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Subject: {ASSM} from TxM6: Sexual Maps By Angela and Henry
Date: Thu, 19 Oct 2000 14:10:12 -0400
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0915XMapHumanSpiritAaron
Also From TxM6 Hyperfiction
http://www.txm6.com (updated 10/10/00)
http://www.txm6.com/enfer (updated 10/12/00)
http://www.txm6.com/lcfallon
http://www.farragher.com (Poetry updated 10/10/00)
TxM6 is entirely a work of fiction for adults only.
Copyright (c) 2000 Sean Farragher.
MAP OF THE HUMAN SPIRIT Part 6.
Used to be Alive: The Larger Map
JOURNALS OF HENRY AND ANGELA: MAPS
HENRY ON THE TAXI STAND:
Assemble the redundant microscopes and darken the
lights. Madison Square garden is open, and the Grand
Canyon is closed. The geology of movies like the chart
of earthquakes is the map of maps. The union of the
earth and the mirage of the soul dangle, mixed,
abruptly exposed on Sixty Minutes or Nightline. We
produce what we map. Replicate the key, and then
search for the last smile.
"Watch TV, Aaron," Henry said.
Angela sucked my nipple while I imagined her breast
filled with skill shivered as I undressed the
idealized map on Main Street in full sight of comical
police and lackadaisical pedestrians gathering the
fake maps as C notes or free sex at the A&P.
Suddenly, the ice cream wagon strikes the curb and
all the kids everywhere and in a wilding, mark death,
appreciate suffering, or darken their skin to pretend
prejudice and torment. We are those sexual children.
We renewed the path, resume the past. The change in
directions takes us slightly to the left or right,
inside or outside. Plot the key. Chart each scale
to assist replication. Mark the key in red;
direct the imagination beyond obstacles to congruence.
Can repeating the past help our distortion.
What about redemption and repentance? Who marks the
spaces with commas and nothing else. Can the map
be replicated?
Angela draws down on Aaron's nipple suckles it like
she imagines a true infant might. It is what she feels
when a man nurses, and she admits it is different than
and infant making my let down hit.
ANGELA FUCKING HER BOYS, AS SHE CALLS HENRY AND AARON
My children, I come from the let down. When a man does it,
I need more than oral stimulation. Perhaps it is the
presence of all those teeth, as I want a bit of what
yes, I know I am digressing. You were saying about maps.
HENRY DRIVING HIS CAB TALKING TO ANY FARE:
This darling toy, great CAD corrects all dimensions. Why
repeat what we discover. What a list: dead ends,
cul-de-sac, traffic U turn around, three point reversals;
all in all, we devise molds to protect what was
devastated. Who knows the names of a million saints?
Write them before I forget. Recite mine and I will
sing yours. Alphabet by alphabet, we assemble circus,
ride the deathly black angelic carousel. The dance, as
choreographed, was wrong, Henry said. There's no
pleasure. Turing his Taxi, Aaron said that. I didn't.
I release him, and pass into the underground garage
constructed from skin, ears, pieces of an ancient
Buddha's moss. Green leans north. A map to stain my
walk about with invisible ink. This is the design, the
order, Henry said. I settled like history, unopened
for future shocks; my dependable memory dries silver
on our tongues. Here underneath the earth, settled in
my grave, Marie's sad dead face fills the bare seat
with luggage and two half dressed woman. The man from
before placed them there as chattel. Marie covered
them, warmed them, and then the voice, large suit,
colder still, directed me to Long Island where the
husband waited to pay the fare again.
No one forgets money or murder or the seminal war we
collect as children or men on an easy walk about in
the lurid sun. We presume love, and religion, as
artifact, maps as statues, immobile, dangerous,
thoughtful, and decadent leave us for what some call
an imaginary flurry. We degenerates: artist and make
believe poets done too easy, left too soft on the
corner: disposal carries risk. Another day. Looking at
concrete and steel: cities and waste. Maps are, as I
have said, individuals and not to be photographed
without mutual consent. Would the colors, print or
language we choose affect the indelible arrangement of
crossing lines. Here, let me show you. Draw me another
rough map of the Fort Lee taxi stand. Imagine the cars
are parked facing east and not west.
ANGELA:
See where I am born every day my glorious fingers and you
my men and women. Laurie I love you. I don't have to tell
you my sister about our cunt. Men, that is my cunt.
Let me open it for you and show you all the parts.
Here is my clit, tickler, and the hood that covers it.
When I push it back into my body I release it.
It is an opposite to push back as you think I should pull
forward like jerking off a cock. As the clitoris winds down
into all my nerves, and is very much the sexual part you had,
any men out there, before your cell differentiates into male
and female. You were first a cunt, Mr. Don't you wish you had
one too. I want a real cock, someday science will give any
human one, one of the other, both, something new, or perhaps
for some nothing. Some want nothing. Any of you want nothing.
I want to make this map of my cunt as detailed as your eyes
watching me play with all its parts, as I rub in circles
on the left side, usually while you suck my nipples letting
your tongue find the map of my tit, letting your feet curl
and not your fingers as an infant as you make my back stiff,
and then lurch when I come. A map of orgasm.
That will come in the future. I love to laugh at myself.
I am smiling now at that thought.
ABOUT MAPS HENRY CONTINUES WITH CAB FARE:
When you draw the map. See, you change the streets.
When you cross the lines you alter the physical
dimensions of the streets as question. And what about
murder and Nam, how would you change that map. Make
them invisible or bolder, more apparently appalling,
something like that.
HENRY SPEAKS TO AN OLD GIRLFRIEND WHO LIVED ON
FIFTH STREET BETWEEN C AND D IN WHAT IS NOW
CALLED ALPHABET CITY in 1965
Lane Perdue, where are you. Find me. I want to thank
you for the memory of the first hippie in the universe.
You said soldiers are a necessary kingdom. Thanks.
Yippee. I know. Be myself. Find Henry.
OK. Can I put your name on a post card and mail you
everywhere in America?
Lane, we are the maps.
ANGELA:
Lane, I want you too. Henry cannot stop thinking about
you. You dominate his memory. Come I have a breast for
you as well.
HENRY:
Maps are the insight and the memory of what we were but
can never resume. Laurie is my map now, and she is gone.
Angela sucks my cock right now, and I imagine Laurie.
They loved to do it together as the three and four of us
when Aaron was in the mood moved mountains. Yes, maps
again.
--
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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