Unpublished. Copyright c⃝ 2016 Keye Martin. All Rights Reserved.

Contact: bliss@keyemartin.com

Titles

an every day thing . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1ethos. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .2poets . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3you should never write poems for women . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4m in the afternoon . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5a kind of sun . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6love . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7once i knew this russian girl . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8the shops along the square . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9this thing between us . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10loop . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11manhattan ghost story . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12the previous evening’s rain . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13on the front porch . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 14groups . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15november . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 16dreams can go fuck themselves . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17the romance of self destruction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 18drugstore tango . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 19some other place . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20

an every day thing

set everything you ever wrote on fire,so it can burn its way into the past,because nothing you wrote will ever matter,nothing you wrote will ever last.

you may have been alive once,but you are not alive today;you may have had a voice once,but now it has nothing to say.

down in the marigny, the street musicians sing,that being dead or alive is an every day thing.

so pour another glass of premeditated sin,and go bottle cap tap dancing on the streets within,writing with your eyes closed,on every thing that’s ever been,nightdreaming a second line,before you make the choice to give in.

because somewhere poets still cut themselves on versewith all the rage that lust can bring;and go sailing through high story windowslike a first wife’s engagement ring;and write lines that rhymewith being dead or aliveis an every day thing.

1

ethos

this one makes your technique look elementarythis one makes your rhythm feel like fifteen percent of methis one makes your message sound like a fucking afterthoughtthis one makes your style look like a disease that a hooker caught

this one likes all music except countrybecause you like all music except hip hop –this one wishes you would cross the streetso it could read you your rights like an inner city cop.

this one thinks married people with hyphenated last names need to make a fucking decision,this one thinks procreation is not creative and will achieve unity through division.

this one will not apologize for being masculine and does not care what you think about it –this one only broke into your jail so it could show others how to break out of it.

this one goes out to the dead –there’s no hope for the rest of you;this one is here to fill the empty space in your headjust so it can find new ways to get the best of you.

this one doesn’t give a damn about your partisan viewsor your twisted notions of affluence and wealth –this one doesn’t need you to exist at all,because this one can think for itself.

2

poets

poets.writing about people that love them and people that don’t.about girls that will and women that won’t.about wanting to die and wanting to live,about wanting to take and wanting to give.about the rush of a needle in the veinand screaming stella! at a second floor balcony in the rainand being broke and dreaming of immortality,being remembered, leaving something behind –about being lovesick and going clear out of your mind.

poets.writing about politics social issues race genderand everything except what is actually inside of them,posturing like politicians getting elected on the struggles of others,saying nothing and doing even less,fashionably leftist,and good at repeating phrases they hear at parties.black turtlenecks, coffee houses,and all the things and places you wear and go,when you want the pen but you opt for the show.

poets.thinking and speaking for everyone except themselves,regurgitating the bankrupt philosophies of art college professors,poets at protest rallies on vacuous activist streets –poets killing poetry in the eyes of every one it meets.

3

you should never write poems for women

women fall in love with poetsso they can fall out of love with them;then poets write new poems,which attract new women,who do old things.but when sleeping with your eyes open,or trying to slash your wrists;when hoping the night goes quick,or waiting to be kissed –you should never write poems for women:a poem is not something they can wear,it’s not the kind of chocolate they can taste;it will not cause the eyes of men to stare –a poem is only something they can waste.

4

m in the afternoon

hey, draw this poem i wroteand show it to me sometime,when we’re out on a methylphenidate,and anywhere but in our mind;lost in a place that long ago let go of everyone,sailing under a blue amphetamine sky drowning in sun;intoxicated all afternoon,fucking like one of us might die tomorrow;turning never ever into soon,an asylum from yesterday’s sorrow.

5

a kind of sun

there’s a kind of sun on a certain planet,and if you look into it for too long,you risk catching a disorder that causes homesickness anytime away is in the room;and in really hopeless cases,you might even lose interest in madness,in bleeding,in sadness,and needingthis lady on the verge of becoming a poem.

6

love

love is when she shys awayin a smile as if to flirtand then pretends for half the daythat life is just a skirt.

‘shys’ is not considered a word by most dictionaries, but it should be.

7

once i knew this russian girl

once i knew this russian girl

and i swear that she did not drink

and if her eyes were daring

’twas only ’cause i was staring

at a girl who refused to blink.

once i knew this russian girl

who had an a�nity for numbers

and we spent several days just counting

the steps traversed on the way to her house,

the finer points of a grey church mouse,

and everything except the number of times she wanted to kiss.

once i knew this rUsSiAn girl that i sent a secret message to,

i think i asked her to stay.

and she said why

but i was too shy

and sure as hell she moved away.

8

the shops along the square

lady if you own an april sunday dresscatch the streetcardown to daylightat the shops along the square.

lady if you see a lighthouse near the shorethen cast awayyour fractured band of gold,but keep the hand a child could hold,and hurry quick –there’s not a second left to spare,because my time it flutters there:with the sunshineon the parasolsat the shopsalong the square.

