Thursday, November 27, 2003
Matty waited. Matty waited and sat. Mine chair wheels rusted through unmoving and Matty waited. The 24 Hour sign flickered and fizzed when the drops hit steamy and customers distorted through the broken window, me-head round cracked. Bloodfaced and weeping Matty, for my 24 Hours. His 24 Hours. For 24 Hours I sat and stilled and she did not come, or maybe she did, with him. Snuffle green wad brainward wrist-wipe and cry baby Matty. Cry and shiver. I was the Sorry Albuquerque Apparition at dawn as the sun steamed mine wet clothes dry, cloudy wisps about mine face and torso. I didn’t sleep and I didn’t dream, but I saw. Her and me with wieners and plums, slush nozzles and popcorn, dancing with the GARIBALDI by the nacho stand, my brother outward sat, and flipping the letterbox to see.
Dr. Spinach curled her top lip and oiled mine bolt, mine wheels. The Kids Can Do It! van had “ambulance” written on it backwards and its lights were red and flicky. Matty smiling from the vision of heaven brought forth meward. I was needled and dechaired, gurney-plopped and prodded, rubber fingered. They masked mine blue mouth with sleep wind as Dr. Spinach hushed and before mine dream came to me she arrived. She took her tongue from his mouth and replaced her gum.
They crowd about mine bed again, my bed, like when the schoolyard hit me. The GARIBALDI skips between them, bellying their backs and crotch rubbing their legs dog-like. They ignore him. The Doctor with the pink face mark asks me to follow the pen and I follow the GARIBALDI’s dance instead to the window and he flies, waving. I have a Karefree drip. I press the drug button to bring HIM back, but I hear only HIS laugh and whoop. The nurse de-pants mine ass and pricks it and I sleep. I hear the words “New Moania” before I drop. A new sick for Matty.
Dr. Spinach curled her top lip and oiled mine bolt, mine wheels. The Kids Can Do It! van had “ambulance” written on it backwards and its lights were red and flicky. Matty smiling from the vision of heaven brought forth meward. I was needled and dechaired, gurney-plopped and prodded, rubber fingered. They masked mine blue mouth with sleep wind as Dr. Spinach hushed and before mine dream came to me she arrived. She took her tongue from his mouth and replaced her gum.
They crowd about mine bed again, my bed, like when the schoolyard hit me. The GARIBALDI skips between them, bellying their backs and crotch rubbing their legs dog-like. They ignore him. The Doctor with the pink face mark asks me to follow the pen and I follow the GARIBALDI’s dance instead to the window and he flies, waving. I have a Karefree drip. I press the drug button to bring HIM back, but I hear only HIS laugh and whoop. The nurse de-pants mine ass and pricks it and I sleep. I hear the words “New Moania” before I drop. A new sick for Matty.
Tuesday, November 18, 2003
“Somewhere under the toenail…la la la”
They were singing again when I arrived back. Mom said it was time, she all Karefree and sense. Hairy Lou stopped singing, yipped and threw her torso arms out meward. We wheeled back face when she landed, corridor down, until hers neck hair got trapped in-wheel and the scissors came out again. Mrs. Lunt is now a man called Felim Bucapp. He has no beard and could use one of Petrol Alan’s wigs. He uhns when he bends over.
“You must be Matthew” he said, cutting.
“Special K” I said and turned around to show him where they had chalked mine back with the name of me. I pointed at the scrapey drawing on our door
“Matty one leg”
“I wondered what that was…oh yeah”
Hairy Lou has a bald patch now. She fingers it when we write numbers.
I’m not talking to mine brother no more. The journey home from Fort Benning was full of bones and wood, none of them vibratory like before. She touched them. I was backseated, caged. He grinned and gurned. Mom slept. The Bruised Girl was no longer bruised (and says hers name is “J-Ann, Matty, for fuck sake, J-Ann”. I prefer Bruised Girl) and sang out the window. I clenched headachey and mid-phallussed mine orbits. He uh uh’d quietly, baby.
I speak to him now only in hand gestures. I swoop and palm and digit airwise. I knuckle, rap elbow bounce, claw clench and unfurl. I bang snap and wiggle. I have the hand signal thesaurus of fuck you. Mine signals are large small and square round. They are quiet and noisy, violent and severe, gentle and sad. They all say the same thing, they say “you have stolen mine hours, I foul thine particles and shun yours spirit.”
I am Matthew. I wish I was dead.
