Message-ID: <43120asstr$1056852602@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 X-MIMEOLE: Produced By Microsoft MimeOLE V6.00.2800.1165 Importance: Normal X-ASSTR-Original-Date: Sat, 28 Jun 2003 18:14:01 -0400 Subject: {ASSM} TxM6: Taxi WalkAbouts -- Taxi Murders Date: Sat, 28 Jun 2003 22:10:02 -0400 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: dennyw, hecate Taxi Walkabouts -- Taxi Murders --- Adult Language and Themes With Eddie Meyers and Henry Whitman (c) 2003 Sean Farragher from Taxi Murders January 1988 In 1609, Heinrich Hutson and his mate John Colman set sail on goodly ship far away the pristine cataract where blind sand and Simple Ocean parted as one age passed by its nature to another. Taxi Murders begins with the Hudson River and ends with the death of Laurie Fallon's father. It starts in the year of the Snake and ends on September 11, 2001. ------------------------------------------------------- I pass time on the taxi stand. It is Chinese New Year and I live again the Tet offensive of 30 January 1968. I laugh when I learn it is the year of the snake again. As I half sleep, some dog whaps whaps his tail on my cab door. Cocks crow. I am hungry. I am horny. It is almost three AM and I am sleeping on the stand. In my dream dream I fight gooks while milk leaks my mother's breasts while I suck like my mouth was part of her chest. Mother loved her son beaucoup, and while he sucked she fingered his little cock and rubbed it against her hands and belly. I saw this a lot in Nam. He squealed as she caressed him. She sucked too imitating the motion of his mouth while her breasts leaked on my pillow. I am not lying when I say I felt the let down and that I had her tits. Here I am, one blessed night waiting for the black traffic lights to automatically change my daily year closer to millennium: its one step past twelve and thy will be done. Midnight is gone. Herein, instants opened, and then close. Yesterday, I pitched quarters beyond equator and that partial eclipse of the sun kept me up in a terrifying dream. All things that happen as I dream are foreign images but remnants of my ritual memory. I cannot enjoy sleep without wishing I was taken away from the shoreline and a sea bird high up the steps of the clouds. For years I had the same dream. I found myself in the shadows of the gray lights and an ordinary spectacle. I am never like anyone else. I hated to be just routine. I would not accept any assignment unless I could be a hero. I was stupid. I realize that Eddie Meyers lives inside and we are not dead. I can still kill him. Can we live and not live? Can we be aware and not realize that the dream is real, a drama collected by Nam flashbacks for the historical museums. Forget physics. All speculations in mind or about mind are delusional. Forget Marine or Army grunts. Forget nasty allusions to and four mast romantic sailing ships that caressed the flood of the North River as shit bubbling stern exits in the Bay as slippery and undulant waves foam out far from the view of the GW Bridge and its ten miles away on the edges of Staten Island and the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge. Compared the them we are barely a speck of a spectacle. I love how the World Trade Center bangs its own face on the horizon as I pass with the ghosts of some dead fools kissing the dead girls as she slides down his legs. Enough of this impersonal list of fragments cut like paper dolls from cheap books. I can drive the cab too slow, and too fast. I know the divided traffic lanes. I speak when my taxis forced the ancient truck through unopened doors. When lanes switch without notice I somehow find the best path, yet I hate all change. Crash! No place to change course and small sanctuary until my yellow cabs exited off through the tunnels into the gray lane of New York and London, suddenly merged in a Technicolor dream, lost in mornings after midnight when the taxis rolled out fiery as material sun ray clouds. Does this dream of death reflect my ass, or am I too high in the cab, stoned as a great sun wheel and broken down in Apache Sand paintings drunken sot. Jackson Pollack stole sun paintings and became famous with gesture drawings. Dear Jackson, you killed many a girl with his dear automobile. I loved Pollack's paintings, and I tried to imagine the horror of his face cracking the windshield and his chest crushed by the rough tree bark. He was a great painter no doubt, if you believe the mysterious books where he wrote it down: that recipe for fame where being part of the process of that spray of color mimics the whole body as a brush. He was so intensely a part of the color when he was not painting he had to be insane and drunk. He became a killer and was punished. What is the Ancient Game of Chance? Can we reverse time? Do sailing ships spit over their bows at flood. Suddenly, the ancient wooden ships drip their yellow main sails and transform into steel frames and then glass stretched on a bare thin canvas haze. Turner would not recognize the ocean or the clouds. He would hate Pollack. Easy does it Mate, I said as I drove my taxi to madness with some babe sucking cock like Mama did. Here is a list of slogans. "No fucking in the Garden of Eden; Stand by Jerusalem First; Be a good Jew." Eddie and I shouted them all as one body and as a separate force. One year we made the pilgrimage to the black Marble at DC Vietnam Memorial. I loved the ones I as a medic had bagged. I carry their stench with my own shit cans lined up like great reefs of flies and bugs and miracles that ooze from your ass. In Nam, I remember Eddie fucked this kid whore; she felt his spit as I did. As we rutted she screamed and told him to make her come, but it hurt, -- He stuck his steel rod 45 up her twat as she tightened knowing if she didn't he would beat her face in peach pulp. He would make her lips fat to kiss his glan and lick the underside while he closed his eyes and squealed at her not to fucken stop. He did this half drunk. We did it sober. She hated when Eddie was drunk, because the girl ho knew when he was sloppy with mescal his cock would flop soft, and she would have to suck it soft until putting fingers in his ass she gave him a soft come. She told him in broken English that she loved his soft cock oozing fluid. She didn't know what the spit he made was called until he told her, and then later that month, six months later after that, pregnant and fat, she told him that his kid would grow up stupid because she is stupid. Eddie Meyers laughed easily, and I heard this myself, that she was beautiful and not stupid at all. She believed him. He believed her, and when she three weeks past her eighteenth birthday (if you believed her) telling everyone that he only wanted to help his hooch girl, and it was not his kid; he simply crawled in the waiting room sofa and slept while she gave birth to a magnificent girl. When she heard the word "girl" she cried out of fear for the child. No, it would have been worse had it been a boy. Can I dream again and live I asked in my walkabout, or is death too soft when I hide in some dead women's skin, covered in varnish as if necrophilia were a status symbol for old dead grunts carrying home NAM ten years after dying humping the last hill before their tour was up. Smoking and laughing jabbing the air, ten thousand violent taxi drivers lean against cab fender and gaze beyond the arch of aluminum bridges, and take in their mouth the great neon spirit tit and expire. Who can love anyone when nothing we do changes our lives. Eddie knew that was not completely true. I did as well. Am I still Eddie, or am I dead? ### http://www.seanfarragher.com/taximurdersbook (c) 2003 Sean Farragher Sean Farragher Ridgefield Park, NJ 07660 201-248-2688 Poetry Web Site of Sean Farragher http://www.seanfarragher.com/ To unsubscribe from this group, send an email to: eroticdementia-unsubscribe@yahoogroups.com Your use of Yahoo! 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