I am Matthew

Soon there will be two. (N.M.) Mom and Bruised Mom. I turd mine chair wheels on the concrete dog-path and flash mine assed hands to the snarling frogman and clap clap. Brown rain. Mom’s balmy whisper is sweet desolates to the yawned arm and I am wiped and I walk hop. The church bells ring for someone else and Bruised Mom yips and yuks and hugs Mom cheeky. Teeth flash. Mine lip curls of the spectacle of them and I think of raisins and blood-air. When do we reach the heart? Mine pace quickens like the Louheart as we spun.

“I think he’s embarrassed by us” Mom throat spasm and giggle mefrontery.

And awww and chuckle and assault mine skin nerves. Armpits and scalp waggle, jostling the noddlebag, Matty cheer up! AAGGHNN BAH TACKY FEMALES! I am assaulted! And lipgloss mine puffy cheek, spank the pant cushions. They tug at mine face cables, they poke the thrashing cage, they…

I AM THE PRODDED MATTY PATH MONKEY! BUSH IS GARGOYLE OF THE PARIS SKY! LOOK, HE HAWKS BRICKSPITTLE USDOWN, HE SAYS ‘RELEASE MINE MATTY GUY’!

I am released and rechaired and we wheel. Bruised Mom yips yet and sits in mine welcome lap. Blood rush. We downhill and mine breath is jerky noise. “That’s it Matty” Bruised Mom yelping and mine forehead bears the brand of her glistening chop. I think of the Albuquerque Festival Bull. But our sparks are brown. Mom shakes her head and chins the sternum droopy. Like me sometimes, but when she looks, I see her teeth.

SWEET DESOLATE MOM! Matty lip wave, Matty arm wave.

I am. Mine filthy sleeve menstrual Mom torn, mine ears "Bah Bah"ed to death, mine teethy phalange red and drippy, I wait here them-for in the hall of doors. France people walk by squinty and cool, creaky France fingers aimed me-to, "Sail infant, do balls" they say. They know. THEY KNOW!
We returned here. Mom face drippy in her Bruised backpack, she turned and pulled mine bitten arm, mine handburger, and "Come Matty"d, "This way, Matty"d, "We're going, Matty"d, her foul mouth scent blasted me-to. I hid mine features. I cradled mine cranium Baby Matty style. There, there. There, there. Hers digits tore and birthed me open, but Mom's face gap toothed no newborn smile. Hers lips tightly and anal, her winey flan words poured through Bruisey kisses me-to, me-in, me-from. I clawed and thrashed, mine French Resistance, but I am Karefreed and here, throated twice in taxi, at extra charge, feeling good now. Mine Gay Paree wounds leak me throughout, but I will heal.
Mom and Bruised Girl are changing. "Wait here," said she, "Hold this." DO NOT DISTURB, I say to the France people. DO NOT FOUL THEIR FEATURES, DIRTY FRANCEMAN. I show them mine sign. I wave them on with mine bloody side and they go. Bruised Girl screams. Mom calls to God. They have been changing for a time and I feel mine bowel slowly fill. I nevermind and feel for mine spongy signpost. Mine bloody side rectum adheres, and I reach crotchwise with the unfouled side of me. I rumble mine pant and toss for blood. I am screechy and tightening, too tightening, behind. Mine curly bowel eating, closing to pinch. Mine pant is humble. There is no Lou here. Mine medulla says goodbye. I door pound and disturb, peek them-to underneath. Mine bowel, I shout. Mom calls to God. Behind me I hear "Sail infant, do balls", and the words pinch me. I wave on the France people and plunge mine bloody side backpantward. I twist my digits through mine bottom debris, and I think I will be needing some more Karefree.

