I am Matthew

Chair plopped and centre staged elephant man-like, they hummed and bustled. The invisible hand slapped mine face-cheek inchy sideways second after second and it rained spittle on mine shoulder. Gawky white coats herded and thronged jostling for me and the shiver tore through mine nervy spine. Bah Bah I waved craggy bitenails to ward off the sterile spirits. Weasel spoke and they sat "Gentlemen..." he began. I hid. From behind mine gappy finger barrier I saw them, clip board and scribble, looking me to him, edgy, and mine palms dripped with the salty sorrow of the globes. Yellow beams panged the retina and the sting brought darkness. I shut the gaps and bellowed for help. Anyone. I bit the knuckle and drooled nosedrops as mine courage poured. The Menagerie Matty, Freaky Phyneline Experiment. Mine knee pained and I twanged the bolt for aid.

"Matty" hissy whisper in the burny half-ear

Her wrists flapped her hands me-her-me-her and she was beautiful. I buried mine soggy features in her offstage curtain hidden fabric as the cloudy crowd boo'd and tut tutted. "I'm sorry" came breathy. And this time I heard. I inbreathed jerky and she shook her head Weaselward as we moved.

Grin and sparkle meface, the Bruised Girl, and I smelled Mom herfrom, but her reddy mouth-bulbs parted and lipped the sweaty forehead and I fell from the Phyneline.

Today we 'field trip' to another room for a 'grouplearn' with a boy named Paolo. They tell me about Paolo. He has they say what are the 'troubles'.

After discussion I am fastened and they look over mine body for items I may use to harmicide mineself. With them Kyle and Corey I wheel the Phyneline screechy fast past closing doors and screamy 'oh God's. Corey stops to signature some papers and says to the woman 'Watch it. He humps legs.' She laughs and I think he will hump her now.

Mine Phyneline pumps upward from my pant and I feel tall. I feel freedom size. It works, they say. I try to whistle but mine lip hole wides too far and I make breathey suck sucks the rest of the way.

'What are you, Matty?' I head lurch and look at upside down-Kyle. 'Are you a fish?' I am the Phyneline Fakey Fish but I keep this secret Matty inside.

At the grouplearn room Dr. Weasel finger brushes his pant. There is coffee on him and the floor, and his papers too. He is shakey upsetted and looks up me-to and says, 'Where does the DAYGO, Matty, huh? Where does the DAYGO?' I bounce in mine chair and make laughy breathey suck sucks for his Weasely smile, but he Matty ignores. He is unpanted and smooth, suspender socked and red spot rubbing on hims unfolliced cannon. He says Corey-at, 'Do something with them' and leaves. The door shuts and from behind the door place a naked boy with fur in places holds pinchy hims little brains between three assed fingers. He is sauce faced and has spaghetti hair and curls hims lips open with teeth closed. Corey puts the brake on mine chair and kneels Matty beside. I feel Kyle behind loosening me for Matty release. 'Paolo's not on the Phyneline,' Corey says. 'Let's help him find it.'

It’s a bag in mine pant, the Phyneline. I am hip-stuck and pinchy. It spurts into mine region like a plastic bee, sticky ointment for Matty me, and it keeps me from untoward conduct, hour by hour. Dr. Weasel calls it “trickling”. It inburns when I reach drainward to whisper mine longing to her, Lou. Mine sorrow-breath cuts the yellow shore muck-air and whisps the hearing out and I tell it go, seek. But when I snatch in the acrid air paste I wretch. Wait and weep, baby Matty torn, for the words were asked to come back. I hang mine floppy shoulder ball over the precipice of the plug, wait. And weep. But I remain untouched. Mine assneck springs only for Lou and love and neither are here. Futures, they say, and mock mine tangled web-life. Futures. They foisted lonesome dove on Matty, but I am blacky rock, and they see white. Come caped corridor ghosts! Matty lip-flip door-bar-thru. I am present! And I coat the bars with the ratty drippings of the spot. When the door is kicked I am chinning the scapula and headbutting the bolt. Phalange joust the air in front and wag themward. I am a ball of me, the Milling Phyneline Porcupine, naked dripping and browned.

Dr. Spinach came. She asked me for “one more time by the mirror” and she was sweaty red. And when they came they came for her and she kicked. “Sorry, Kid” they hummed “She said she was your Mom”.

Her letters make me twitch.

