favor of stark expansion, a clown
Without a circus, blowing red balloons
Only to bitterly pop them from spite:
This is a freeway to premature birth.
To separate one's art from life becomes
Requisite when the art starts to consume
One's humanity. If you hold something
One inch from your eye, you can't see it clearly.
If the artist is too close to life, how
Can he see it? He has to step back,
To the point of not being able to touch it.
Only then might he find something useful
To say to the winking pussies sipping
Lattes in corporate coffeeshops everywhere.
Back to the other path: Daily living's
Not beholden to existential dread.
I believe even Byron was only
Byronic in his mind! He was a wit,
And probably enjoyed having a laugh.
Let not the joke be on you: Take her hand.
Let not death cast a shadow over life:
Find the animal inside and feed it.
There are plants that eat animals, ya know?
Chaos is natural, but order is law.
Cobainian levels of self-destruction
Imply radial emissions' conquest
Of the sorest loser's apple pancake:
Click to like if you are not a robot,
Or capture the vagueness of the captcha
When it requests your compliance with what
Exactly? The network admins are who?
Google is tracking me? Facebook's canon?
The youngsters believe they control the tech
And laugh at the thought that we are controlled.
Love's a decision hooked on a feeling.
First you feel something, and then you decide:
Is it worth it? Can I do any better?
Yes and no. Love is worry, thank you Jeff,
But being alone is more worrisome.
Perfect. The final night of bored debauch,
Pounding and expunging, reflecting on
Today's luncheon with my new attorney,
A woman whose p—No, will not do
That again! I will honor and protect.
This is indeed the last hurrah, or so
I tell myself while slugging the mustard
And hitting my consciousness out of the park.
When a man who can't believe that someone
Would ever really love him is confronted
By someone who does, he still disbelieves.
So what he must do is make a clear choice,
Choose to accept it and man the fate up.
You still see a worthless piece of garbage
When you look in the mirror, but that's fine.
What matters more is that you've been given
A chance at something tender, and, face it,
You're getting old as hell: It's time to act.
This is the last fresh breeze that will tiptoe
Through your window like a flower of spikes,
Iron rose wafting bold feminine spices,
Fragrancies hacking the weeds in your lawn
And splitting the atoms that comprise you.
So love is not romantic, after all,
But a private form of public service.
I, too, am rotting in platitudes!
But unlike you, my dear lost prince Arthur,
I am not a genius. A foot soldier,
Nothing more, inspired to live poetically
By you, who realized your own folly
At such a young age and just turned your back
On your calling because it had run its
Course in your mind, as you had other stuff
You wanted to work out. Your awful end
Portended to me the danger of free.
There is one I want to tell you about:
He was the boy I beat up in sixth grade.
We'd arranged the meeting after school,
I don't remember why, but I wanted to
Beat up Brian bad, and so we squared off,
And he struggled to fend off my fitness,
And so I beat him down for no reason
Other than I needed to beat him up.
And he wasn't the only one: Bully
I did and bullied was I: The same now.