In 16,000km or so, tyrnyr x takes the reader on a journey that is at once deeply personal, culturally specific, and universally resonant. This second collection, following Ulysses: an odyssey in poetry, situates itself within the tradition of road narratives, yet it refuses to conform neatly to expectation. Echoes of Kerouac’s freewheeling spirit, Krakauer’s obsession with escape, and Sanchez’s lyrical urgency are evident, but tyrnyr folds them into a distinctly queer landscape of desire, grief, resilience, and laughter. Even Britney Spears’ cinematic detour in Crossroads becomes part of the book’s constellation of influences, reminding us that pop culture has long been a secret map for those looking to find themselves on unfamiliar terrain.
The premise is deceptively simple. Three queer people, bound together in romantic entanglement, take to the highways of the United States in the summer of 2022. What they seek is not just scenery but healing, and what they pursue is not simply freedom but the elusive presence of Tori Amos, that spectral figure of artistry and queer devotion. Yet the road is more than a backdrop; it becomes a living witness to the turbulence of its time. The trip unfolds amid Pride celebrations that feel both defiant and fragile, as monkeypox spreads and the legal aftershocks of Roe v. Wade’s overturning reshape bodies and futures. The specter of Trump’s first presidency lingers even as the country insists it has moved beyond it. The pandemic, still raw, haunts every public space with a reminder of isolation and loss. And, though unspoken in its immediacy, the book exists on the edge of subsequent global crises, capturing a fleeting interval when America felt both exhausted and restless, weary yet still mythologized.
What tyrnyr creates is not a straightforward travelogue but a shifting tapestry. The collection bends genre, weaving together prose passages, bursts of poetry, and even abrupt lists that mimic the fragmented rhythm of memory. Reading it feels like eavesdropping on late-night campfire conversations, where storytelling unspools without strict chronology and where moments of humor brush against sudden confessions of vulnerability. The structure mirrors the road itself, with its sudden detours, flat stretches of monotony, and unexpected bursts of revelation that appear just when the horizon seems endless.
The America that emerges in 16,000km or so is contradictory and unstable, both myth and reality. Its diners, motels, and vast highways carry the ghosts of classic Americana, but they are populated by characters who refuse to be confined by the straight lines of history. Queerness infuses these landscapes with new meaning, revealing how survival itself can be an act of reclamation. Even when the book leans into playful asides or pop references, it never loses sight of the gravity of its moment. Humor becomes a form of resistance, much as poetry becomes a mode of survival.
tyrnyr herself embodies this intersection of artistry and resilience. A trans woman living in Naarm, Australia, she has been shaping words into poems for as long as she can remember. Her work has moved beyond the page into performance, spoken word events, and collaborations with musicians and artists, making her voice part of a broader chorus of contemporary queer expression. In this collection, her practice of layering forms and perspectives finds its fullest expression, resulting in a book that feels lived-in, messy, tender, and fiercely alive.
16,000km or so is not just a travel story, nor only a love story, nor merely a queer diary of a volatile summer. It is all of these at once, and it insists on the complexity of holding them together. For readers seeking introspection, for those in moments of transition, and for anyone who has ever found themselves drawn to the flicker of firelight at the end of a long road, this book offers a mirror. It reminds us that journeys do not always resolve neatly, that countries do not always reveal themselves kindly, and that love does not always follow a straight path. Yet within the uncertainty, there is still movement forward, still the possibility of discovery, still the music of a voice refusing to be quiet.
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