“Dear Matthew, Dearest Matty, My Special K,

You are


Mine"

My dream last night was black. Sewer smell and tunnel dark. I was afloat of mine words for her and they carried me smoky away, down-thru. Her-to. White light spot brightly opened the end and Mom was face down again, sullen and gasping, but in Spinach. The bruised girl sat by and cried for me. Spinach was smoking as Mom lapped and confused mine cloudy words. I fell and I woke screaming again.

The in-prick of mine side shunned the bad thoughts and I slept. My dream 2 was black. Sewer smell and tunnel dark. I was afloat of mine words for her and they carried me smoky away, down-thru. Her-to.

Dr. Weasel he’s called and sits by, footwise, jotting and tap tapping and hmmmm. Mine perfect white covers hang o’er the rotting kennicarcas and he lifts to see the crumpled meat patty of my groin, limp and sorry in its usefullessness. He slaps fingering tip tip. Tip tip. And I spring. Hyyeurrn, dribble teeth, pillowbutt and rasp the hanging air. Hairy Lou! Strappy hands wrenched and red-torn. I am needled. He goes, tap tap, jotting, hmmmmm.

That was this morning. Now I walk again the Phyneline. And I see. Phyneline has replaced Karefree, and I fight to keep HIM close, but he weeps and slides, blurry.

I heard Dr. weasel talking to the many and they bobbed and whistled.

“This is Matthew Kennicott, age 18. His previous therapist, a Dr. Fran Spinach, has passed on his records to us. She is presently up before the ethics council for a string of alleged sexual offences. He was brought here after an episode in which he festooned a tree in his own faeces and called it his ‘Matty Fortress’. He says his dead father and his mother’s dead lover fought it out mid air above him, for love. At the time he was on an anti-pscychotic called Karefree, which you may have read about in last week’s journal. It has been found to produce vivid hallucinations in users. Matthew, here, was one of the few still taking the drug. I have prescribed Phyneline. It’s an anti-psychotic, anti-depressant all in one. Hence the name, there being a “fine line” between the two, get it? As you can see, Matthew is calm. He is strapped down not only for his own safety while his body grows accustomed to the new medication, but as you will see, he has a fascination with bodily functions that would disturb were he left to his own devices. A major side-effect of Karefree was the creation of an imaginary friend called The Garibaldi, who Matthew maintains is his father. I’m hoping that with Phyneline, that will be the end of such characters. Let’s move on.”

I got mine. I will keep mine. I balance the Phyneline.

I still fight! I am Matthew. Special K, I am HIM! I AM STILL 24 HOURS, COCK MY SMELL!

They have unhoisted mine digits and replaced the bolt. Mom brought grapes. I assed them and bid her fuck her own meshy thing. This place is called “Futures” but I am present. I am here.

I hear them fainty close, the doctor many. Mine clothes torn ragged thrown pileside and bedward. I am nuded and blooded. She changes mine tube feed. She is thin and breasty, and she says, 'Matty you are-', 'Matty you are-', but hers words touch not mine ears but mine loin. I lip her mine love and spittle chin-down. There is a gurn. She leaves. I am alone.

My knee jerked again. It always does that after I masturbate. God I miss my brother.

The new doctor is many

The whisper and clipboard nod tapping.


I am strapped yet they have me walk the Phyneline.
Pelvic puncture.


But I will balance.

When the kisses stop I feel their sticky digits condomy phalanged press me-ly. They geen mine limpy lobes head-to down chestily, down grapeway. I try to speak of the terror men and OURS fighty charge, but mine words stay trapped, mouthole bound, theirs digits flat and palmy hard and unloving over the body of me. I wail screechy for HIMDAD, but they pull me appendagely un-meward. Noooooooooo. Mine legs scaley and naked, I flop fishy and wetten their heads, fluid bags leaky torn and draining Matty away. I bash. Mine hinge tears and there is more wetness. A stained man with animal hands face handles me, his fur tips tickle cheekly and I giggle now. He looks meward, eye-to, methrough and away, shaking his nothing head at the others. Tight-headed and tickly sore I gigglescreamthrash, gigglescreamthrash, flop fishy. I am double-palmed facewise. The man with paws liquids mine eye slits, and they creeply creep close. Paws man penetrates mine mouthole, hims digits thick and salty like mine birthday ham, his fur sticking teethy and incisored. He stuffs me full, and they press me cheekside and rub mine throat tube. I gurn. I choke on me as I swallow. Mine words leave me. There are just whispers from them all around. They say, Hush, Matty, hush, Matty. Who? I am...him.

