I am Matthew

You are Matthew. I wish you were dead. You should have jumped from a higher school. You should have bought more tylenol. You should have thrown yourself against the highway when you hit 100 kmph. But you are Matthew.

I spank at the liar device and scream for mesilence. “THE GRAMMARATOR FORMS WORDS IN MINE SPITTY PIPE!” and it spike-phalluses mine medulla, hurling stomach rot frothy.

You are Matthew. You found the heart and broke it.

Snag the nasty machine and release mine words from the awful voice! I tear and claw, bash and throng, thrashing in the me-puke carpet.

You search for love and find only failure.

DECRY THE TWITCHING SHARP-TONGUE!

You did it wrong.

It’s a plop and splash when the torn Grammarator hits the sicky mess mefrom. Trickle-blood me-back down and mine eyes leak a tear gas in liquid form. I weary wobble to mine welcome bed. Mine dream is the quiet classroom. Mrs Lunt screeches against the blackened wall, the chalky outline of the old me. And I am watching. Quiet and watching.

Mine think station wanders these days. From mine medulla, from lobe to lobe, mine skull cheese fathoms falsely mine living me-places. I sprawl alone-like floorward carpet me-bound face-to the leather Foot perch swiped by the Moms after Amen. I think of Lou, but not just. Of also one Petrol Alan, hims scars burn him no more. And Mad Mikey with his eye gap. Of 24 Hour and mine wads. Of brother, I boo him, but of him writing weepy we-letters mine ducts are affected. Kendra Kinney, yours angel sings BAH BAH. O Lunt. I wail breathy onto the leather and bash mine skull bucket. Mine knee twitches. I grapple mine crotchy tuft and tear at it, stealing mine follicles until mine forest is clear. I am smooth, I am baby Matty bald, and mine hairful palms grasp the blood organ and I de-pant. On deadFoot's anus rest the Grammarator hums like the drowning sea, and mine phalange trembles thencely from mine tearful tendril as I wrist its sides and lobe approach. Mine ducts water mine cheekfields and I- I tighten the chin strap around my visage. Hello, Matthew. Something in me shakes and stirs. A new voice speaks. Are you my friend?

Mikey’s gone away. Mr Ferguson had him removed for the maggot fixation and depth perception tree climbing mishaps. He almost lost the other one on a jutting shrub-twig and the maggots became flies. Mine throat mourns bubble sorrows at the window ledge, mine forehead greasing the bending plexi, and when I howl I expect a Mom or two to knock and OH Matty, and pull me chestward and bury mine features in the musk of their floppy jerseys. But there is only my screaming. Outside I think I see HIM, laughing again at mine open mouth, leaking silence through the soundproof glass. Mom, mine treacherous hero brother, Bruised Mom, Foot, 24 Hours, Lou, Petrol Alan, Kendra Kinney and Babalu, Oscar the Facilitator, HIM…And Mikey, fleeing the sinking Matty ship like the offal face rats. I flop to the open doorway of mine lonesome abode and behind the meshy screen I back-wrist the rushing head and wail inward. I AM MATTHEW. Matty wheeze. I BRING THEM CLOSE AND THEY SHUN MINE LOVE ADVANCES. Boo hoo Matty, Boo hoo. And no-one hears the in me cry, just lipcurl at mine fleshy chess-piece as they pass, throbbing and crying with me the gloopy tears of its salty breath.

They bash and wobble, the TV sumo heroes, aping frontwise the sound of the fight in me. The fleshy flash of their skin, mirrored in mine warring noodlebag. I juggle the pain spheres fro and to, skinful bastions of Matty pluck and mine referee stands bulbus, watching over the elastic barrier. I am left with mine own devices, teste-sumo, squatting fight-style before the sprinkling of the TV beam, spherical warriors dangling from the severed pant and harangued into swingy action by mine own choppy hand. They win, and I throw mine salt to the Matty chest-mat. The referee faints and shrivels back like a balloon running from its own gas. I loll and flop carpet down and watch them wall-fight sidewards.

With mine eyes closed for the beaming too bright of the TV cry I dream of the quiet classroom…

and I wake with the sudden pang of the hairy sumo-spectators, trapped in the arena of mine curled bolt. I pry and pick, gurning, and free, I sigh and look teary mefront. HE is waving outward from the oval pill. I roll gaping onto HIS sleepy prison and wake HIM for goodbye. Now I wait. I skip like a happy satyr, mine flute floppy, hanging from the ruin of mine crotchy cloth. HE is coming back. We are unfinished. At the window I wave and slap the stinging sternum red, knuckle wrap the pane and scream for passers to know. I AM MATTHEW! I SAID HE WAS THE END! BUT I REACHED THE HEART! I AM HIM!

I wait. But HE doesn’t come. I sob and drool, spank the messy fringe and poke the toothy gap of mine gum, pouring sorrow-rivers under the bridge of mine phalange. The crowd gathers and grows, points and mocks. “It’s the balls kid” they laugh meward from the outside, and through mine lonesome eyes I think I see HIM pointing too. ME, pointing and jeering the Matty HIM. The Matty ME. HE wishes he was dead. HE wishes I was dead.

They boo when I walk away and the flabby torsos bash still on the flickering TV.

When mine eyes close again for the sting of the jerky flesh-image, I dream of the quiet classroom. Mrs Lunt screeches against the blackened wall, the chalky outline of the old me.

