I am Matthew

See the house tops, making side road snake scaley, Matty tree-top hidden and HIM-stroked. I am, yes. I am. Mine teeth are sapped and gummy green from two day leaf feast, and I gurn as I crouch, Matty war face painted spitty and blood. The pant piss-brown and yellow faecal, flying from the branchpole like the fortress flag.

This is where we fight! I AM THE TREETOP WAR MONKEY MATTY!

And I squat, ball-down bark touching between mine scabby limbs and mine raisin is grape again and glistens purple inflated and points jutty to heaven and I fist.
Come red ladder dragons!
Come dastardly pylon climbers, wailing siren sirens!
I see! Blue and flashy you come, we will stand! I will thrash death and clawbleed away, I am MATTHEW, life-devils, I AM MATTHEW!

But HE is shaky, bah bah chin smacking, MATTY MATTY, HE COMES FOR YOU! OH MATTY HE COMES, OOOOFF…FOR US! And HE hurls unto mine gland and hugs scraping and clawing at mine place for hiding, weepy and wrist biting Boo hoo, MATTY, boo hoo, WE ARE HIS!!

And then I see. Mine cock bursts like a water balloon premature popped tapward and I am sperm chinned and afraid. His blacky hide slides groundside browning usward and he sullies the floor like a salted snail. I snap at mine wrists and drool and quiver. Mine halo snaps. Where is Lou? Daddy? I shoulder tap the HIM for answers, tap tap who?

OH MATTY, HE IS THE GRIMWAD, WHAT WILL WE DO?

I AM MATTHEW! Matty throat screech and yell himward I FOUL THINE SPIRIT GRIMWAD! And fist the air with mine spermament, Matty love snow for fighty stance and love.

And he looks methrough with his fearsome facegap and he points.

Mikey prances about me like an unafraid squirrel sniffing nuts from an old hand. He shows me the vacant skull-hole where the rotten eye fell and smiles spitfaced meward. Matty one leg, Special K ha ha. But I do not see him. The GARIBALDI is back into mine Karefree’d drooling O.D. and he stands weepy, Matty NO!, hip-handed and yellow-panted socky, his legs apart and he pats at mine half-ear and scratches his own flapping area, phalanges mine tooth gap. Mom has me P.J.’d white. Mine knee-bolt is squeaksilenced and shines like unbefore. I am Christy. They’ve been overseeing mine care, her and her, between licks. Bush scratches again at the knee crevice giggling and HE snaps himward, NO FOWLMAN, NO! BAH!!, And GARIBALDI swipe fist me-him-down and I am wakenend by the thumping thigh meat purple. Mine wide eyes have seen the painglory…and they move.
“BOOOO Mikey one Eye! BOOOO!” Matty hole noise, and I swing arc-like in his direction and let loose the pant foulness and Mikey skips and yelps untoward.
“You!” Mattymutter and I leap to hug and fall HIMthrough. I am grassed and muddy, front caked touching my void. Squirming groundward, I understand, I know who HE is, I know why He comes.
“Daddy!” I muck-lip, brown teeth and tear mud made.
“MY MAAAATY!” He sings from the tree where he perches, bird-like, and the orange skyball lights him headhind like an exploded saint-melon.
Mom watches me climb from the filthy life womb, pulled through. HE is here to help.

Mine eyes fix on the steamy bath tile unmoving. Open wide, Matty eye, open wide. In my wake-dream there is nothing but mine own reflection, cock-headed and drooling. Sometimes the tears mix with nose-runoff, salty face mess Matty, boo-hoo, boo-hoo.

The crooked knee bolt hangs over the bath to prevent rust.

“Come on Matty” says the Bruised Girl “You’ll find another special friend”

But she doesn’t understand and pats mine sour head as Mom continues jostling about the fertile pole.

And I feel nothing.