Climbing clingy step-rod. His flashy minions come for us, “Come on Matthew, come down” they snipe. The sharp, tricky life-devils of the GRIMWAD, reaching meward with gauntlet hand and HE hides in the bark, shivering and cuckoo peck peck trembly, cowardly Daddy, running again, again! I scrape and bite at the scaly tree scab to bring HIM, to bring HIM to fight. “I WILL FIND MINE FATHER AND WE WILL SEE YOU BACKHIND!” Matty war-jeer post-clavicular and they snap at me and open fist in mine direction grasping and I wave spermy back and sprinkle mine love in their burny features. Diggy fingernails split and bloody, spitty Matty drip and sullying mine branch-fort with slippy slurry weapon, the fire-wizards fall and cry thud bounce. I drag HIM out by his puffy lobes and close-face HIM, nose-nose and mono-browforeheads touching we are, and I frown and bid HIM fight! Fight Daddy Kennicott for Matty, while Mom’s Oh Matty, No, Oh Matty I’m sorry, reverbs through mine battle-leaves from below, she hugged by his uniformed wretches, like smeggy wind breath through mine battlements and they grab still, branchy and leafy, mud backed and achey and he floats yet but still grounded, browning his spot and marring the lawn-mote. WE ARE KENNICOTT! We fume, shoulder wrapped, arm in arm, DROP THE NOTHING AND REVEAL SLIMY FACE SPOT, FLOATING BROWN MAN! And his boney fingers bend and nasty reach into his nothing head and pulls from a face. GRIMWAD grimaces Foot-like and I am frozen, like my night of new-moania, sick faint. I fall and am snared in the savage arms of the wormy ladder-men, their blanket of itchy fibres dragging at mine face-cables. I throng and bash, slash and dig to see, mine knee bolt tearing at the fluffy terror bindings and above me, There! Up and above THEY are fighting, GARIBALDI-Daddy and GRIMWAD-Foot, gory and manic, crashing and ripping and circling like fighty crows. They shine for me and fall and blur and disappear as the plastic sleep face kisses me.

OH MATTY, MATTY-LOVE, says HE from the darkness Matty behind, his sausagey breath touching mine right ear. I wrist mine lobe HIS words me-away. BUT MATTY...HE IS THE GRIMWAD. THE GRIIIIMMMMMMWAD! says HIS words to mine left ear.

I sit and look for the shape of HIM in the darkness. HE runs. I look at me and I am scabby and mostly wet, mostly, flesh torn flag-like but mine fleshflag says not freedom. I am fouled. I wanted love. "Love," I say to me. "Love?"

I GOT MINE.

Mine eyes squint squinty squints to see see, and there I look HIM-to at the shape of HIS meat moving meward, usward, foreverward through the darkness.

I see the GRIMWAD is without phalange. He has a carrot there or maybe a stick, and hims groans louden when he leans me-to with a mind to harm. He seeks me.

OOOOFFF! BE CAREFUL, MATTY. HE WANTS US! HE WANTS US HIS!

The GARIBALDI prances barefootly behind me. HIS squishy feet meat gurgle shoeless after footwear assaulting GRIMWAD for Matty protection. I hurry to finish mine sperm wash.

Kneebolt hinge twanged and spermed, I rise into phalange-less hand and wrist mine nostril fraught of his wet rag smell. The hand without phalange faceside rubs cheekly and me-ly says, "I AM MATTHEW. I WISH I WAS DEAD."

I am gaspy at his words, at their meaning to sound like me. I want to touch his words, mine words. The GARIBALDI screams. HE screams, NO MATTY, HE IS THE GRIMWAD. HE WILL CORRUPT YOU!

At HIS fouled mouthole uttering, the GRIMWAD lets go me-ly of his Matty hold and the ground falls into mine badded face. He walks HIMward and talks of The Time. The GARIBALDI OOOOFFFs and MY GOODNESSes. The Time, I hear. I hear it all. I hear HIS squishy steps getting fast fastlier. HE runs. I weep salty into mine hand with phalange at the fouled sounds of HIM running. Mine face quivers painy and sad. Mine ventricle gurns. I roll to see with mine eyes mine shame and clutch me aortaward. There. Mine father, HE runs.