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From: "Sean Farragher" <sfarragher@nj.rr.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} TxM6: Taxi Murders the Novel Chapter 100 Poem of Incest
Date: Sat,  8 Feb 2003 20:10:04 -0500
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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

<I>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. </I>



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

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