I am Matthew

The Nice place had me starry inward. I gap-grinned gummy at the passing tin-can houses and cattle. I knuckle-wrapped the temple and elbowed mine own thighs. Rock back and forth baby Matty. Untorn and grinning hee hee. When the Smoky Man 3 came he up-palmed his nothing and I gave him mine escaped de-floored face rat. “For offal” I said. “Ticket” Mom breath, and she rustled in mine pocket. The Smoky Man 3 wiped her offering of mine pubey scent.

Mine two Moms flopped naked most times about the hotel place. From mine window the sea was a sicky blue, sparkling meward with its shiny sun-carrots. And when Bruised Mom dove again into the undercover key-hole, I decided to reach the heart. The sand clogged mine bolt and I squeaked like a rusty hinge, broken donkey Matty, heehaw running seaward. Mine floppy joint sprang with the coming of the cold and shone towards the screaming girl. I thrashed and rolled, yipping and gurning in the lapping earth-toilet. I slid like a Fatty Matty Seal into the juice and mine periscope stayed above, but mine bolt weighed heavy, dragging me down-through. I saw the hand reach, but the hairy arm was not hers, only the rescue cockpinch of the guard. Mine thing spurted pure thanks yous and sweet desolates as I was dragged cock-by to the gritty shore. The screaming girl was laughing. “Sail infant…do balls” she pointed and gnashed. I looked for Lou but saw only the crowd. And Moms. “Oh Matty”.

We left the Nice place. Mom said the earth-toilet was a Medic Iranian. But I am still sick.

“Pear done” Hairy Man 1 says, “Pear done, pear done!” I don’t want pear, and he shoves me and harumphs. In some places in Spain they have a bull festival too. They poke its fatty hide and the Matty Door opens it for all to see. Mom says. She said she had a surprise for me as we drove and as the smoky men became hairy and brown. She saw mine faecal drawing of the festival bull on the carpet, blood fire rings and spermy eyes wide. “Pear done!” the smelly woman says. She is gnarly and wart. I burrow into the glistening pit of the Bruised Mom and the smeggy person steps over me. We are at the bullfight. Mine surprise. Here everyone screams and mine facial excretions are silent compared. A man, tight panted, holds a blooded sheet and Mom says he is the Matty Door. The crowd throng and sway and ooohh. He walks like a duck, like me when mine cock has been overwashed and the noodles in the bag must not chafe the thighs. When the bull runs he swipes with the sheet and no blood sprinkles like when I rinse mine pant. The crowd are silent and mine breath sounds like the tyres on the tarmac when the ambulance carries me. Mom’s tongue tied with the other one. And crowd-through I see her. Hairy Lou. I should have known. The men became hairy. She fits. The bull runs thudding and grunt.

“LOU! I AM MATTHEW! YOU HAVE SEEN MINE DRIPPY SPOT! I AM THE HEART!”

Lou spins a hair halo meward, teary and grinning, and the crowd tuts and heads shake like Spinach by the mirror when I fingered the filthy point. The Matty Door looks meward and stays closed. Until the bull kicks it down.

I am sweatpanted for the remaining journey. Mom's idea. Lot's of "inappropriate wood". Her words. The bouncy travel bucket fills mine raisin and I wrestle mine floppy chubb back to place. In the sweatypant I claw, I push the floppy mackerel through mine thigh hams and feel mine genital gap, mine fuzzy nothing place, and I think of Lou and hers hatchet wound, the moisty blood pocket I am not to touch. But I will. Lou bleeds for mine love, and in the Nice place mine dreams live big.

The two speak Frenchy to one tubby man with lippy beard furs and chestly satin him coverings. Bruised mom laughs himward falling meward and brushes mine new cleaned pant, waking mine vision globes from their darkness scene, their nighttime warrior-me machine, the Mattybot, Captain K, the fighter of freedom, the love liberator, Bush mine sidekick and Lou mine bride, mine Lou mom, mine love with me in the Nice place. The tubby one man says "Wee wee wee wee wee", and the two fall over, mouths face-to and nipples aware. The tubby one man "Wee wee wee"s and wines in their receptacles. I thrash, and Mom "Matty"'s me, digits mine follicles. I "Gahh" and "Feehn" and probe low for blood. Where am- Mine heavy globes burn and I gash bucket side. They adjust slowly. Mine lids flick and flick. I wrist them gently heavy, and bah...bah, mine vision place is clear. Below, mine metal chest hangs fleshy and zippered, cotton contained and...they appear to be the stains of beans where mine badge I had worn. I wail. I have mine right to remain violent and bounce and thrash. Lifting mine metal freedom arms I find only teethy mouth marks which I test. They fit. Mine side cannons. They are gone, and then I see, mine bolt, the knee one, the daytime disgrace, the Matty One Leg metal knee is left, that's all, and it sparkles in the peeking sun slivers. The Mattybot is gone, and I hang mine head and chin mine chest with shame, and as the two laugh and gullet their wine I wish that the Nice place is somewhere ahead.

They desert mine face like mouthy enamel rats, 4 top and 3 bottom. I banished two for bloody offal offering and now those that remain shudder in their gum-nests like whimpering babes, rattled loose by mine sleep-hours, temple-tatched to the juddering pane in the creaking cabin of the travel bucket. My dream is the murky gusset of the schooly bag as the kids chide and ape mine affliction. Special K. Matty one leg. Mine corner, the brown place, is empty though I am there and the portraits of the adorned warboys poke fun, fingered meward. The ceiling is a fluttering flag of air-blood, streaked with the wormy trails of the hideous screeching voices. I twirl and throng in the awful orchestra and when the skyflag falls I am red-wrapped and the voices are gone except one. “Now you’re there” comes breathy. Mine clenchy grinding digs another rat snappy from it’s rooted burrow and I wake spitting, mine shirt blooded and another deserter dead on the ashen floor, fleeing the sinking Matty ship. Mom and Bruised Mom are tangled and happy. I bury mine stinging features in the folded fabric of Mom’s mane and Bruised Mom strokes mine rusty neck. Now I have two. Mine dream 2 is the murky gusset of the schooly bag as the kids chide and ape mine affliction...but when the screeching starts, the two cover mine ears and the voice is theirs.

Grey box office. Brown-suit, bald head shiney desk-bent, lips licking the concentration him-from and Mom and Mom signing, SIGNING OOOHH! Like mine Live Big! incarceration. I twitch and recall, but there is no GARIBALDI, fleshy wall blocking mine love-view. Bruised Mom has Foot’s nose. I see now pane through. I am corridor-kept after Mom called me her Best Man and I up-palmed the caramel confetti from mine sullen gusset, HEEEeeEEEee Matty grinning and Bruised Mom, undressed and sole panted, flushed mine assed hands toilet down, swirly brown, while Mom paid Frank extra. There is eye spit and laughter now and Mom winks meward. My cue. I raise mine bitten nail and speech the waiting corridor, thumping the wobbly window barrier and plucking mine hinges for backing banjo.

“BRUISED MOM HAS FOOT’S NOSE. (twang bong spring) I SEE! LOOK YOU! (boing chime ping) IT FITS MINE MOM LIKE A COCKY FACE-KEY!”

Mom says we better leave, and they “I do, Me too”, lippy, as we run, crunching the shattered view glass.

He took mine 24 hours. But here I have 7 more. Here I have time too.