They were singing again when I arrived back. Mom said it was time, she all Karefree and sense. Hairy Lou stopped singing, yipped and threw her torso arms out meward. We wheeled back face when she landed, corridor down, until hers neck hair got trapped in-wheel and the scissors came out again. Mrs. Lunt is now a man called Felim Bucapp. He has no beard and could use one of Petrol Alan’s wigs. He uhns when he bends over.
“You must be Matthew” he said, cutting.
“Special K” I said and turned around to show him where they had chalked mine back with the name of me. I pointed at the scrapey drawing on our door
“Matty one leg”
“I wondered what that was…oh yeah”
Hairy Lou has a bald patch now. She fingers it when we write numbers.
I’m not talking to mine brother no more. The journey home from Fort Benning was full of bones and wood, none of them vibratory like before. She touched them. I was backseated, caged. He grinned and gurned. Mom slept. The Bruised Girl was no longer bruised (and says hers name is “J-Ann, Matty, for fuck sake, J-Ann”. I prefer Bruised Girl) and sang out the window. I clenched headachey and mid-phallussed mine orbits. He uh uh’d quietly, baby.
I speak to him now only in hand gestures. I swoop and palm and digit airwise. I knuckle, rap elbow bounce, claw clench and unfurl. I bang snap and wiggle. I have the hand signal thesaurus of fuck you. Mine signals are large small and square round. They are quiet and noisy, violent and severe, gentle and sad. They all say the same thing, they say “you have stolen mine hours, I foul thine particles and shun yours spirit.”
I am Matthew. I wish I was dead.
Friday, November 14, 2003
And even after all that has happened, semi-mad Mom disapproved of my streaking of the windscreen spermy. The bruised girl sleeve-wiped her vision clear (80 mph) and Mom winced her eyes roadward. I am now Karefree’d three times over and HE is gone forever. Somewhere in my sleepy stupor, laid out in the flat back of Foot's half-fixed shit-truck, the bruised girl kissed my-mine-my, my neck night night. Blooded sleep. I dreamed of a truck with legs that scooped me into its door arms and into the bosom of its cab. The sound was the beating of the engine heart and we drove-walked to Fort Benning, and each foot-fall squelched with the entrails of another GARIBALDI. Dr. Spinach’s photo hung from the rearview, halo’d like that guy. And now I am awake and we are at Fort Benning, GA. I yelp screech and hand knuckle the trucky sidewalls, bouncing. Don the brother old uniform and condom wrapper medal of Matty honour and I am away for freedom and fast roping. Remove the bolt and tuck mine leg neath my thigh meat and roll veteran-like, Mom and bruised girl many feet behind. I salute as I pass everyone.
“Help a brother out” someone says when mine right rear becomes lodged in a mud hole by the wiener tent, ferris wheel shadowy down on me. My struggle grunts breathless uhn uhn and fall Matty sideways muddy. The dog-beard picks me up wipes me off and sets me on my way with a free weiner. No bun. It burns mine fingers, so I slide it into mine pant for later and interim effect, no doubt.
They laugh as I pass
Everyone
Where is love? Where is red white and blue? I am Matthew. I am love defender.
I gurn and spit. A girl screams at the wiener and pokes it. The oil leaks through the trouser and I am accused of indiscretion and jeered. When I turn Mom and the bruised girl are gone and I make my escape, fisting the wheels of my chair and panting. I go to my brother.
“No fuckin way” says the black man with the uniform and gun and stern head at the bleachers.
“I am brother Matty, love defender”
“No protesters bud, have some respect”
“I am red white and blue and they poke the wiener”
“Ok, that’s enough”
And I am wheeled scooped and porta-loo’d. I rap knuckle scrape and bite and sit and listen to the cheers and gun salutes and the name of mine own brother, called and celebrated. And I open my mouth from the smell. I remember the home-coming parade and again I am proud. I sleep with mine sweaty head resting on the soft toilet roll and I dream of my brother fast roping blackcock down. I wake when the man opens the door and I fall out, spraying yellow mouth faeces arc-like, Mom screaming and beating hims shrugging chest, “monster!”
From the corner of my open upward blurry eye unemersed I see Mom, the bruised girl and mine brother, uniformed. I raise a wave and an eyebrow. I open my mouth for a Hello but am silenced by my 24 hours' hand in his and I only swallow.
