Message-ID: <40778asstr$1044753004@assm.asstr-mirror.org> Return-Path: From: "Sean Farragher" X-Original-Message-ID: MIME-Version: 1.0 Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit X-Priority: 3 (Normal) X-MSMail-Priority: Normal Importance: Normal X-MimeOLE: Produced By Microsoft MimeOLE V6.00.2800.1106 X-ASSTR-Original-Date: Sat, 8 Feb 2003 13:10:26 -0500 Subject: {ASSM} TxM6: Taxi Murders the Novel Chapter 100 Poem of Incest Date: Sat, 8 Feb 2003 20:10:04 -0500 Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail Approved: Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d X-Archived-At: X-Moderator-Contact: ASSTR ASSM moderation X-Story-Submission: X-Moderator-ID: gill-bates, dennyw If you have missed any parts of Taxi Murders the Novel, they are archived on ASSM -Google and at my web site. I welcome feedback in email. Sfarragher@nj.rr.com . Chapters 1-80 are available at my site. Updates will be posted at least weekly. Thanks, Sean http://www.seanfarragher.com/taximurdersbook Taxi Murders the Novel -- Chapter 100 - Incest Poem (c) 2003 Sean Farragher sfarragher@nj.rr.com http://www.seanfarragher.com http://www.seanfarragher.com/Joss http://www.seanfarragher.com/taximurdersbook/ Taxi Murders the Novel Chapter 100 Ten Instant Photographs Poem By Laurie Fallon written in the voice of her Character in Taxi Murders the Novel Camera of Myself:10 Instant Photographs May 1991 - February 1993 1. May 1, 1991 "My Father's dirty mask was clever" First Photograph Father's eyes sleep when I trace lids, -- I keep darting tongue; yes, the way iris bends fallen from grace when stalks are cut from vine. Father came to sleep in a pity of witness. How does the self know blood shaped things by dreams? He said, "I crept into your skin last night picked morning glory seeds from your lips I murdered you while you slept." Father held my head down; blessed are shifting skulls. Father, do not murder thy own; "Murder becomes you," he said. He was not my father but more. Steps were forsaken: Imagine one "See saw" punch and Judy show in Paris violence is not believed but made more emotional than the puppets can stand. Backward, forward, one, two, three the shift of interior lines and lips and lace rustle, white and black silk disheveled between sheets of rocks stolen fragments of the Nile before Ptolemy's Caesar discovered that we cannot hear the air above the pyramids unless we are royalty stumbling out of drunken bars making flight a dangerous arrow. 2 May 1991 22:19 Father hides under my bed. I am his secret genealogy; Am I too casual as I stalk when I, "once upon a time," cried out, no one noticed I kissed him with tongue without delusion. 3 May 1991 14:20 Lost was clitoris gained placed in well and thickened with care and vice 8 May 1991 17:42 Father was too easily a target standing against black and gray billboard outrage. He was my lullaby. 9 May 1991 01:41 I did you first, Father, as you asked. Is that enough? No, I want you as well he said in answer to my bemused and faked indifference. Now, I say it. You came to me as one man and I became another woman older than your mother or mine. Instant Photograph 2 "Virgin dance" I am now whole. Can you believe it? I dreamed I caressed your trail 'cross Oregon that cold morning was the blue iron sky and mountains crushed with decadent snow your white hair like flowers decorated from basements of howls and screams and unrelieved pleasure tied to whispering when I bounced on our bed. I am charged by you with electrical songs my dolls removed, their arms amputated; they grow pubic hair have actual breasts. Ken makes them sigh with an ultimate mouth. We watched the films and set score to editing of lust made illegal and terrifying. Hell sucked every spark from our grinds and bumps and pauses to twist and treadle the come again how we fuck again waltz. In return I returned your arms, beguiled other lips; I am swollen scarlet, raw blue at my gills when I swam towards you 'cross Hudson River to whore docks and drug dens where I lost pimps and found Henry at last I will forget how to hide I promised him. I will never look back I shift towards his ideal signs and rapture boils from the subways to ferries to our car parked on Hudson bank under palisades where we had simple sex again as father and child but I was a woman now and wanted more than your thrust and that flood when it leaked was cold like the December Winter the thin ice balanced on muck at low tide like sex resumed after a long pause and you forget the punctuation. 