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From: "Sean Farragher" <sfarragher@nj.rr.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} TxM6: Taxi Murders the Novel   Chapter 108     Blow Jobs
Date: Sat, 22 Feb 2003 01:10:06 -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 1-110 are available at my site.
Updates will be posted at least weekly.


Thanks,
Sean


http://www.seanfarragher.com/taximurdersbook
Taxi Murders the Novel -- Chapter 108  Blow Jobs
(c) 2003 Sean Farragher
sfarragher@nj.rr.com


http://www.seanfarragher.com
http://www.seanfarragher.com/Joss
http://www.seanfarragher.com/taximurdersbook


Chapter 108

Tuesday, July 21, 1981
Day in the lives of Eddie Meyers

Taxi Cab Walkabout by Henry Whitman

Eddie Meyers lived inside the Ghost Bridge Over Great River, Called Hudson.
He fed there and he fucked in old cars arranged like traps in a junkyard.
He squatted there peeing and shouted to the girl sleeping in the back seat.
Her tits were bare. She was a child but a woman he said. Fourteen is a good
age he claimed, and I watched him one night as I dispatched taxis. I
watched him fuck her and she on his lap banged his back cursing in Spanish.
I love being that voyeur.

Taking a shit, later, she sat excreted progeny with the odor of pine
ranging like an old stew reheated. I felt the framed house sway. No roof
there yet, and Eddie the girl Lois, he called her slept in one corner of a
room. No outer of inner walls protected their groping or the way she sucked
his cock obviously fingering his ass, as he shouted directions.

Eddie told me he loved the heat of the wood and the bellies of women held
him up like a dying boy dried on the cement walks of the bridge as you
crossed it riding the sway of the catenary's.

Eddie was complicated as I observed him from inside the bubbles of dreams.



Monday, August 3, 1981

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.

Just passing time on the taxi stand. Another Chinese New Year: Is it the
Year of the Snake?

No, the dog whaps whaps his tail. The cockcrows.

Mother leaks milk down her chest while her son sucks like his mouth was
part of her chest. Mother loved her son, and while he sucked she fingered
his little cock and rubbed it against her hands and belly. He squealed as
she abused him. She sucked imitating the motion of his mouth while her
breasts leaked on the pillow.

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 closed. I pitched quarters beyond equator
and that partial eclipse of the sun kept me up in a foreign dream. All
things that happen once are foreign. I cannot enjoy sleep without wishing I
was taken away from the shoreline and a sea bird high up the steps of the
clouds I found the shadows of the gray lights an ordinary spectacle.

Eddie is not dead yet. Can he live and not live, be and not be aware of the
drama collected by Nam flashbacks. Forget physics. All speculations in the
mind are delusional.

Forget Marine or Army grunts. Forget nasty allusions to and later quartet
mast sailing ships 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 barely a spectacle.

I love how the World Trade Center bangs its own face on the horizon as I
pass with ghosts of Eddie Meyers kissing the girls he slides down his legs.

Enough of this impersonal list of fragments cut like paper dolls from cheap
books. Driving the cab too slow, too fast, I know the divided traffic lane
spoke when my taxis forced the ancient truck through unopened doors.

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 into 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.

Dear Jackson Pollack killed many a girl with his dear automobile. He was a
great painter no doubt, and a greater man, 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 that 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.

That Ancient Game of Chance: the Sailing ship spit over its bow at flood
Here the ancient wooden ships dipped yellow main sails and easily covered
steel frames and glass with a bare thin canvas haze.

Can we reverse time, or did we? Easy does it Mate, he said as he drove his
taxi to madness with the little girl sucking his cock like his mama did.

No fucking in the Garden of Eden. Stand by Jerusalem First. Be a good Jew.

We will carry the lights to instant photographs of all the dear names
etched in Black Marble at DC Vietnam Memorial.

I loved the ones I 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
or as he fucked her there, she felt his spit, and then as he rutted she
screamed and told him to make her come, but it hurt like burning quarts, --
that steel rod stuck 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 only half drunk, because she 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
never told him in English that she loved his soft cock oozing semen and
seminal 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 told her 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 fifteenth birthday telling everyone that he
only wanted to help the 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, covering in the dream, as if
necrophilia were a status symbol for old dead grunts carrying home 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.

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