“Help a brother out” someone says when mine right rear becomes lodged in a mud hole by the wiener tent, ferris wheel shadowy down on me. My struggle grunts breathless uhn uhn and fall Matty sideways muddy. The dog-beard picks me up wipes me off and sets me on my way with a free weiner. No bun. It burns mine fingers, so I slide it into mine pant for later and interim effect, no doubt.
They laugh as I pass
Everyone
Where is love? Where is red white and blue? I am Matthew. I am love defender.
I gurn and spit. A girl screams at the wiener and pokes it. The oil leaks through the trouser and I am accused of indiscretion and jeered. When I turn Mom and the bruised girl are gone and I make my escape, fisting the wheels of my chair and panting. I go to my brother.
“No fuckin way” says the black man with the uniform and gun and stern head at the bleachers.
“I am brother Matty, love defender”
“No protesters bud, have some respect”
“I am red white and blue and they poke the wiener”
“Ok, that’s enough”
And I am wheeled scooped and porta-loo’d. I rap knuckle scrape and bite and sit and listen to the cheers and gun salutes and the name of mine own brother, called and celebrated. And I open my mouth from the smell. I remember the home-coming parade and again I am proud. I sleep with mine sweaty head resting on the soft toilet roll and I dream of my brother fast roping blackcock down. I wake when the man opens the door and I fall out, spraying yellow mouth faeces arc-like, Mom screaming and beating hims shrugging chest, “monster!”
From the corner of my open upward blurry eye unemersed I see Mom, the bruised girl and mine brother, uniformed. I raise a wave and an eyebrow. I open my mouth for a Hello but am silenced by my 24 hours' hand in his and I only swallow.
Tuesday, November 11, 2003
Garibaldi in pursuit left back faceward spilled and sun-cooked, minivanned in White Sands. We are open-roaded free-wheeling easy riders of love. Mom reaches for hers Karefree and shakes in an extra two. Bruised girl pink lip syncs Everybody dance now radioward and backstage I dance HIM-less for the first time since Live Big! I miss HIM but I am love now. I take HIS love from HIM to give for you, others, HER. I am Matty, the Bastard Blackhawk Bobcat of Love.
"You are not," says she rearview mirror Mattyward. "You are my son."
Mom's words feel of love and touch mine particles motherly. I am nearly blooded down there. Nearly. I think to fast rope mine cockneck...to the east, facing Bush. Digits deepen in me, pantward down. Mom and bruised girl sing. I am love for the holy hero of the east. Brother comes to mind. Nearly there. Inside or out? Need an answer fast. HE would say. HE would help. Brother and Bush. Brother Bush. Two as one. Mind over Matty. Almost there. Inside or out? Brother Bush medals me, stars Medulla Matty chestily. Very close now. I got the power sing they. Brother Bush with torn flag tent erects over me, the Medulla me, salutes too and monkey-arm strolls meward and embrace. YEEEGGAAAGGGG- Inside or- It was outside. Million Matty March way up windscreen and back down. Mom screams. Bruised girl flips on hers wipers but they do not wipe through glass.
Babalu once said I am the Colorado Ku Klux Kennicott but now I am the Windscreen Walrus of Love.
"You are not," says she rearview mirror Mattyward. "You are my son."
Mom's words feel of love and touch mine particles motherly. I am nearly blooded down there. Nearly. I think to fast rope mine cockneck...to the east, facing Bush. Digits deepen in me, pantward down. Mom and bruised girl sing. I am love for the holy hero of the east. Brother comes to mind. Nearly there. Inside or out? Need an answer fast. HE would say. HE would help. Brother and Bush. Brother Bush. Two as one. Mind over Matty. Almost there. Inside or out? Brother Bush medals me, stars Medulla Matty chestily. Very close now. I got the power sing they. Brother Bush with torn flag tent erects over me, the Medulla me, salutes too and monkey-arm strolls meward and embrace. YEEEGGAAAGGGG- Inside or- It was outside. Million Matty March way up windscreen and back down. Mom screams. Bruised girl flips on hers wipers but they do not wipe through glass.
Babalu once said I am the Colorado Ku Klux Kennicott but now I am the Windscreen Walrus of Love.
