Tyler Martin


Tyler Martin Poems

41. Suffer The Options 5/13/2015
42. 1694 5/13/2015
43. Grandma's Jammies 5/13/2015
44. Quiet Men 5/13/2015
45. Bluntforce Catechism 5/13/2015
46. Peaceful Pestilence 5/13/2015
47. Dating In The Middle Ages 5/13/2015
48. Dating In The Middle Ages, Part 2 5/13/2015
49. Fundamentals Poke Bullets In Vacations 5/13/2015
50. Listen To The Bones 5/13/2015
51. Mission Nursery 5/13/2015
52. Thoughts On Feelings 5/13/2015
53. Footprints On The Ceiling 5/13/2015
54. Worsted Will 5/13/2015
55. Football Players 5/13/2015
56. Metal Filings 5/13/2015
57. Honestly! 5/13/2015
58. To A Brooding Fool 5/13/2015
59. Depression Is A Privilege 5/13/2015
60. Caleb Williams 5/13/2015
61. To A Common Tonga 5/13/2015
62. Embers 5/13/2015
63. Gracenote Do's And Dont's 5/13/2015
64. Tiddly-Winks 6/6/2017
65. Native Graves 6/6/2017
66. An Ocean Of Culture Between Us 6/6/2017
67. Breathing Is Boring 6/6/2017
68. After Auden 6/6/2017
69. Lady Lobster 6/6/2017
70. Tennis Time 6/6/2017
71. Soccer Stud 6/6/2017
72. Childhood Mythologies 6/6/2017
73. Bubble Gum Whispers 6/6/2017
74. The Rules Of Rice 6/6/2017
75. A Browning Banana 6/6/2017
76. Vanta White 6/6/2017
Best Poem of Tyler Martin

What Day Is It?

That would be today, but according to the vaginal data this would be might,
and finally the adjustment is boned. A looming silence fingers the air,
until a shattering clack of vertical blinds alerts him to what's in there.

The distance is subdermal, for gravy’s got the hematoma. Here
comes the part where source transmission blunders through the line,
for finally does it feel like it might be fine without it, a lock,
sitting sillier still inside the hole of the key of life.

Transmission: bodies, corded like moldering wood in a sleet storm,
steaming still ...

Read the full of What Day Is It?

Standard Candle

The farther away you get, the dimmer you do appear;
Telemetry’s burden’s bet, as telescopes taunt my ears.

Parallax vision shows that double the pleasure is not;
The light from your eyes like snow, landing on surfaces hot.

Weekends will come and then go, as friends with new ostriches sleep;
I wish he’d a brought me some blow, that I could then toot off your bleep.

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