Matthew Clifford
T o C r a i g, S u r g e r y
Where there’s crying so too is there a knife to cut. The government collects tears with rainwater and uses them on mind control experiments. Thus far, no breakthroughs, but a lot of medicine and melted faces.
I am glad to know my friends are ok
I am glad they hide
Under pornography and feelings, behind lips and tells, where there is no cancer, there is no nothing at all, scalpel goes fearless with change and violence, digs a dream, displays the film, sells. Ducks cleaning by the poolside is a roadside. Give us this daily bread, wanna go for a ride?
Glad to know my friends aren’t dying
I am scared all my friends are dying
Hope one of them is Elijah
My name is Matthew
I am a ghost writer and minor character
Give a ball unto Caesar and a ball unto the Lord, give a cock to the cunt, scrape the ass off its chair. I’m kneecaps and toes, skipping church, I’m a brain and a heart, I remember those. I remember a rose is a rose is rose and my clothes are full of smoke and Gertrude Stein is still talking and now is the time to listen and I am talking and a rose is still a rose is a rose, they put one on the scar to keep the coke in the nose. It didn’t work, there are drugs everywhere, and a war on flowers.
Let’s do the immortal
Your morality is showing
What does death look like?
Like the list of accidents you didn’t know you were giving
Christmas sinning and easter living
Getting drunk before dinner
Like a saw and tree
Magnolia disease freedom pill
Where you going with that?
I want to go to the west
And to the south
Stare at my friends faces
Kiss their wounds
I want to go to the east
And to the north
Talk to family about memories
Hug my parents, say their prayers
I want to fuck something awful
I want to go where holes should not be
The god from the story proposed marry me
God does not accept nothing swiftly
It isn’t legal to marry an entity in this state
They said it was your idea
The tool from the surgery was sanitized and moved on to the next one. It has felt much flesh and reflected blood. We share insides. We embody the void. We spend three days on acid and who is talking our language? Not me. Who is the destroyer? Who is the world?
The soldiers shoved a sword through his ribs
and water fell out. A storm came and the temple.
They pronounced my friend dead at the scene
There was no waiting room
I gave them the news and walked away. When I was out of vision, I ran. When I was alone, I sat. Eventually I laid down. Finally went to sleep. I had a dream all my friends were in heaven by the fire. It was just on the other side of the stars, the simulation wears no sunscreen, it’s where the prophets burn.
Under spirits and learned limits, behind the terms and conditions of the body, where there is no poison for a lonely pole of hydrogen, I placed a thought and made delirium. When you wake up, I will stab you with it, rid you of the evil that was coming next, useless harmful shit. If you want to share it, I know some hungry realities. If you want to be rescued..
There is a poetic instinct to become a tree
W h a t T h e F u c k, D a d
What the fuck is wrong with your heart?
Why did you put all that stuff in it?
Nothing is getting through
I need you to hear this
I love you
What the fuck is wrong with your heart?
They’re going in
They’re going to find out what you did
There is too much salt in your lunch
They’re going to take you out
I am so lonely I barely eat dinner
Skinny enough my heart still works
I feel you
You have been to the space I soak my liver in
This is where I fail
What the fuck is wrong with your heart?
It needs your legs to move but your hip is ruined
It needs a ten pound vein made of the fat of our fathers
Oh my god give it to me, rain,
What the fuck is wrong with your god?
It needs a knife and a pill
I got a straw and some scissors
Got the money on a credit card
Let me see the insurance first
You can leave it on the mirror
Close your eyes count backwards from infinity
This will only take a minute
Are you ready to meet your doctor?
Have you made peace with your accountant?
There is no peace in the office
That’s another story
They ask how you are doing
I tell them voice and insides
What the fuck is going on inside of you
You can’t even say
You don’t have to say anything
I know, I know
I read about it
on whatthefuckiswrongwithyourheart.md.com
I got very scared and read the bible
Got more scared listened to music
Prayed to studied instinct
Guide those fingers over that chest
Heal bloody sensual
The rhythm of stitches
Tie my family together
They said the scar was a real beauty
It will be months before you breathe better
It will be there forever
Haunting
What could have happened
What comes
I am coming home
Stronger than you are
What the fuck is wrong with your home?
There are ghosts to keep out
The door is on fire
The television is broken It doesn’t turn off
The dogs are watching
The dogs are barking
Nobody sleeps yet the whole house is snoring
What the fuck is wrong with your head?
What the fuck is wrong with mom?
They won’t stop barking
Stop fucking barking
The ghosts will hear and he needs his rest
Have no fear it’s only the beast
The phone is ringing Unknown numbers
There are police at the front door
We don’t call the cops around these parts
What the fuck is wrong with your heart, officer?
Did the cool kids say you could hang out?