Truncated the fine life. Made mouldy the love Matty spread. Hacked maggots into mine heartwound. They have taken her wayward, mefrom. As we danced in the spittle rain, surrounded by Matty love snow, and tear halos, the floppy phallus springing drippy, Lou giggling and baring her teeth, Matty arm-slap and spinning, he was watching and snapping. When the raisin saw the sun again and approached the tunnel gape of her face through the treacherous jaggy zipfly, dribbling hopefulness and want, he was looming, head horizontal jutting usward from the awful hidden corner. His pictures did it, and his words made mince the meat of mine bone. Snatchy moments unfurled before the eyes of her keeper, Oh Matty No, again from the vaginal Mom-Mouth and the coils of her tongue making sorry at the Guardian, as he clutched clumps of lengthy Louhair, weeping, and sullying their perfect memory, wiping the us-images of his eyecum with her beautiful strands. I’ll never see his girl again came eggy from his terrible hole, and I bade him foul his own particles before I thanked the filthy dick and promised mevenge. The Bruised Girl laid hand on mine slumped shoulder, and I snapped to bite but was hindered and hemmed in by mine teary gurning. And was wheeled away.
Now I scrape at the craggy insides of this life-womb, mine chipped fingernails digging into the rancid placenta seeking grip, and I snap and claw, I grovel for the sticky opening, the hairy gates where mine breath beckons me to leave with it, to float and play beyond the messy body, unsweaty and without life’s horrible musk to torment mine features while outside, beyond the corner where I live, unlistening to the squelch and groan of next door, Mikey is trying to put the tips if his fingers together, Mr. Ferguson has found my gift in his left shoe again, a worm has found its way into Foot’s mucky hide, Principal Ear has seen the glistening underside of Lunt’s drippy pant and is sitting to bone-hide, Dr. Spinach is watching a boy through a two way mirror destroy his innocent childhood, the kids at school sing and the door has been sanded of taunts for Petrol Alan’s funeral, which is today, and they sing for him, and Lou is being fitted with full body fake hair and the Guardian’s eyecum is clearer and he is corner grinning herward through his fatherly fleshmask clutching the tickets and planning their trip.
I turn to face the corner and prong the gap. I wish Dad was here.

It smells of chicken broth and looks like raisins, mine squirty member in her hand. She digits and twirls and lipglosses me there. Sit still, says she, Lou, to me, flop flop squirming hee hee, look at me, biting backskin elbowside. Mine knee bolt bottom pokes her, the stinging kind, and she stomach punches me. Quit it, says she, mouthholeful of it, mine dirty stinky raisin. Sit still. I do, I try. I reach boobward like the way I have seen Foot. Foot is dead.

We are pavement seated, behinded by dumpsters backward of the 24 Hour. She takes me here this time, first, and it feels of love. It feels of new love, like Albuquerque's first snow. I am digited furiously by her love hand. Lou stops and draws and spits to her palm and raisin wraps it, shut and locked. She digits. She pulls herward, meward...herward, meward. After a time I break wind and she to me says, This isn't working. I stare down to mine gob of raisin, crumple itward and take in its brothy-ness. It could almost be a little boob like the one left on grandma. I laugh at what it looks like and look to she, who smokes a Kool and palms her me-hand acrossward hers hair stubble. I smile to her. She me-hands mine knee, the good one, and throws away her Kool.

I find myself thinking of Lou even as the screen creaks and snaps under my pressing cheekbone as I hug the terrible flesh image and agitate the crotch-elf for Christmas spirit spurt, 1 of 700 waiting ballneath like a plucky child in the snow with its tongue out. This is my ninth time and mine cock is flaky red, mine arm veiny and sore, and mine juices running clear, but she is why I’m this far, something says, before a single drop hellos from the fish-mouth of my bubble and I am finished. I de-cock the fist and the chicken neck flops thankfully against my noodlebag. I have half a cup. It will be a light snow that covers the Albuquerque landscape with Matty love, but I wrap the cocky flick stick in mom’s eye mask from the fridge and it makes me oooh and I go out into neverthelessness.
It sprinkles and flies from mine fingertips that I dip and flick, dip and flick, Ferguson’s, Dannaway’s, Lunt’s, the 24 Hour Store, dip and flick, as I wheel town-thru, THE ALBUQUERQUE SNOW ANGEL! but soon, too soon, mine cup runeth dry and I stop to tap the last spermy sparkle flakes onto mine own halo. The town is snowy white with my festive firmament and I de-chair and dance, arms flapping, Matty spinning, yuk yuking, and I remember the Matty fountain, the 9 dwarves and the GARIBALDI and I miss him for a second until I think of Lou and I am sad for the incompleteness. My arms flap lower, Matty spins slower, and when I stop mine cheeks are slippy and I am surrounded by spurted eye juice, and the sorry ring is bigger than my halo. I spank the eyelids so as not to see, but mine wrists are parted and pulled and she is there. There is five o-clock shadow on her forehead and she leans forward.

