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From: "Sean Farragher" <seanfarragher@msn.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} Anniv-Party: FROM TxM6  The Philosophy of Murder ABEL and LILITH
Date: Fri, 10 Nov 2000 21:10:03 -0500
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ALSO FROM TxM6 HYPERFICTION
http://www.txm6.com 
http://www.txm6.com/enfer 
http://www.txm6.com/lcfallon
http://www.farragher.com  

TxM6 is entirely a work of fiction for adults only.
Copyright (c) 2000 Sean Farragher.

0569Xc Philosophy of Murder
TXM6: TAXI MURDERS SEXTET
RECORD OF ANTONIO J CORVINO:
THE MAN CALLED ABEL
THE PHILOSOPHY OF MURDER:

February 2, 1992

THE MURDER OF EMMA CAVANAUGH

I have killed no one, but my sister Lilith has. I am 
not a good witness to murder.

Give me the corpse and I will decorate her with sex. I 
will trail semen through her entrails and I will slide 
into her still warm cunt and leave my death inside. 

I will dream. I will fabricate it. I will make it real 
like the palisades when they fall down the cliffs. If 
it is not real, I will make it real. I will not suffer 
the imperfections. Look into my eyes. 

I am the electronic swarm of lights that turns with 
you to propel your life beyond the soft wait when 
extinction, the blessed orgasm holds you steady in 
succeeding dreams and ribald laughter. I love to tease 
and laugh. Do you know the pleasure that one smile can 
turn a mountain of a man into the great swift tempest 
that will bloom with you and make all love true time 
and time again.

The earth has a pleasant color in autumn. The blue 
blanket stretched across the center of the open field. 
The lake below invites our eyes to rest. I lean 
backward, close my eyes, and breathe deeply inside. 

I am centered above you as you feign sleep, resting 
under the soft touch of my fingertips weaving your 
hair. My hand rests at the warmth of your lips. Your 
mouth opens slightly, you reach skyward and my lips 
search press gently allowing my tongue to simply press 
slow between the open space where you explore the pace 
your heart. I pledge all my moments to raise them like 
silk. You are at the top of where you follow. Your 
hair was soft. Your skin warmer now, as you know 
urgency, as I lift you up, you follow. Your eyes want. 
Your body is taught, ready. Desire is the mirror 
between us. I am yours. Nipples are hard pressed 
against your blouse.

How I want to take them into my mouth? I want to ache 
your skin. I will make your innocent eyes wait 
anxiously for the dreams you dressed before you knew 
the passion a man can turn. It is like the lake turns 
when addressed by the wind in slow sheets the northern 
spurs are kicked up out of the gravel pit where you 
will be slaughtered my dear Emma.

2.
Before all that can begin, I will whisper, "do not be 
afraid, for I will protect you, make your pleasure 
rare, allow your spirit flight and keep your soul as a 
perfect sphere, and when you let go, I will catch you.

Do you believe my lies?

Imagine you are standing on a cliff, and I say let go. 
I am there. My arms are strong. And then you fall 
forever finally reaching the protected breath I have 
saved for your phoenix to rise and rise again and then 
a third time, and then a fourth, and you have 
finished-your heat released as an atom formed trust 
from the variables of time and space. I am your time. 
I will stop your orgasm.

3.
You pull me down and innocence turns blank scarlet and 
resting my arms on the earth I press into my search. 
Your blouse opens as a flower spreads its color on the 
morning fields. Your breasts rise as your back rises 
and I lift them clear, watching your mouth open and 
your eyes close like an endless movie loop magnified, 
contorted, out of control, scratched by fingernails. 
This is the charge. The child corrupts. The old man is 
not real. I am a false spirit. Emma was my target. 
Now, she is mine. I am not paranoid.

Emma is charm. Her arms brush against my loins. What 
is her intention? Aroused. Too much? 

I am broken from you. I am urgent, my prick likes a 
soft steel vise (no, that is your cunt) and I am iron 
rusted out of sex. Are you pleased Emma when you die 
falling back, breath lost, strangled, knowing the 
sweat from your body will cool and mine will heat 
another, and even your children will hear my voice, 
not as a spirit, if there are any, and then when I let 
go, and your heart has stopped against my ear, and my 
smile is not the dance, but the burn, and when I stand 
up, my emission, like the atomic spoils from Hiroshima 
kills for centuries. 

You loved my power, and I offered you a chance, but 
you pushed too far, pretending to enjoy my pain, 
taking it on, pushing back wanting to drown and come, 
you couldn't sustain the pitch and roll, and I let go 
making one final squeeze, and you were lost.

I covered your body kissed your neck a dozen tasteless 
crisp blue kisses as my two fingers pinched your 
nipples to wake your doldrums, but you did not stir, 
what can be done with death. 

You, of all of them, could have really lived, taken 
the throne with Lilith and loved her too. She has a 
sweet clit that stings back to women but not men a 
brief liquid, almost a cloud. I cannot find its root. 
She did it for me once when I dressed as a woman, and 
she strapped on a phallus to randy my buns. 

