"I hate to advocate drugs, alcohol, violence, or insanity to anyone, but they've always worked for me."
Hunter S. Thompson

Mathias Nelson

Really Thinking About It

The real thing
isn’t any good
Paper flowers and wooden bears
come from
the same things as money.
I got a five dollar
bill. Would you like to get something to
eat? If I didn’t have this five dollar
bill, would you still want something to
eat? Well I was
lying. I’m broke.
Can’t we just go kill something on our own?
You don’t like that, do
you? Well what if I want to eat
you? Do not comply.
I’ve also got a busted thumb
nail sharp as a scythe
and you’ve got a long trachea
thick as an elbow-


Monkey Business

I was young, and already tired of loving cat.
Fucking had become monkey business in zoos
and my liver was weary of everything.
I met a girl over the internet
that I will forever call the Silent Whore.
Back when I was in school
we had past in halls
and I knew her timid smile—her hidden lust—
but left it that way,
because she was just too young.
Later, when we wrote letters through wires
it was because she said she liked my poetry.
My poetry, I thought. My poetry is maws and scissors,
why would she like that?
She said she needed someone to talk to,
this town was so boring,
home of the tallest six pack,
so I said, okay
you can drink here.
Then my brother stopped by
and when he introduced himself
she just sat silent, like a whore not used to words,
only yips. It embarrassed me
but my brother soon left.
She was very nervous,
said she had a crush on me back in High School.
I unzipped my pants and let her love the things she wanted.
Her slurps filled the room
and she moaned like I was fucking her
but my cock could only reach her mouth.
Her head bobbed so fast, so eager
that she had to stop and heave breaths
of saliva.
I told her to stand.
Yanked her pants down.
I’ll give you all of what you want.
She swayed with it
and tried to move back against me
but her rhythm was all wrong.
I told her to hold still. Hold still, I said
and then saw the blood.
You didn’t tell me, I said.
She just kept moaning, yes.
I fucked and fucked her
but couldn’t cum.
She became dry, ran out of blood even.
My boxers were covered in it.
I threw them on the floor.
Afterwards she ordered a pizza
and watched me eat it.
The liquor wore off, and my liver was tired again.
I haven’t seen cat for a year
and have never felt so bloodless.
She continued to try and reach me
and succeeded once.
Told me I was the first
man she swallowed
What? I said. You never swallowed
me. Yes, she moaned. Yes she did.


Middle of The Lake

A male friend calls me, crying
because a woman left, found out
that he cheated. He’s one of my best
so I hear it. He’s sorry
and so am I.

Then another friend calls, complaining
about work. The boss did this,
he had to do that.

Don’t these people realize
that I’m two sips from being a bum?

And my brother, that son of a bitch
all he does is talk about the job, caught
in some kind of muck like the rest,
going down narrow channels in the river
trying to get somewhere.

But for me, everything is wide open here.
I plan to sift through this lake until—
until, ah shit, until a great blue heron
takes me away.

I did, however, almost try to get a tan today
for a woman I can’t keep,
only lasted five minutes, between the neighbors’
humored faces and sweat stinging my eyes:
I shall be a pale white man for as long as I can,
though I love you all,
who of you can blame me
for staying in this contained body of water, brimming
until the flood?



Drinking Bombay Sapphire
and listening to fast paced, maniacal jazz,
Josh tells me about first grade
when another boy knelt to slurp
so he pissed in his mouth.

I sit, gaping at Josh in a bubble of drunk time,
the toys of my first grade nephews
scattered about my feet, cocking
my head at the speedy background music:
saxophones, trumpets, piano keys
pounding, echoing upon my saturated
drums, and thus he promptly thinks
I am making an accusation.

I’m not a fag, or anything, he says.
Being that young and living
with a mom that’s a whore
and a father that doesn’t exist
kids tend to do
fucked up things,
he says.

And all this time I thought
my parents should have separated,
(I used to think they were going to kill
each other. Really, they almost did.)
perhaps I was wrong.

Pondering this, I tip my cup back,
take a long gulp of warm gin,
and with a cringe, unintentionally imagine
it is hot—yellow summer piss.

return to index

1 comment:

nadine sellers said...

no corner to back up to--no tree to shelter from the heat--nowhere to drive to--flat and forward, it spreads between the eyes and invades interstices among brain cells and lives in the body of the reader..
the poetry of Mathias Nelson--ever alive in the detail.