I stuff the balled note in hers box of corn flakes, and two days later it shakes out into Mom's bowl of milk. What the, she says, and I smile from behind the fridge door. I am kitchen allowed now. Mom looks to me and says, "Matty, is this...?" I slam the door wallward, ketchupping the floor and clawbounce table-round humming This Land Is Your Land. Mom smiles, palms it unfolded, drips dry and reads:

Dear Santa,

I have been good this year. Went to Live Big! for a time and now mine glands quake with love. I am love. I am Karefree'd. I am HIM, too, sometimes. No more night terrors, smeary assy dreams. I straightened up, fly right. You see me in Two?

I fight for love, Santa. Mom lost hers Foot, and mine mission brings her Bruised Girl.

Mom gets this far and puts it down. "Oh Matty," she says, and digits mine cheek. There is tuna smell on her phalange. Bruised Girl enters and we all eat. Mom says, "I'll post it this afternoon, Matty."

After breakfast Mom and Bruised Girl tinsel the downstairs, but after an hour Bruised Girl says Mom needs to "get in the spirit" more and takes her upstairs. Mom turns on Christmas carols for me. I am alone now in mine tinsel pile that I'm making into a new wig for Petrol Alan after his was stapled to his dog and taken away. I listen and hear Jingle Bells and all mom's yells. I shift mine pant and crinkle fall, thrash roll treeward. In silver paper a shakey box says To Matty, From Mom & Deb. They make me smile. I think of their vagina'd faces and mine long year. I think of Two, Colorado, the boy with sweaty eyes. The HAROOO SMOKING ALBUQUERQUE METEOR MATTY. I put Mom's Foot down. Mine hinge twangs branchwise and needles sprinkle me face side. I remember open roads and living big, Father Head saying, Goodbye, Foot, Mom's tears, hers makeup running, looked like sperms down her cheeks, getting semi-blooded, then fully, then painting a million Mattys all over Mrs. Esther Hope (1919-1987). Mine year brought me here. Mine eyes pool and dribble drip. I twistcrawl couchward, over magazines, under coffee table, and hand to mine face the holiday chocolate-covered minty Karefree Mom left for me in a Santa bowl. I need the Christmas spirit. I need to bring Christmas spirit to Albuquerque and then worldward. I listen to mine brain think and hear 'Dashing through the snow on one whores open face'. Mom yells. Mine pant shifts, and I sit up again. I think of my old McDonald's cup full of sperm, about half now. It is somewhere upstairs where all the Christmas spirit is. It never snows in Albuquerque. It only fires.

* * *

I slide through the door crack and smile at the counter, the door hitting me rumpwise, scuttleskip tripping me down ketchupped tileward, knocking over condiment displays. I slithercrawl through sauces to the counter and push me up with handfuls of straws. He looks at me funny, head sideways, dog-like.

"You. You're that kid, aren't you? The balls kid?"

I shake mine neck no. "I am Matty, and I am the Christmas Spirit."

He looks for a time and starts to say but stops, then starts, then says, "Whatever. What do you want?"

"700 cups, yes please thank you."

"What?"

"700 cups."

"Empty cups?"

"Yes please thank you."

He looks at me.

"Lipp?" he shouts.

"I got mine!"

He looks at me.

"What?"

A man appears behind him. His name tag says "Don Lipp, Shift Supervisor". His paper apron has see-through spots from grease. He avoids mine eyes. I remember him. He is the one from the police station that time, the one by himself, whimpering. He whimpers. He got caught with boys' fingers in his anus.

"What do you want?" says Lipp.

"Dude wants 700 empty cups."

Lipp looks down to me. He sniffs and bits of fry fall from his moustache.

"Jesus," Lipp says.

I am fully cocked in mine pant. Mine fingers make a square, and I frame my 3D crotchal shape.

"Let him have them," says Lipp. "Get him the fuck out of here."

He gives me stacks of cups, and I ask for lids too. I have a garbage bag from Mr. Ferguson's, from his bin, that I brought to help carry mine McPots. I will have to put back his garbage when I'm done. I hope he likes the snow.