I am Matthew

The fever sticky came and glued mine features hard-to, sweat-bed and shake, pooled of mine own soggy leakage, driven mefrom by viral battle inward, Matty stuck and delayed and barred from freedom break yet, bed-whored on the waiting game, and One and Two, mine sneaky shove-hand slap-guards, sit cornered and scowly in mine dampened infirmary, laughing meward for the bulk of the greeny muck, spilled from the red of mine throbbing beak, Matty howl and throng, bash and sick and boo hoo Matty, boo hoo, “I AM THE QUIXOTIC MATTY QUICKSAND!” Me-cry “STUCK OF MINE OWN FEATURES AND RIDDLED OF THE GLUEY GHOST!” and One-Two giggle frenzy comes wheezy, finger point and jeer the Matty me, razzing the horror of mine own salty spot, and only the temple callus gives succour, press and sigh and Lou and tear halos and the love lost 24 hours, press and grin gapey, the spork shaving foolery, press and yip, mine war monkey Matty treefort, rub and gurn, the Spinach boner mirror-game, rub and rub and rub and rub and One and Two recoiling back, “He’s off again” coming breath sickly, mine half-lost crotch bonus coming to, hardened of the Matty then, throb-fighting the ping of mine medulla, where the shame of the Matty now resides, rub and rub and rub and rub, left hand headward, right hand down, rub and rub and rub and rub and throb fight this place, throb fight the now, throb fight the vag-handed fork bearded man, glowering down and smiling nasty, bad touch the spot for good, I am Matthew, I am Matthew, I am still Matthew, and mine hands are wrenched mefrom, side-bound and I am back-lain, bed tent bravely retreating as it wells from deep within, the mucky explosion to come, the bullet from mine gunbeak, and it is loud and screamy from the depths of mine features and it is a jew and it is airborne and bloody green and it hovers as the glowing fish jumped from the neighbour’s pond that day (Matty face-down and drowning), and it lands face-wise sloppy and I am sullied of mine own muck, the giggle screech of mine demonic watchers coming gurgly past mine blocked lobes, but though I am shamed mine head is clear, unblocked of the mucus cement, and through the headache I can see, I am Matthew, I wish I was somewhere else.

Yesterdream came teary. Through snore and cry and rustle-turn of mine dormed sleepers I drifted, down-thru, out away and gone-to, o’er the smoked blacky trees of mine Albuquerque forest 24 hour love-candle. I AM THE SWOOPING ALBUQERQUE ALBATROSS, flying Matty beak snap, I SHUN THE LIP’S GOD A FIE YOU COME GET ME! Screamy Matty cry and swoop up up and away. From mine Icarus fly-point I saw left. Her. Mine deserted Mom discompanied of her bruised girl, alone and weeping, empty frame clutched chestward where the Matty me once gurned glowing outward. I saw right. Her. Mine lost Lou, bayed to and scorned paywise for her hairy countenance as the Guardian shadows back, grinning and hand panted for self glory. I saw down and mine wings gave way to the Matty weight of mine sorrow and there I woke breathy, sheet tented out, and sniffling for mine dispersed loves lost. I must leave. Mine journey has brought me here, but they are there. I am not finished.

Special Friends’ gardens loll sidewise of mine hanging head, ear shouldered and dribble down, wheelchair bound (poor imitation of mattmobile essensce, a retard trolley, rattling for the teary visitors, none for the Matty me) and limp-wrist arm point towards the Happy Way, bah-uh.

I was two months alone of the blacky cell, mine One and Two new guards sitting point and sliding food down and through for mine curled grip and gnashy bite, under the glowering love of the vag-handed man upstairs, forky beard and dripping exposed body-pump a spectacle to mine laughing innerds “I AM MATTY ONE LEG! I BASH AND THRONG AND YOU HANG ONLY CROOKED!” screaming inwards silent.

I am calloused of the finger-point forehead, a gnarly temple-spot where I found mine peace, a point of some return. There mine gnarly phalange gave comfort to the ping of mine electric cord and there the headaches ended and I could see. Darkness there and nothing more, said he. But mine finger remained pressed of the softened side-head, restraining the tricky brain-devils from their tormentuous pain-work inside and with the other I pronged the gap for all I lost, darkness in replace of the colors and boo hoo, Matty, boo hoo whisper, day in and out and nightward same, and no love, no contact, no Special Friends.

They point and jeer, the children of the alcoholic missing a leg, at mine rubber neck and mine wetted robe, slick of the mouthy meal. Words come nowhere and retreat from the outside wind and I am left to their merciless proddery, while their Mom gets jiggy with the one legged fruit. I am released to gen-pop from mine solitary confines, rid of the me-devils, they say, and prepped for a Godful remaining stay.

Evening begins at 6 here when I am taken from the breathy gardens to the dorms where they sleep and I poke the callous for comfort until sun rises again and I can return. And at six mine robe is wetter than ever with the leaking of mine stinging eye.

“This way” came steamy cold from One, left over the swinging shoulder, floating to mine prickly features as Foot’s truck through the Albuquerque mist (nights off hunting, high beam and badger slung, broken duck and blood crate rolling Mom-bound home). Jab and poke to mine spinal line “Move” from Two, back arch jittery and blood tooth the lip, stumbling forward and down, down to the blacky shell of mine new place where they left me, sullied and prying fierce through the meshy pane. That was then. Where I stand. One and Two, Special Friends, unnamed attendants of mine new fate.

