I am Matthew

In mine dream she rustles about mine dewey cabbage, panting in the steamy cold of the morning froth, knee deep in the hollow black of the Matty love fountain, she giggles, and mine stand-up beanstalk gloats for her attentive baying audience. She has the face of five: 24 Hours, Lou, Mom, Bruised Mom and Spinach and she looks meward, ten eyed and smiling. "You are" they shine "You are". I gasp and yip and I sink with the expended balloon into the folds of mine own skin where I curl and hum. And when I sleep in mine dream I wake to find mine torso soggy under the flopped cover-tent. Mine twitching pole broken by the storm of the dreamy wet-wind. And mine mind is clear. I look for the crashing scowl in the mirror of the torturous Bush and the dancing twirly song of the GARIBALDI and friends outside of the blossom window, but I see only mine own sad reflection and the empty streets, grey of the sunny rain. I brush mine-my-mine painful gums and the grasping offal rats and remove the MAT7Y me from the glue-gape of mine grin. My mouth. Mom calls and I answer and I hear the silenced "Huh?" And the "Matty? Matty?" And I twitch and look sidewise her-to, down through. "Yes" I say and she yips and smiles and grabs the Bruised Mom, that girl, and they dance and hop and screech. I don’t talk much they say. I clear the blurry image from mine-my eyes by wearing mine glasses which have rusted at the joint. I’ve not worn them since the contacts scratched mine delicate corneas. It was the crumbs. I see now. Mine mind and eyes clear, I am between the headaches. I see. I hear. This place is quiet without the voices, without the distant singing of mine GARIBALDI chum and I miss the Footfalls in the noisy haven of mine ear as they dance, all those that I lost, as they dance about the glimmering tree of my-mine-my being laughing blushing and keeping the colours of mine-my disappointment trapped inside and Mom asks what I want for breakfast.
They lean and wait for my answer and I think for a time and squint. Pancakes? Eggs? Offal? Meat?

"Toast"

www.24hourmarts.com has more information. It has employee of the month. It has mine 24 hours grinning meward from the flicky pixel, her mouth full of gleaming teeth. Mine shattered reflection gurns from the darkened background and I see the hollow space of mine deserted gape and the bloody canyons of mine gum. A salty bubble creeps from the shelf of mine lower lid and I smear her glassy cheek wet with the fruits of mine sorrow labour. Now she boo hoos for Matty too. www.24hourmarts.com has more information. It has her new store nearby for the Matty me and in-pant the reaching wand of mine extension springs her-to. When Mom comes I have mine knee bolt bent at the half leg, crouching sumo-style on the desk and banging the jumping bean of mine stalk against the glow of her flat visage, panting and screeching and thumping the screen-sides creaky. She says nothing and leaves mine unfingered burger by door and I drool on mine shoulder as I hiss her away and I hug the screen crotchy meward and bash the walls, I AM MATTHEW! I LOST MINE HOURS TO THE TRICKY BROTHER, BUT NOW I HAVE TIME, I HAVE TIME! and I pelvis the wobbling image and thrash and hurl until it fizzles and snips and I am left with the blackened nothing of the broken picture where mine own face stares back behind the drooping blossom of mine bun that falls away a reveals the incomplete spectre of mine denture where her glowing smile used to be. GNNAAAAYYY! KNEE BOLT AND BURNY HALF-EAR, THE DESERTED SHIP OF MINE RATTY MOUTH! I AM MARKED FOR THE MATTY METARD! I butt the cracking black-pane and fist the keys. I wield the board as a wrestling plank and slam the breaking back of the table, mine all-fours vanquished opponent, and the square whites of the broken slab, poked of mine sweaty fingers fly and bounce and I find mine replacements. I huhhn and uh uuhhn and glue them into spot pulling the troublesome lip curtains apart with an open hand to prevent an unfortunate incident. I hold them away for some of mine hours and when mom cockwashes the spent assneck and Bush grins meward from the smoky mirror, I grin back.
Mine grin is me, almost. There was only one T.

Mine grin reads MAT7Y