I didn't like it. Made my stomach turn, but I linger 
now as I fuck your dead ass, Emma, to know you cannot 
feel. Wish you could know the rage you pissed at me 
when catching my balls (as fun you said) you made me 
sick before I turned your neck inside out with the 
chains and cuffs, pulling down the hood as you 
silently, gasped (no voice above the round ball gag). 
I laughed.

My cock was comfortable in your hand, against your 
loins. My mouth lifted your clit. You are a dead wall 
now, frozen solid. Rigor has its fame with the turn of 
your stiff limbs to back of the saw, and your head 
lifted clear bleeds down my white smock until I scream 
like spanking your living skin as you danced faking 
life for a time under my control. 

We mixed well: Abel, Lilith, and Emma. 

I took you with your child's name stretched like a 
mural (you painted it) above your bed. 

Emma pulled at my shirt opening my nipples to Lilith's 
fingers; you pull my face down and I traced my tongue 
created the art of my mouth on your breast. I cover 
each nipple with the sliver of my mouth dreaming 
inside to teeth, natural bone, and the harp of your 
skull under the torn hair, ripped clean when you came 
from my fuck of your mouth and your suck of cock as a 
new page dressed right dressed, neat inside the spit 
and shine of penis, head clear, sap drawn, intense as 
the vacuum drawn out of household pleasure when you 
are twelve and you've discovered another way to murder 
your cock and make it bleed the clear broth and spunk 
of the sun you absorb, tan and golden like the twelve 
year daughter you would hold, or the child bride you 
convinced to fuck your ass with her fist as a rite of 
spring when you were thirteen and she was eleven. You 
live it now in Emma's heart.

Lilith laughs again in the background drawing the 
mouth of its envelope.  I am not a natural man you 
scream at Emma before pushing the bag overhead making 
her come before death. She let go. You went to far. 
Spoiled pleasure. Too soon, I came to soon, you scream 
at Lilith, who now pets your neck, opening her natural 
home to your complaint. Natural home. 

I breathe sex into Emma's lips. I want to enter her 
heat, and your body encircles the still pleasure that 
exits when death pressed together with joy strums a 
million dollar song again. Whisper love on the island 
of my spine. I pray that language, to the heat that is 
you. 

As I entered Emma, her drama pushed back. Do I repeat 
it? Make the scene come back and then again. Played 
video. No good. Not enough. Need her warm clammy skin 
as contraction stops, and then I tremble. Flight, 
that's what it was, possessed, taken as the swirling 
autumn beside the November stream where I fucked you 
last year. Imagining it. Never knew you in autumn. 
Only summer. Sweat or AC are cold; too cold for strict 
discipline, the writhe in the pleasures of refusal. 
You couldn't stop it. You liked the ache in your back. 
I saw it. I wanted you to hate, and you came to love 
the drama, and the terror my mouth sucked and not 
repelled. Drifting down the mountain. You will be 
reborn. I take your sex from your cave and freeze it 
as a spiritual game with out knowing the science or 
the outcome. 

The sunrise is redder than I can bear. Your legs 
entwined with mine, we woke slowly, and your breath 
rose faster took control, and suddenly when I reached 
the mouth (or your neck of the horizon) top of the 
horizon, you live, and I didn't squeeze too hard. 
There was control at last, and I didn't come, nor did 
you, and we are resting as the infinite edge in some 
great Chinese herbal garden with a great teacher 
singing as the pigeons swirl out of the eye of 
cornucopia. We were alive, and there was my planet in 
descent and the blood as abnormal high pressure 
resting at the ridge. 

3. I ENTER YOUR PAGE (ACT II. scene IV)
The play is at center ice. No blue line. No red lines. 
Passion knows its borders. No kicks. I love the 
beating the back and kissing the skin. The play is 
drawn out of control. Thin like vacuums tube glass.

Actors are folded like stratigraphy. I paint Emma as a 
gentle skin and no flesh. She is a balloon. Better, 
she is a man sized rubber play doll. They become 
refuge.

I do not stop to count the layers. You open each 
petal, and announce the names of the colors with 
enthusiastic restraint. There are at least ten more 
shades of pink and four shades of crimson. 

I wait for blood. Emma had lost her face. I didn't see 
the glisten that spooked my eyes as she relaxed too 
soon. Hold back, I screamed. Tree trunks never speak. 
Emma didn't speak. I want to count her marigolds and 
mums. Autumn will never happen again I warn her. She 
lets go. I don't want her to fall. Stop, I pressure 
the throat. Fall apart. Breathe and you will accept my 
demons. 

Emma, come back with me, I drag her deadly perfect as 
murder from our frozen prison bed. The mums were 
startled when she screamed, and they asked for your 
belly, and I poured them aloud down your breast to 
your cunt. Open your pestle to grind bones from 
memory. Clean the ovary as the bowl drains into the 
sink. Strip the testicle of the sun. Make the stamen 
breathe as each leaf pearls back and then taut, 
springs forward like a driven loop out of control. 

Each sex object has its own flame, and in the 
multiplication of Caine (my lovely other self) 
multiplied with that freak, the Gadfly, what remained 
of Caine's (no my conscience). I grieve for what I 
lose too soon.