Your heart is hanging out filled with the bullets
of our presidents dangling by a spider string
I don’t understand how they are walking
When you fear for your life, go home
What the fuck is wrong with your home, officer?
I’d like to go home now, officer
Where my father’s heart is damaged
Mine is dark & weary
What the fuck is wrong with our hearts?
We sit in the living room listening shameless to siren songs
waiting
waiting
Interminably waiting
For the day to turn on
Prisoners of our own hearts, the news
Just give me the medicine
Just give it straight
lo no go
There’s time
Do you want to watch a movie or
play a game or something?
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C h a p u l i n a s B l u e s
More electrolytes please. Megs of magnesium replacing the insides grasshoppers spent the afternoon feeding off of. It started with an itch thought usual- skin acting anxious at new surroundings, mind aware of its trapped presence, no pot to balance. I scratched my hair and it grew worse. Scratched my arm and it grew worse. My face grew itself, ears lost their lobes, flattened ankles, my thighs ass balls, covered in rash. Try a shower- cold cold shower. Dizzy. Toweled. The red has set in. Must lie down. I scratched my feet against the wooden bunkbed frame, possessed to act, opened cuts on my knees, and they grew worse. I used the bed sheet, the wall for extra force. Asked the front desk for medicine, suggestions. Never seen anything like it. Gave me anti-itch cream from Kroeger's, I applied it vigorously and a layer over.
It grew worse. They called a doctor. Natalie walked to La Farmicia for anti-allergia. I took two my eyes shut. Am I drowsy or shocking? Where is Dr. Hernandez-Hernandez (his actual name)? Can't stay open with it. Thoughts racing like mushrooms. Is Dana Carvey or Mike Myers a better fit to play a cop? I've seen Reed Bye drive his car, why does he want to split a taxi down Arapahoe Ave with me? Did the barbecue start? Are they cooking with starstuff? What was that password? Is a computer burning in the trash can? Hands turning to talons. The liver is definitely blue. Virgin Mary in a television, rounded dials, thirteen. I miss New Jersey I miss air conditioning I miss my mom. So hard to sit up and vomit. Must. Cough. Force. With thoughts of soft street meat Cubano sandwiches, greased eggs bounce, lumps of mayonnaise on cups of corn, the texture of chapulinas- darkened, exact, slightly smoked, full form, farmed eyeballs, served with chips and spiced salsa to scoop- remembering the mouth and spoon. They tasted worse coming out than they did going in.
Hernandez say: Lay on stomach, alcohol, cotton swab, needle and shoot anti-histamine into back. This is going to last until it lasts, until every last bit is out. Gestures finger into throat. Is good to do. Writes a script for Electrolito. Over the counter sports drink with measurements of calcium I don't know how to translate when comparing it to Powerade. Coconut. Six hundred pesos for services rendered.
It goes for hours. Strain elbows. Fall back on pillow. A bed, a body never felt so uncomfortable. There is no good idea on what I'd like to do. Music sucks, poetry is impossible. Weed is unavailable and worthless. Unable to sleep I halfdream fantasies of glasses of water. I want out, I want in. Tall fluid soak me and swim. All things must pass. The human body resilient, human condition impatient. When. When? Good god shit devil stick oh woah groan the whole hostel heard- hurry the fuck up digestion and relieve this madness.
Bleh blah eeeggh meft. Nothing left. Deep breath. The room stands still. What time is it? Eight. Three hours later than expected. She says hello with worry. Are you all right? Gradual re-entrance into reality. Covered in blanket. Cold sweat. I wonder what happened. Start to gather details of the sickness which ensued while sipping any liquid my cramped fingers will hold. Life is back on. Attempted standing moments. Finally ready for clothing. Cover empty skeleton. Stumble to store. Salted chips. Sugar. Lemonida Gatorade. Bare nailed chest exposed on the terrace. Gulping fresh air from light breeze through pores that calm. Surrounded with Oaxaca's radio tower & downtown church steeple. Soothed by sounds of Middle Brother come from iPod speaker attachment. Set up Mexico. Oh no here we go. How it goes. I am ok now. I tell the concerned backpackers and workers who at some point this afternoon must have been subject to the chorus of near-death I sang without knowing and it is true. I will take a melatonin and sleep well, sleep it off. See what it is tomorrow. I will write La Casa Angel a nice hostelbookers review. Well deserved. The outdoors are closing for the evening. Esta bien. Just happy to be here.
Rambler, troubadour, dissident tablet, unsuppressed badass, mugwump agitator, active verbiator, fine print peruser, incontinent spirit, heretical accountant, america addict, knowledge sharer, provider when asked of free literature, radical cowabunga royal ranto this then here Matt Clifford is a middle aged carpenter teen wife candy poet eating journals off the bathroom floor publishing the results on a golden scroll.
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