I point. Paris penis on the smoggy horizon. I could see Lou from there. “BAH, UH” Mom-wise and jutting, prod the air. She gurns when I speak like me. We leave mine chair so I can walk. I hop. I point. The Bruised Girl police-grabs mine scalp and ducks me cab-chair plopped, smiling. Mom foreign tongues the smoky man. I think of Dr. Spinach and mom and mine sewer dreams and mine springy lamb shank disturbs the settled pant. Shudder Matty and I jostle to end the cocky standoff. I point pane-through. “BAH UH” her-to. “Yeah, Matty, we’re going, we’re going”. I yuk yuk and chair-bounce please thank-you. I point and focus. Paris-penis. We turn and I kneel and point back out, following finger-style, we turn and I point past the Bruised Girl’s scented features, I sniff. Mom. We turn and mine finger pokes the smoky man’s curly mess. He blurts and Mom slaps and hand wiggles in mine direction. We turn and I am digit to her sweaty head, but looking past. She sorries the man. “Roundabout, Matty, sit down” Mom burp “Look, it’s the...big arch”. I smack the pane and beat the lids, knuckle rap the temple to "NO MOM"! I point. There, THERE! Mom says “Sweet desolate” to the Man. He harumphs and we are straight. Target approaching meward and mine finger hones like the mocking phalanges of the town down on Matty. The balls kid. Paris Penis. I look up. I could see Lou from there. I press the door meface and rattle the sticky handle. Mom is outside. She opens. I fall through, reborn. We they- walk, me-hop, they sighing, “Oh Matty”ing, me pointing “BAH-UH”ing. Smoky Man 2 runs the elevator. He scorns unto mine grinning façade and presses the button. I ding ding for floors. There are two. I peer and look both ways and yip and re-enter the raising womb. Mom sorries the smoky man 2 and shakes and sweet desolates come breathy. I ding ding for floors, but I point up. Always up. The flaps of the metal womb open and I am expelled. I skip and tumble and crash into the side-cage LOU! LOU! I AM MATTHEW…LOVE CITY! LOU! But it is misty with the smoggy breath of God and I can see nothing.

I floor plop and bury the forehead in mine bitten sleeve. Boo Hoo, blind Matty. Matty no eyes. But I have eyes. When I open the Bruised Girl is on her knee, sparkling, and Mom is spitting eye water. Her hand on her mouth.

Mine journey has brought me here. Albuquerque and Live Big, Durango. Fort Benning and Barnacle, Two, Indigo and Fandora. Futures and France. Here is love. Here the killer cats are torn and the me-gazelles stamp the ugly innerds pink into the browned carpet tundra. We fight! Special K Karefree Garibaldi, Phyneline Weasel fascination, Spermy Spinach porn boy. But I am here! The kid with the balls, knee bolt and half-ear. Look you! Mine 24 Hours and brotherfucker, Hairy Lou, LOU! ( Lou! Foul the tricky detective and Guardian! LOU! Mine noodlebag chafes with the scratch of your hide! I twang and jostle for rising memory of raisin and tear haloes, our dance and the soft puck of your lips leaned forward meward…foul the life devils that take you from me! BAH BAH! Baby Matty, I TRACE THE EGGY STENCH OF HIS GUARDIAN AFFAKETION! I WILL FIND HER. SHE IS LOVE. LOVE CITY! SHE MUST! SHE MUST!), Foot, wormed and mucky, orange peel liquor and town piss parade, new-moania, Thrashing Albuquerque Aligator, Festival Flame Bull, Barnacle Bird Boy, Smoking Meteor Matty, I am here! I am Matthew, I am Matthew, I am Matthew, I…

Mom headslaps me and has the bruised girl remove me from. We eat ice-cream. “Has it got horse?” Matty mouth flap and finger-poke the creamy cone. “Matty, jesus, you know, you really gotta stop this” she noise “Fuck, he just asked your name.” “I’m sorry” “Yeah, you are, dude, you are”

Mom signs the register. The man has a beard.

Love City.

From the sky high our house looks like a firey circus tent. They touch mine things.

