I am Matthew

On the glass mine me shapes remain. Sweated on by love they stare me-ly in after her, mine 24 Hour, mine first, mine pre-Lou'd to love. The three sweated me's blow her kisses through their open gaps like sentimental sentinels guarding mine love, while mine flesh body crouches watchful from the propane pen, snuggled between the tanks she fills and sells for dollars. All around I smell her scratchings and her smokey mane, and mine camouflage rises. BAH, I tell it. Not now or yet. I bat at mine sinewy place.

As mine darkness nears the sun and I spin without feeling through these hours, forward toward the day, her patterned coverings come undone of her chestliness as her phalanges, like beetles, they seem, crawl up the shelf headways, it, a hanging garden of nicked teen Babeled with names mine misty mouth muscle fails in making mine voice utter rightly, even when Grammaratored, puffing urethraly and Spinach cupping hers Best Western ashtray me-below. Gone are those days and hours. Gone are those me's. These nightly hours are 24 Hour's, not mine or yet ours, and I hush hush and I fix mine littered behind within its hard and shifty propaned wedge. By the hour closest to the new day her logo'd jacket drips free and strangles her throat bucket from behind. Its arm-tubes pinch her tightly neckwise, but pain-free, and karefree, I try and remain. Through her remaining chest cloth mine eyes wrangle over her blotchy flecks, like crushed bugs, simpering in their deathy place upon her mammarried mounds. I steal her image and pinch mine lids. I hold her there before mine excited flesh, and it pilfers mine synapses from the thoughts that ruin me. I press mine palms to the tanks and feel her gland. Oh 24 Hour, mine pre-Lou, hairless socket of mine love, mine vassaled cord I pull for you, always you, from mine retchy fecalled chagrins at the Benning Fort to mine time with Lou. Mine fecund loin has waited hours.

She moves through the door, past the sweaty me's, who's faces - :¬O - squeal for her to look, to see the face and remember. She stands in her darkness and wrists her nicked teen. Smoke soon clouds her visage, and as I graze mine pubis, mine gland bursts me-from and I fall back, mine hinge clanging each propane churchbell along my plunge. Mine ex-cannons shoot the sky, and for the first time since my chagrins I hear her speak, but her words I cannot touch.

The 24 hour Mart has moved, please go to www.24hourmarts.com for more details.

I push a frozen wiener through the circular window head crack of mine thrashing last visit. A message. It says I was here. Don’t worry. It says I’m coming. Down the street they dance and skip and beckon to the charred black of the fires I gave, twirling and spinning rain haloes forth and pointing to the blacky horizon and I palm them wait and look through the darkened veiny eye of the shattered glass for the wads, but they are all upside down. This place has stopped, it has no hours. I whisper hello to the empty room and leave it for her to find.

And the sleepy dream of mine straight backed attention grabbed by the screaming of Lunt’s chalk marking the new Matty worldview vertical for mine unblinking eyes comes again, four times two and more information about Italy. I watch. I sit. I quiet. Bereft of the Matty-then and hollow of the Matty-now. Mine journey for love and the fire of mine love-defender powers extinguished by the deserting family hoards, treacherous army brother and mine Lou, taken by the tricky Guardian, dastardly wretch, keeping her mefrom like the reaching kitty-cat, tail tied to the bannister and wanting still, scraping carpet for the hairy ball. But this time when I poke at mine silenced drum with the prick of mine sharpened pencil, I pierce the numb and I yelp, and the screaming chalk is replaced by the mono-siren of mine burst ear. I am Matthew and the fight has left, look you! It dances outside before mine stinging eyes and cradled by the disappearing love. Love, the fight, Foot, GARIBALDI and Lou, they dance hand-held about the blossoming tree, yukking and head lobbing, staring them-each and only one looks over the shoulder to check on the Matty-me and it is Spinach, snarling as she, hands and knees, gropes at the Weasel’s place, but I am gone, sent class-from ear-wound wrapped about mine uniform shirt and hearing only the drone in mine right and the laughter and light of all that has gone before in mine burning left. The office is slime-green and the pictures have the worry of the starving children of the world splashed across them, waking the Matty-me from mine no-love labotomy. I glare. Skeletal bone child pushing tin dust mouth-to and I look to mine own hands. I am Matthew. And still I hear the ringing tone like the solo long-beep of the dead machine, but the child cries meward and sniffs and coughs and the sounds are cut of the tone of mine punctured hole and through the glossy window of the unpunctured Ear’s office I see the outline shape of the shaking brother and burst mine frozen limb chains to leap door-through and there he sobs, weeping to the nodding Ear-counsellor of the lost 24 hours, and I see mine brother’s Kennicarcass, dumped by the shores of the Indigo N.M. landfill and the remaining enamels are shone through the gleaming retch of mine widened grin and I point, I point and wail and giggle for now we have something in common! He wishes he was dead. And outside they have stopped dancing and stand in-line beckon me finger-forth and point to the charred remains of the Albuquerque horizon, marking the spot where I began. Mine journey for love, detoured by the treacherous stench of his army credentials and the hairy tressles of Lou’s girth. But there it lies, by mine General Lee’s crush-racoon grave. Love. And 24 Hours. Open again.

Now I sit alone on the two mom's bed place and stare starry love streams at mom's me capsules, her precious Matty moments, mine best times stolen, framed wooden on her walls. I see me and us and ours gappy grins and no longer can I think crotchy. Her momly me love opens mine heart and mine eyes and I want- I crave love indulgence from all, but always I am fail. I am lose. I try their ways and touch theirs custom, but in the end I touch mine end. I fistulate mine openings and foul mineself. They are so shocked by mine living state.

I lay back on mine moms' bouncey body slab. At once the Mattymonial love nest, at now the rashed slash multi-mom pokey place. But I see mom's features and her yippy lip greetings and she is the me I want to be. In these days mine mom still sleeps with bruises, but now hers bruises kiss her back. I harken mine father and Foot and all the man people who visited, and I boo them. Boo boo. Boo boo. Boo hoo.

I twist mine countenance to the side and from mine sockets mine globes touch another of mine baby visages, stolen from a birthday at four. He is happy, him, but in mine thoughts I am weepy for the me who is he who is locked inside mom's frame. He covets to be free.

Mine fuzzy scalp burns from tearing. I wrist unreasonably and roll over, incovering mineself with blotchy blankets that have seen new love and soaked in it. I twist and wrist and feel for it until mine appendages are lame.

I have no more thoughts and lay still and fade from mine awful world, but it will only be a few hours before I am back. As mine grip gets slippy and mine breathy moans get less I hear mine medulla cerebellow, "I am lose and I am fail and I am hell."

When the Moms 1 and 2 came back from Invalid (NM? CO?) I didn’t see them, though mine eyes were wide and though they hung standing above mine bed-grave like whimpering sentries, “Oh Mattys” and “sorrys” coming breathy, garbled by the innerds of mine submerged ears, and the lip smack and gurgle of their trickling jerky sniff-mouths cutting through, for I heard them, deep in the murk of mine colored pool, again with the sticky depths of mine own disappointment, wide awake yet dreaming of the hollow loss of all I knew, and this time there was no hand to let me go or pull me through, her-to, for she was lost also, and I simply lay still, waiting to drown, sunk in the depths of the Matty me, and smelling of kitchen revolution bleach and sour milk.

The masked angel, white and glowing, tubed me black inside like the tylenol purge and I saw her toothy slice from behind the throbbing cloth beneath her luminous tearless globes. I thought I was dead, but all the while mine colours slipped and ebbed till all that was left was the Matty grey, and I saw again that I was fail.