Nail scraped the wall tack tack and squeak bed screamy, she cried and huhn’d. I palmed the ears, thin walls betraying mine dream of deafness. Mom’s bed sullied and spermed. She limped at breakfast and under her t-shirt I saw new purple. She asked if Matty wanted eggs. BAH BAH, bruise man! BAH! I went to make proud mine mother, her, my brother, Bush, love, Foot. Matty ranger-crawl up-stair softly. Snore sound like jungle insects and Matty camouflaged carpet blue. He slept cock-legged naked sticky, hairy baggage angled meward. Door creak like knee bolt dampened by tea-towel, Matty clamp mouth unbreathing, he twitchy once. I slithered him-to. I raised mine hand with his inbreathed snore, hims throat vibrating jiggly and whistle-knuckle downward through the air with hims exhaled toot, fisting the baggage and waiting for the wailing. Matty love defender.
When I awoke bloody, mine head toileted and knee bolt backward, the GARIBALDI stroked mine cock there there, washing. HE looked like me, wet red. My reflection. HE is really gone? I cried shakey and agitated the assneck. I heard the bruised girl crying and saw her big lip and sparkly eyes in the doorway when mine flume expelled. She fixed mine bolt and touched the slippy cheek.
“I am love defender” Matty stammer
“You are” she said and kissed mine split lip “You are, Matthew”
“I got mine”
The half car was gone. She touched mine shoulder and balanced me to see. He had enough of our shit. When I smiled I saw another black hole in mine teeth in the window me.
In Foot’s semi-fixed truck, unimpounded, hood roped down we collected temporary-release Mom and we headed for Fort Benning, GA. Mom has a chair now too, and I sat in the back bouncing in between mine and hers, folded. Mine blacker. Mattmobile. I threw the badger trap at the TWO, CO slaughterhouse, vibrating stiff and thinking of fast ropes and blackhawks, mine brother’s graduation. Mom sang and giggled and the bruised girl went from purple to pink, her lip shrinking and stick red. I saw the GARIBALDI chasing the truck, fatty bubbling and tired and I waved him goodbye with mine assed hand.
When I awoke bloody, mine head toileted and knee bolt backward, the GARIBALDI stroked mine cock there there, washing. HE looked like me, wet red. My reflection. HE is really gone? I cried shakey and agitated the assneck. I heard the bruised girl crying and saw her big lip and sparkly eyes in the doorway when mine flume expelled. She fixed mine bolt and touched the slippy cheek.
“I am love defender” Matty stammer
“You are” she said and kissed mine split lip “You are, Matthew”
“I got mine”
The half car was gone. She touched mine shoulder and balanced me to see. He had enough of our shit. When I smiled I saw another black hole in mine teeth in the window me.
In Foot’s semi-fixed truck, unimpounded, hood roped down we collected temporary-release Mom and we headed for Fort Benning, GA. Mom has a chair now too, and I sat in the back bouncing in between mine and hers, folded. Mine blacker. Mattmobile. I threw the badger trap at the TWO, CO slaughterhouse, vibrating stiff and thinking of fast ropes and blackhawks, mine brother’s graduation. Mom sang and giggled and the bruised girl went from purple to pink, her lip shrinking and stick red. I saw the GARIBALDI chasing the truck, fatty bubbling and tired and I waved him goodbye with mine assed hand.
Tuesday, November 04, 2003
Mom missed Foot, filthed-in and lowered, boxed. She has hers own her-mirror now. The bruised girl was quiet-still and glaring, Father Head reading, me swearing fuck fuck rocking and looking Footward down. Foot browned with fistfuls of sobbings. The bruised girl’s phone rang and she nodded, cried, left early, Father Head unbowed and bewildered. A guy in a red half-car picked her and he whooped as he wheel spun and her hands covered hers face. The bruises suited him. I am Matthew. I am the defender of love. The whoopy bruise giver will pay. HE will help me. The GARIBALDI.
She sits and looks normal, Mom. Room cornered, the her-mirror showing her to her and me me. I snap at the memory flash twitchy and clamp shut-eye. When I unflinch open Mom looks normal still. She doesn’t move when I digit the eye trickles cheek-bound down. Mine eye is blooded from the thorn at Live Big! I see it in the black eye-centre when I lip her like people do. It stings when mine face wets and I go to serve love.
She sits and looks normal, Mom. Room cornered, the her-mirror showing her to her and me me. I snap at the memory flash twitchy and clamp shut-eye. When I unflinch open Mom looks normal still. She doesn’t move when I digit the eye trickles cheek-bound down. Mine eye is blooded from the thorn at Live Big! I see it in the black eye-centre when I lip her like people do. It stings when mine face wets and I go to serve love.
Between the headaches I can see. I am Matthew. I wish I was dead