I butt the plastic pane in mine efforts to see and Mom pulls me back. They let me sit with the people after the dog issue and the run in with the plucky weasel name-sake. In back. I have a special belt that keeps the scapulas seat pressed. I backhead the rest and chin the clavicle and the stewardess hands Mom a pillow. The Bruised Girl is afraid and holds mine hand. She is the airborne sweaty sweetheart and Mom tries to feed me her clandestine Karefree cashe. I ask her not to. I say

HE IS GONE! I AM FILTH OF THE MIND OF HIM! LOU! LOU!

and churn the mouth spit to gooey-speckle the seat in front where deadFoot paid for no-one to sit.

The liquid kicks me in and I fall, cheek to shoulder, drool to lap. In my dream the sky is a reddy pond. Dr. Spinach swims mefrom beckoning. Slick hair and gagging in the sky-sluice avoiding clouds. I slip from the howling screeching travel box and wade through the airblood. Soon we will reach the heart, she says.

They have heard of me at the airline. A panted man hmms and says I'm on some list. These are all the kids who can't fly, the man says Mom-to, pinky pointing to his turned monitor face. Can't fly, no, I think, but I've tried that. He says '30,000 feet' and mine mind remembers Mr. Ferguson's shoes. Look, he says, it's right here, and I notice the finger he points with screenward. Mom disbelieves, 'Oh no, Oh no,' then hears the panted man say 'Live Big!' and she believes, 'Oh no, Oh no.' Mom discharges saltily and explains Spinach and Foot and HIM and all the rest. She digits her eye flaps and pretzels into the bruised girl. The panted man hits keys. Clack clack, clack clack. I shout, It was other kids. Clack clack, clack clack. Mom and bruised girl hold. Other kids, I say. Clack clack, clack clack. Mine hands foul me pocketside in. I am pretty sure there is blood where it doesn't belong. Clack clack, clack clack.

'Well,' the panted man says after a time, 'he could ride down below with the animals.'

Mom looks over at me and says, 'Animals?' I remove mine blooded hands and Yee! and run to her, grabbing their twisted fleshy love mound. Mom pats mine head and says, 'With animals.'

'Yes,' the panted man says. 'I'll just need you to sign here and get him to drink this.'

We’re going away. Fumigators boarded and plasti-coated mine faecal room and I assed grass and watched the smoke plume from mine window. Mom’s rubber neck shook, her cheeks fanning the air sideways. “How, Matty?” came breathy from her face and her eyes rolled over her blacky bags. I yukked and prodded the soil. Bush looked down at me pleading from the smoky pane of mine place and I gurned himward. They don’t see. I did it for us. How? It took a week. The bruised girl’s shiny mouth flesh was hidden mefrom by the fumy mask of the company, white and surgical. She rescued the couch. Mom buried her nose in the turquoise folds of the seat and the Bruised Girl lipped words meward. “How, Matty?”. Mom puked and called the men to haul the soiled sofa away now. No matter. We’re going away. Europe, they say and I yip and slap when I hear. France. There will be love. Mikey’s eye wandered me-to as we drove off. I fingered his direction and mine filthy spot appeared in the rearview.

I hug the warm soil of the dead bed and bury mine features in the soggy mound. We have money, untorn baby Matty traveller. Thank you Foot. I writhe and flop on his resting place and kiss the teary stone. “Here lies Michael Foot. Broken like the duck”. Foot will provide mine love connection. He is no GRIMWAD. He is another Matty angel. Dad would like him now. Boo Hoo Daddy, Boo Hoo, as the Bruised Girl buried her features in mom’s trestled shoulder, shudder and jerk, edged away gravefrom, leaving Matty to wrap mine torso in the folds of Foots bed.

“Not on the seats”, Mom says, and we move.

They took me home. Albuquerque N.M., past from Futures. Weasel unwaving and stern, shrinky rearviewed, we left. I slept in Mom’s fleshy lap and the Bruised-Girl hummed homeward, "We sold Dad's house", she said, wide and shiney, "we have money". Mom stroked, and bent whispering sorrys in mine drum, lipping the skin and the warm drops pooled in mine ear. In my dream the meshy colours of all I knew made a shapely pool, deep and sticky. I fell and slow-sank. She stood by, lifeguard Lou, and I drowned holding her hand.