ditch,

the poetry that matters

Nathan Tyree

Nathan Tyree is a writer from Kansas, where he lives with his wife. His fiction and poetry has appeared in Dogzplot; decomP; Word Riot; The Legendary; Poor Mojo's Almanac(k); Edifice Wrecked; Heroin Love Songs; Mad Swirl; Flesh and Blood; Doorknobs and Body Paint; Bare Bone; The Shallow End; Dogmatika; Gustaf magazine; The Journal of Modern Post; Gutter Eloquence; Kitty Snacks and many others. He reviews books and interviews writers for Bookmunch (www.bookmunch.co.uk) and Magazine of the Dead (magazineofthedead.blogspot.com).

A Primer on Finding God in the Details

I camp in the tree outside your window and shave with broken glass so that you wont hear the ants eating their way out through my skin. I want to apologize to my blood. It isn't the blood's fault that it keeps me alive. In fact, if my blood had any choice in the matter I am certain that it would flee my body and go live in a Golden Retriever on a farm somewhere. Through the window I watch you undress. Your body is too small for your size and I want to gut you, hollow you out and live inside your hollowed out body. Someday I will give up on this. For now I will watch you sleep and think about dismantling your eyes.

Listen to Elliot Smith and think about how stars die alone in the vacuum of space. They must get terribly sad . Imagine their pleas to no one and find that you are well on your way to believing in nothing. Western literature has primed you for nihilism. Mort de Credit . You strip naked and walk along a wire made of walrus entrails and use an umbrella to balance. Below you is a flaming lake of dying stars.

I decamp from your tree and move to Tupelo where the news tells of a Rhinoceros escaped from the zoo terrifying the poorer residents of the town's outskirts communities where they live in mud huts and shotgun shacks. To feel clean, even, straight, I shave my head and get a tattoo that says "There is No Magic" across my forearm. The tattoo artist has a lisp and almost misspells my ink. I want to gut him and hollow him out and live inside his body drinking cheap whisky all day. Instead I look for a job sweeping up after eyeless men in a bar downtown. It is my job to maintain the dank. It's a decorating choice.

You will find yourself looking out your window, naked and not hollowed out, searching your tree for my shape, which is your shape with more meat, and wishing that I was still there. Fuck you, though. I've moved on.

I collect snakes and carnival glass and green stamps and dream of a day when I will be able to forget your broken, bruised, small frame. On the street a man with squid tentacles in place of his face asks me for a dollar to buy a drink and I give him the razor blades from my pocket. Every night, alone in my apartment drinking Four Roses I call the Eff Bee Eye and confess to being the Zodiac killer. This despite the fact that Zodiac started killing four years before I was born and despite the fact that I have never seen San Francisco. They want to believe me.

Everyone needs something to believe in. Even dying stars must think of something greater than themselves as they collapse into singularity. They can take solace in knowing that their mass will curve space-time and draw a colloquy of matter to its end. The crows understand this instinctively.

I deserve a little more.

I am trash, but even trash needs to be wanted or loved. We discard it to the politic worm and the men who will siphon methane to power factories that make the machineries of death. Like the stars, your used cup from Starbucks deserves the belief that it serves a higher purpose. Maybe enough Starbucks cups could warp space-time and pull us all into oblivion.

Maybe we would mistake all those discarded cups for God.

 

Triptych

I am not embarrassed by the scars that line my face like a badly folded map that has been tossed, ignored on the floorboard, forgotten in the heaps of cigarette ash and crumpled foil strewn over dead hours as the truck traces its way past boarded shops and burned out houses

Her memory, my pain and the white line form an ancient triptych of need hot desire pulled like sweet agony and sweat from the taut flesh of the quivering hi-way at dusk their broken blades laid out like shards of bone thrown on the red earth as dark spreads over the horizon

The passenger seat carries a bottle, which needs no protection from the belt or air-bag and never fucks with the radio or complains about the air conditioning or asks the difficult question about our destination. We’ll get there soon enough

 
 

If My Name Was Liam I Would Fake an Exotic Accent to Get Laid

I discovered a walrus living in my freezer. I beat it to death with my ex-girlfriend's femur (I don't know why the femur was still in my apartment, you'd think she would have taken it with her when she left), then I took the walrus out to a nice restaurant, but I made it pay the bill.

When you are sleeping I will evolve into a bird, then devolve into a reptile. When you wake up you will be upset by my lidless eyes staring down at you.

The scent of Bubble Yum makes me horny.

I love you so much that I want to use a rusty box cutter to slice you open from your cunt to your chin, then hollow your body out and build a pillow fort inside you. I will be a king inside your body. When I get tired of the fort I will fill the cavity with whisky and swim around in it. First I will have to learn to swim.

Fuck you! I look good in this hat.

I wish I was a dog because then no one would be really mad when I piss on their carpet.

Your eyes make me want to dismantle the stars and suffocate the moon. No one really needs those things anyway.

The thing about the Walrus was a lie. I paid the bill (but I made him get the tip).

 

Everything Glass

Everything glass in little fractal shards sprayed about so that the light refracts miniscule rainbows a million times in the flat surfaces. It covered the road and obscured the blood, the twisted metal and fractured fiberglass and plastic. Despite the hour the moon was quite visible, like a secret voyeur that had snuck out to watch our misery. Only three days later everything that she had been was reduced to so much gray ash locked in a wooden box that cannot be opened.

 

 

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