12 May 1991 07:21 Instant Photograph 3 Mother's Day Mother, calm your daughter. You shouted at my rage jealous of your history with him and our experience cuddled in bed after quiet talks and inappropriate touches as you called them as guilty rings on the telephone stopped nothing. When you returned I was in awe of symbols for mathematical organs. Virtual madmen and women are not dangerous I shout as I tie up the telephone lines with chat rooms and murder and daily rites of masturbation and cyber make believe. I was a whore in 300 B hardly the broad of today that downloads lipstick kisses in an instant. I have learned geometry by the delta of my pelvis, revealed as slippery skin with scared finger tips, plastic melons, delusion. 15 May 1991 07:21 Murder like seduction came when I turned down my sheets recovered clear stains, blood, pubic bones, forensic matter with the lines of his cells. I washed well, don't worry; I knew that grief clouds we shifted when disorder and discovery advanced I am not certain how I am camouflage. After all, with just one thrust at my pubic pears, your lance was soft I trembled to die. Such powerful death came at the first shudder of my spine. 22 May 1991 03:27 Instant Photograph 4 My orgasm was born in dear childhood: fingers were glee stuck glue when I laughed and mother and I made goosey goosey swarm of terrified bees drawn from baby oil bath when intimate eddy's settled down while exhale turned rumba inside, to resume, washed clean, when my pubic hairs shifted to salt, and later Papa blessed them when we crossed ocean where we cleaned sacrament before escape. 27 May 1991 06:41 We were Magical leprechauns, father played the harp as we sexed at New Year's Ball Instant Photograph 5 Can I Dance? I am Wild Bardot; child oval mouth & open belt, robe falls down limbs, when I clapped coiling legs with palms, clutching Papa's hands skin clearly rose I shifted in lavender silk to open when mother's breast held unnatural cold mouth, spattered blue with invisible ink when gray lights of Kaleidoscope raised nude dance dither and clop when I covered his open mouth with my palm to stop his laugh I had last dance with his uneasy death I could not grieve my cares nor will my lust to only his memory I learned well what sex completes. I will be never cured Pleased I will giggle when. I am eighty. 10 April 1992 00:26 "Fornication a la Carte" Simply, down & dirty dick bashing without excuse until penetrated, my Father God and holy eyes, ours, plucked out, blinded by lava flows am uncommon unrequited passion. Human kind will not rise out of the cave under cerulean sky to make the temple out of glass and sex and failure resurrect holier diversions beatified. Instant Photograph 6 Sex, I beseech vivid pleasures from angels up high and further depositions where law can never rule triumph Neither family nor the great magic of lust between father and holy mother. If I am murdered in sex, Mother is made up to death, dirty as recompense for childbirth. What a sting unfair trade. I gave birth to my father's child. The fear of it transcends culture. 10 July 1992 15:51 Dear Indecent Prophecy. Death: Mon Pere, here in acres of rooms we rent ourselves dying. I am struck too, drift easily as shadows drink without melody; my lament of bawdy breast rained pleasure contrary to our death. Father is dead two years. Life was foul. Circles pulled knots from pubic cherry while his footsteps played bed between serial fathers daughters, runaways advertised, blown up floral dolls; dirty in the crotch made into receptacles for delirium. We discovered graves without kindness, unannounced, ripe. Dear mercy, I will give birth to sacred father child; last month, appeased, spirits, the public believed I am furious with murder but I was once a liar: How can I not love father? 17 August 1992 16:19 Instant Photograph 7 Here at your grave I tremble -- your name plate inverted with mine but I am not dead but I see where my ashes will be thrown here when I am leaked like urine from an old bladder uncontrolled I stain the grass and make the bronze plaque tarnish before my eyes It is a century later. I am not ashamed of writing how we had sex when I was your companion and poet Henry, my lover, my adopted father, I am watching your cock harden in my hand knowing you could have made my mother fat and lusty and probably did no matter what you say. I saw the evidence in her eyes that night I came home drunk. I was so ashamed. I wanted to scream -- do not lie parents. It is OK. I will join you in bed as we have that capacity to be born again. I am her twin I sang sharing cups of cunt and your