Mine dreams here are of Day 1, Happy Way Apartments gone. I glee and yip, spin spitface and bang the space in front. “I AM MATTHEW! Matty lip flip window down, “COCK MY SMELL!” and Father Lip door grin sigh and sidle by. “Curfew at 8 Matthew”. Mine bed, cornered, clean, muck free and waiting. Matty curl and laugh and sleep and mine dreams there were of HIM and mine 24 hours and of Spinach and Weasel and the colors of all I lost, blinding in the hind-eye of mine tangled medulla.

Now God looks me down, firehead and no-tear halo, forky beard floorward and vaginal open hands filled with the gaping flush of his own center, exposed to cure me of mine, and save mine from me. And I am blinded more for the lost color of the Happy Way.

Through mine twitchy fingers, where I peer, the Special Friends Center for Higher Learning in God, Tucson Ariz., is a blurry pink and fluffy fortress of skin gap and vein, and not to be worried over more than daily brain pain, but when I see, full beam, open and clear, it is a rocky prison crevice, a inescapable cell of Matty exile, another Phutures now, a Spinach spectre from mine forgotten past, and I am tied-bound, back seat and helpless, transported as a glue horse for melting down. I brown the spot and weep.

Mom and Bruised Mom done left did long since, Matty deserted and bye bye, Matty, by bye. Mine home is Happy Way Apartments, where I live, the terrible Father Lip mine Moms replacement, slimy grin, crucifix dangling and sweaty. We pray. For the grace of god to take mine “evil devices” mefrom. Foot left green for mine upkeep when he croaked out, you see, face wrapped about the bloody sofa, I remember. “To my son, Matthew” Foot said in his passing document. If Foot was mine daddy then who was HE? The GARIBALDI, mine ghostly pater-friend. I saw them joust for the Matty me. Hairy Lou tours this earthy sphere, tresses dreadlocked into a soupy gangle, on display for paying punters, they say, roll up roll up. 24 hour girl now does only 35 per week. I visit regularly at the Bank of Albuquerque and run mine craggy nails across her beautiful name plate on her left one. I slap and beg and hug the guard whose name is Hip as flung there-from ground-to. Every Tuesday at 2. The tricky brother went to a rack and never came back, chopper ditched and blown, so goes.

And now Lip wants me god-schooled since I am the devil borne of man, his words. They will break me of it. I shiver and prong the gap drippy when I think. There are no more tear halos, only blobs, for mine spinning and yips are gone. Through the headaches I can see, until I bang mine eyes to stop.

Therapy, speech and mind, has been going well. So they say. I speak more nowadays, and in school I sit quiet, though I rarely listen. Mrs. Lunt never speaks meward, to me, anyway. Not directly at least. At home the Moms are happy so long as no defilement of the patchy…so long as I behave "like normal kids". The new Spinach is a woman called Hand. Mrs Hand, for she is no doctor, talks to me twice weekly about my lost friends and mine-my journey for love, about HIM and Foot, so on and so back. And I tell her things about Fandora, things about Two and Barnacle, about the broken badger and snapped duck and Foot wrapped about the dash of the smoky truck, and some between, and sometimes I cry and ungainly whimper for mine lost Lou. But not often. I leave Mrs Hand in the dark mostly. Mostly I feel good. For I know where they are, I know where it stays. Mine journey ended well. I found the heart and in mine own I speak thuslike forever, unwavering of mine Matty-me they cannot take. For I am HIM, me, it. Hand or no Hand, Lunt or no Lunt, Mom or no Moms. So long as I eat toast and say yes please thank you. So long as they see me grin and smile and nod and keep my hands to myself, they need not know.
It’s a glowing hole, you see, the inverted sky-pupil ‘gainst the blacky whole, glaring and shining of the darkened earth where I stay, staring upward through the leafless October Matty fortress, smiling and wondering how they are, the ones I lost, but not with the same desolate longing of no-love as before, but as the leftover Matty winner, survived of the near (for)gotten friends, for they left, yet they dance and twirl in mine mind’s view about the Matty bough, the trunk of mine found-love where they remain, no longer a sticky pool, and sometimes I see them before me, beckoning, yet I don’t go, I am strong now, I speak out loud I say "HEAR YOU, LOVE-SPECTRES OF MINE SULTRY PAST! LOOK YOU ABOVE TO THE NATURAL EMBRACE OF YOUR REPLACEMENT" and they sometimes look, sometimes on those good nights when it glowers downward as now like the all-colours of mine disappointment into a white-whole of warmy good, and it haloes the Matty me forever, without tears, as I sit, stand or squeal ‘neath its hovering wonder, and the Moms can see me dancing in mine saintly love-light if they look, yipping and wheeling about the grassy lawn and banging myself without nail, without claw, for happy drum noise, knee to clavicle and back, round and round like a Navajo rain-dance, and I see them hug behind the netted door where I oft saw the GARIBALDI sneer of the terrible past, and they smile perfume meward for a toothless gum-grin back mefrom as I raise mine arms wide to the blacky hanging canopy twirling and mine Matty-halo where it now resides, you see?, where THEY reside, WHERE I KEEP THEM!

And thus mine journey ends. I need only look up.

When I woke up this morning my knee didn’t twitch at all.

I feel good.

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

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.

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.