9

this thing between us

i shouted until my voice brokealong with the rest of the eveningi blamed the pull of the crescent citybut it was really the sense that you were leaving.

it’s been twenty-four hours since we partedand no feeling of mine was ever half-hearted –better tell me the answer to that question now,because this thing between us has already started.

nothing matters more than the moment,when there’s no time for hesitation or fear –on second thought,that i had to ask at all,means the answer is already clear.

love can conquer everything except love,the insecurity its intensity can sometimes create;the only thing that distance cures is closeness,but closeness is a temporary sort of fate.

10

loop

type heart is boolean;

function his heart return heart is

beginif her heart = true thenreturn true;

elsereturn false;

end if;end;

function her heart return heart is

beginif his heart = true thenreturn true;

elsereturn false;

end if;end;

main

beginif his heart = true and her heart = true thenprint(‘‘why are they both waiting to see what the other will do?’’);

end if;end;

11

manhattan ghost story

the drapes were drawn just enough,that the moonlight made you seem real;and from the floor i kissed smoke rings in sarah’s direction,as she blushed away time with a glance i could feel;and the trees made shadows in the shape of manhattan,until it looked the way it never does;and all through the night,they whispered in latin,but the only sound that i heard was.

12

the previous evening’s rain

muted silver backdrops barren landscaped branches,december plays the mist until it sounds like wasted chances;

(in a charming materialistic corporate yankee town,where the decor is always up,and the soul is always down;where the children are all clones,and the individual learns to drown.)

while waiting for the arrival of the night’s last trainon a platform that iced over the previous evening’s rain.

13

on the front porch

i know you think ’cause i don’t use my words rightthat there ain’t no truth in anything i say –but i talk in a language of my own inventionand i ain’t interested in being any other way.you think i’m uneducated,as if being educated was a good thing –hell, everything you know is something you were told,just another page in a book being turned –but everything i know is something i know,’cause everything i know is something i learned.

14

groups

group cause: independencegroup strategy: elimination of baseless conventiongroup religion: creativitygroup commandment: thou shalt think irrationallygroup orator: Vernon Johnsgroup weapon: voicegroup musical instrument: voicegroup literary form: poetry, with or without beatsgroup poem: groups, you’re reading itgroup enemy: authoritygroup leader: nonegroup political party: none

group form of government: anarchygroup motto: fuck yougroup tag: Xgroup color: blackgroup flag: a solid black flaggroup strength: youthful spiritgroup weakness: youthful spiritgroup crime: provocationgroup drug: truthgroup disorder: bipolar with a dash of schizophreniagroup conspiracy: everybody’s in on itgroup flaw: becoming a group.

15

november

ask not what your country can do for you,ask why it wants to;votes don’t determine elections –bullets do.

16

dreams can go fuck themselves

i could smoke myself to deathworrying about dreams that wake me up in the middle of the nightcomplaining because they’re pissed offthat they never got the chance to live.but it isn’t my fault,i’m only the one who dreamed them.does that really obligate me to make sure they’re fulfilled?i dream all sorts of things.i have dreams where everyone pisses in the sink,should i go around trying to make that happen?i dream a world where i can connect with the typical person on the street,you don’t seeme going up to them complaining that we have nothing in common.dreams are selfish assholes that only care about themselves.they don’t care what anybody thinks of themand they’ll stop at nothing to get what they want.when it comes right down to it,i can’t think of a single good thing to say about dreams.they’re always making you feel like your life isn’t good enough,and if by some blue moon you actually happen to satisfy one,they just start asking for more.yeah, dreams are a lot like women.

17

the romance of self destruction

do you love life enough to let it fall apart,or need security so muchthat you simply lack the heart?

welcome to the spiral downward,broadcast live from the land of cliches,where the razor blades are always on the houseand the sleeping pills will keep you up for days.

it’s time to walk that fine line,between the explicit and the implied,between the romance of self destruction,and a metaphor for suicide.

it’s time to scratch on purpose –cue ball in the corner pocket,no rail –because when there’s nothing worth playing for,it’s impossible to ever fail.

18

drugstore tango

i want to die from a drug overdose.like a movie starin a long black car;like somebody troubled but importantthat gets admired from afar.i want to die in a reckless wayso that i can trick people into believing my talent was real;i want fucked up kids to say i was cool,and the peace that comes when you no longer feel.i want to hear them play the drugstore tango at my funeraland watch them dance until the night sky is colored with yes;i want to hear them say that i was murdered,and watch them smile as they confess.

19

some other place

like a song you fuck to on repeat during a rainstorm,this is smack in the arms of a junkie,this is some other place where you actually want me.this is the truth we tried to chase –the one that left us drowning in lies –this is just a memory,and it’s easy to replace,as the best inside of us dies.

now the guillotine drops –we were all misled;and the twisted clock stops –they never heard a word you said;so shout it from the rooftops,as the bullet goes into your head:that nothing was ever held sacred,and poetry is dead.

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