Flowers and birds rehearse with each mate. I am alone. 
Lilith asleep. There is a limited victory. 

Emma stirs. No death. No pulp. Her hand moved up my 
legs and takes my cock within the shear heart of a 
breath. I dissolve when I come into my hand. Emma's 
belly is not wet. My hand is not full. The flowers are 
dirty. I loved them like the first brush of a hand 
across my sex when I was six (I remember it). I 
understand it happened before and before. I know it. I 
felt the brush of her hand. It made it stiff like a 
spike and when she swallowed, I did what she said, and 
afterwards, I did what I needed to keep it all on the 
page, out of control like a race car missing the last 
mile, lost in the garage, the sky had rained too hard, 
and the spin out of control, off by an instant had 
crushed her wind pipe and I bled to death with her. 
No, not actually. As a dream I did. I bled with her 
melody like all birds rehearse the end before the 
beginning as if fate can somehow listen before and not 
after its over. Emma is not dead. You fill in the 
blanks, my friendly selves. The Gadfly laughs. Cain is 
shaken. He loved her, and when she saw Caine in my 
face that first time, he was lost. Felt the pang of 
disloyalty. 

The Gadfly mocks us. I know how to kill beasts and 
insects. Must get them out of the page. No parts in 
the movie. Nothing at all? 

"Fuck you Gadfly, without you, Caine is death."

Where are my soldiers? Jimmy's asleep. Caine is a has-
been. The HeShe, and I love him too, takes it up the 
ass with Lilith driving the spike into his heart. 
Where are the spirits? Where is my love, Faith? 
Please, love don't escape now when it's just getting 
good.

Faith, do it, brush your mouth against my nipple. Let 
me feel your hair on my chest. I like the short space 
of your invisible eye that haunts when I step up to 
the plate like a killer and get it done. Cheer, Faith, 
you love it. Now fuck me. No, you won't. Never. You 
are here to taunt. No trust. Take me back to 
childhood. I was there you know on that terrible day 
when you lost your skin and fear crumpled around your 
legs when you bled too loud. Nine is too young. No, 
you think I care. Glad it happened. Wish I had been 
there. I would have helped. No, you're right. You are 
the spirit, and the only vampire left alive. All are 
dead. Come to my bed and suckle my blood again, and we 
will make the flowers scream when they come. The bees 
of course do sting. Emma is dead and all the fucken 
fellows I know including the Gadfly are away on 
vacation. It will be just my spirit and you Faith as 
the ultimate spirit.

Suck it when I come and after. Let me do you now, OK. 
Faith, where are you? No, not today. I don't believe 
in you that's right. Emma believed and I murdered her. 
That's what I pray. Accept my hand. Please Faith. Who 
is the spirit, she calls? What is Chrissy? Lithe 
Christ child is Immaculate Conception. 

Please don't stop the purl of your pleasure as your 
short hair and broken tooth are more beauty than the 
sun on Galway Bay. You love fake, visual signs. I love 
all the flowers and all the natural items that 
rehearse while I practice death in your mouth, dear 
Faith. You are not flesh like skin. I am victory as 
the pressure of where you are at the moment when Emma 
died or didn't die. I want the brush of murder against 
your lungs. Breathe them out and transpire like the 
ghost we all can name when we fuck from the visceral 
stem where the brain of the rodent and mind of crab 
simulate the human condition like flowers rehearse my 
play as falling petals like a deadly blizzard of snow, 
finally melted and muddy, lost in the crease of my ass 
when you push one finger and then two into the crack 
of the earth when we all live for the ache and the 
discomfort. More than a twinge of belly sick sex. More 
than the gasp of life or death as Emma hanging from 
the cross wakes up and turns Abel to stone with Spirit 
of Faith as she faking her orgasm sucks the blood from 
his neck, and at the moment before death, Abel stirs, 
and Faith quits, laughing holding Emma's hand.

Emma turns to Faith (just a cloud now). Let's get the 
one that did you. OK. I'll help. 

Faith looked up at Emma. Too late, we did him last 
year remember. Didn't you feel the trace of his 
fingertips across the inside of your quiver? He was 
there too. No matter. Abel will be back. Don't worry.

"No, he can't", Emma pulling her hands and arms into 
her sides fell stiff like a straight cloud. 

"Do you want to live," Faith opened Emma up by the 
brush of her mouth on tips of Emma's fingers then 
breast. Sucking the milk, she slept, too content to 
answer Emma, adding an almost final period, warning 
Emma to accept Abel. He was I, you, really all the 
atoms left are parents like us.

"Fuck you too," Emma disappointed, closed up like a 
deadly rose.

"I love you," Emma. "You'll learn. Just feel the thorn 
as it tears the skin and mixes its sap with your pain. 
Don't make any changes. You can't, you see. Pain is. 
Right!

"Yes, I do. My mouth is warm with come.

"No, that's the blood I gave you forever. 

"What the difference"?

"There is none."

"CHRISSY. CHRISSY." 

Emma called her name. Child of the Spirit Gabriella. 
Here is your new life. 

Emma wants revenge?

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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