balls semen emitting danger. I did not swallow it all. I gave it back spitting drool dry down inside of breasts slippery on the seat of wooden horses twirled under the canopy of pink merry-go-rounds named Spiritus Sexualis Perpetuus. Under cover of self preservation you sucked fingers, hands, eyes our breasts and chest, to sample your own thick cruel -- Later we came as cacophony bangs back, cheeks with fist. You had air I swallowed like a dirty Catholic girl and you an Imagined Jew and patient Christ. I choked, could not anticipate plowed waves furrowed with cries for air and ultimate screams I rest, breath satiated to accommodate centaur, beast that drinks dogs and horses making them mighty rides as two handed miracles to just ride. I removed grease of your palm; lubricant applied to orifice sculpted caves where Plato made shadows out of spirit divined as chance raped by the old world ideas of what is material or not. In our haphazard orchard where sacred springs are movies teased and repeated with hand held wind up camera Holding hands watching the loops we ejaculate like dear singers raging at the Commandments and yet blessed by them. You said I bewitched. He was wrong. I was not the spell of his unholy patience. "I love you Father" Can I draw you one face more by memory. 1 November 1992 05:17 Instant Photograph 8 Father, we slept in the bed of our actual death. Father, I have a spoon for love. You placed it unseen in the layers of vulva; heal my floral wounds. I opened them in the bright light of movie stars as porno princess. Father have you ever fucked in the dark? No, mother said you were calm once, yes; now, I am peaceful like old seashells gathered in March I am collapsed at the center, while your clam siphon declined. Yes, I heard my names in skin where flesh protrudes as lips swollen in the median of our face where eyes divide the farce into parts; the cunt opens carnival drinks astounding circles of your rasping cigarette baritone. I loved tenors but I worship the base Gods. 16 December 1992 12:27 Instant Photographs #9 Father, I want you to understand that when your mouth outlined me, I was a corpse. Murder began. I was open, prepared, reluctant, turned down at your collar my heart urged my belt like a stem curled open. In bed, afterward, we talked as adults do with cigarettes and vodka. Father, you fondled. I clung; ached not from your things. I was well practiced. I hurt, Father, regret you rifled when opening my drawers, you fixed photograph with a smudge I never resisted. Now when I clean my daughter or shift my son's thing out of his pants into fresh ones as rivers do, when they are cruel, out of bounds. Father, there are heroes to correct photographs we faked for grief when we pass through the islands of the Hebrides, into the American thing, where mythic Greeks played murder more ordinary than marriage. How naive they were to think that bonds untied live afterward in the long gallery of sigh. 14 February 1993 23:41 Instant Photograph 10 Father, when you twitched, I shifted -- arms moved left, I cupped breasts for you; and you held my sex in your hands. Can I be in this performance more explicit? Can I arouse death? In the course of things, I was your mime; you wouldn't speak. My presence signified thrill within mine. Father, my breasts fed our son and us: You said, "How empty the waste and sunrise." You said that and what we painted was not random, spatter of pale thin milk on hands expressing spray and leaking breast as raku glazed -- the accident of fire. No, that is my Jesuit confession, Father, -- Here is diary, grocery lists, and art of our wine. I commend them as the lines fall, but not "too old". Father, in Hell, I give evidence of skin where I stopped, closed up; Mother pretended shock had her own private audience and when the furies, well, bitched that I should have strangled you, Father. I could have made our death rattle sigh. Nature did absolved Father; I fought back when you chattered guilty too long about what father, I asked? No, you can't truly know; Father, that's the pain of it. I cannot truly know unless I lived with you again. END (c)2003 Sean Farragher Finished 12 January 2003 -- Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated. +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ | alt.sex.stories.moderated ----- send stories to: | | FAQ: Moderator: | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ |Discuss this story and others in alt.sex.stories.d, look for subject {ASSD}| |Archive at Hosted by | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+