There is no place for me without her, mine Lou. Our air-bucket, AIR FRIENDS, took me here, and now mine ducts sprinkle starry lost lover liquid at each hairy visage I fathom. Mine moms- they are two and I am none, departing the Albuquerque Kennicamp with theirs bags and eye coverings once mine towels and pant were boiled and limed and mine chair re-assembled. The Two, together in their "mommy time", acting un-momly and scratching at theirs spongey pouches, dampened like rags, they have left their Special K for somewhere with too many numbers to be real. I knuckle their multi-digitous contact offering into mine cordless voice container, but extra 0s and a MNO and a GHI make the operator repeat mine options from the beginning. She speaks her words over violins and thanks me for mine call and says I am important to her. I am. I am. And I go teary and throw mine contraption. I slide from mine chair and hiptoe to hers soft operatoric gappy sound, and ear-to and pant coming down she says I may press 3 at any time. I digit DEF DEF DEF DEF DEF DEF DEF DEF, and a new voice, a him, asks in wet-worded mouth bursts for mine order number. I cry to him the contact offering of the two and yes,please,thankyou, yes,please,thankyou. "Where they?" mine face trap gurgles breathy. He says "In Valid." His mouth noise echoes. I gurn and it echoes. Other voices hee hee. Hee hee, Matty, hee hee. Hee hee, Special K. Where is Valid? I recall mine voyage through Durango. Hee Hees penetrate mine cochlea and I wrist mine holes. They laugh at Captain K, lost inside, none inside, and I sit on their voices to stifle their words. I am squirmy with sadness and aloneness until I spring like a frightened Kenngiroo. From me I see mine voice contraption, crotched and bent. I twang mine hinge and bat mine other knee, shaking loose it. I feel frictitious. Below me I watch the metal finger drip oily and browned and streaked of blood from mine anus-side. It lay curled and fouled on mom's throw, and I tuck it underneath. Somewhere Moms have a map, and somewhere on its features I will find mine route. Somewhere the Two be, and I will find them in Valid.

She met me at the airport, mopping the plexi with her wiry strands and spitting red-eye. Boo Hoo, baby Lou, boo hoo. The Guardian stood cross chested and glowering at mine lovely hairoine, singing Mattys at the empty lounge as mine pant stretched tented o’er the pressing of mine creaky gazebo. “Tame Oh! Tame Oh!” Lou gasp snarly, and her hairy digits phalanged the glass, sticky for mine Matty love as the Guardian arm-tugged her backwise away. I waved, wristing the temple and waggling mine goodbyes into the lonely air and as she slid behind the sharp corner, grabby and weeping, the tent collapsed as mine twitchy thing retreated into its pelvic spot like the touched eyeball of a jumpy snail.

Between the blurry drops I see. I found the heart.

Dear Lou

A tuboid corridor beeped for mine hee-haw bolt as we passed the sentry. He wanded mine place and ushered me you from. I glared to his starry eyes and let him know. I LET HIM KNOW. Albuquerque N.M., USA away, they say, and I prodded the bunker once more and the perfumed pilots plasti-gloved mine assed hand. As mine Moms slept I wake-dreamed of the raisin, inflated by the dimming sun of your darkened visage. When I slept the dream was a blacky nothing. I am Matthew. Matty. Special K. You know mine place.

I sick-bagged the note. The front read “Hairy Lou, Spain” and the rasping inhale of the air-bowl took it flying. Down-thru. Her-to.

The fumigators are gone. Mom says on Monday I have school. We oil the bolt as Bruised Mom cockwashes mine assneck and Bush stares from his mirror-planet meward, snarling and spitting his tomahawks down. I pay no heed but loll bored and floppy. But while they towel mine fleshy rump on the carpet and the hissing giggle-gasps release from the gape of mine hole, a purple pill rolls mouthfaceme-to. Inside the GARIBALDI seeks escape. Inside mine old-world seeks me.

The Bull does squeal. I know it does. I heard it do. And the Matty Door too. They dragged the bloody carcas of the Door sidewise and thrust metal into the flabby hide of the man-cow. It screamed and thrashed dead but the crowd stared meward instead, Matty grinning and spanking the personal totem with his open palm. Lou yipped like she does and beamed me-to, “TAME, OH!” Lou voice lurch “TAME, OH!” and the nasty Guardian pawed at her cloven arm as she waved. He bustled her mefrom and her voice became small and breathy as she shrank away, overlooking her hairy shoulder. Wide eyed Matty BAH UH Momsward, I pointed and back-handed mine pinky forebrow, “WE MUST GIVE CHASE! I AM MATTHEW, LOU IS MINE LOVE TARGET!” Matty arms aloft and proclaiming. Mom took the lord’s name for her own “Jesus Christ”, and her head hung drippy chestward. This is when she always agrees. We flew. Down-thru. Her-to.

I squinted snarled and pointed at the mad Guardian as Mom’s words soothed his raging muck-face. “Just kids” she said and head jutted at the Matty grin fountain, me glaring sparkly at the heart I had reached when the angry cooled. Lou shuffled and swung hip-like. The blacky face hair glistened blue in the shiny daylight and I prodded her fleshy node. For love. The guardian twitched and started but Mom palm-chested him. She has big arms from the cockwashing and carrying. Lou spun and clapped. She lipped mine burnt features and we danced dust halos into the sandy park. They left us until we fell asleep, back-seated and panting. I smothered mine face in the trestles of Lou’s matted back and dreamt of the sticky pool and the colors of mine disappointment. This time I didn’t drown. This time she pulled me up.

But soon the air-bucket will carry me herfrom through the airblood once again. The rackety gliding travel angel, harbinger of Matty solitude. But I reached the heart. I defended love. For now I shed from the nervy face-globes, happy tears of mine true affection as I watch her sleep. And I tussle in the front-pant with mine tubey balloon, waiting to pop.