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Subject: {ASSM} from TxM6 Forced Dream Journal VI Laurie as Christ herself
Date: Wed, 16 Aug 2000 16:10:13 -0400
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From TxM6 Taxi Murders Sextet Hyperfiction Novel
http://www.taximurders.com/ (updated August 13, 2000)
1037XLaurieasChrist
KIDNAPPED: Forced Dream Journal
June 19, 1992 (three days post partum)
Forced Dream Journal VI
Laurie Fallon is Christ Herself:
(some pathetic day in June again)
I heard them say they loved June. Maybe it was another.
Who the fuck knows. I had her hands on my breasts all night.
She wants my milk. I will give it to her. So easy to satisfy
a feeding frenzy. Yes, I know they wanted to murder shadows.
I could handle the flesh being lost to shit. I could not
handle losing my shadows or my passionate need for being
fucked inhuman. I was a great gift to them. I made their
possession my own property by that reversal.
Must be Monday, I want the traffic inside my skin. I cannot
bear the man to see my face. He looks at my eyes and I feel
death, as some extreme. He seems so kind. Type dutifully,
recording my impressions, and he pats me on the ass, or
touches my face, sometimes reaching around my back and
fondling my tits. I love it. I hate that I love it. He is so
calm; I forget that I am his captive. Abel spoke like an
echoic child, said Sheila, and I repeated, Sheila, and then
to Lilith my retort did not vary, mocking victim and terror
what had been said. Who is Sheila they laughed. You are
Laurie and there is no one else. I stopped, felt the pressure
inside my vaults collapse as cloth and ether made me shift in
time until my days were lost, beyond it all. I woke naked,
hooded, shackled, prone, open, hurting, alone, as hands
taunted my breasts and cunt. Four hands. Two people exploring
apertures and summits, rubbing my tits with oil, sucking the
textured brown skin, and teasing textures of dreams we have
paraded. Able moved me distant like a house or a buggy, and I
heard the sand shift underneath the wave. Lilith helped Abel
release my legs and I kicked bloody, hoping to clip a face or
crack teeth. Something must be done, I thought or dreamed.
Looked away, and that cold played easily, I swam upward, out
of a funnel, in the dark, photographer's room or closet:
paint against the ceiling. My Aaron or Michelangelo
Buonarroti's fresco. Plaster and paint fucking in clay like
Eve or Adam made from Lilith or that true God. I was the
model for Christ not her fucken mother. God, so he identified
herself underneath the titter of the stings and barbs. He
directed me to pose naked as communion in the extreme broken
down, my Coochie open. I was Christ as the mother lifted my
frail veil's apart for seduction of brides. My hands were
cold, and the finger tips shimmered, shining with clear
polish; my nails long dug ass blue and red foul scars
gleaming stark bronze lip gloss. I shine like the white
halter invisible against my mature breasts, or the cloth
stuffed into my bra, cunny, against my gender defined fat
crazy dance, strutting as the risen mound under cotton
underpants, naked outside, with pubic curls, twisted,
dropping down, six inches of purple silk., Wounded with a
thick rope, much more than a tampon, almost like the
hangman's sky attached it seemed led me to trap door where
the season swing from the loop. Inside his deadly room, I was
always undressed. Fully naked (which meant I had no
illusions), and protection, what clothing shifts, as a wasted
artifact: Turned inside out, my interior as blood and spoils.
Imagine the internal silvery lining of a latex condom,
aluminum package flickers in the bathroom light. Blood on the
floor. Danger in the mouth; semen tastes like salt and viral
spirochetes, an alluvium, semen water river, a soil for dying
some time alone on the back of the alley under the mushrooms,
without decay, just wasting away illness, as the speed of
light closed beyond the chart, and its now 1975 (hopefully
before AIDS had an announcement). Time, birth is, of course,
one darling myth like knowing the origin of new life, even
the genesis of a probably always fatal monkey humanoid AIDS
caused by the retro-virus, HTLV-III. Bottom line: taste of
come.
More American Adventures in erotica and other works by Sean Farragher:
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Sean_Farragher/
Sean Farragher
Poetry Site: http://www.farragher.com (updated 8/13/2000)
TxM6 Sites:
http://www.taximurders.com
http://www.taximurders.com/enfer
http://www.taximurders.com/lcfallon
--
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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