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Message-ID: <43118asstr$1056849005@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: "Sean Farragher" <sfarragher@nj.rr.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} TxM6  Books of Joss
Date: Sat, 28 Jun 2003 21:10:05 -0400
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Pandora's Box Sweet Sex

Open the box. Set it free. Mark it in illusions
I run to the back of the wall and fall down recumbent.
I cannot feel my hands. There is no sensation.
Oh, swim with me unto the edges of the cataract
of the Nile. That Great River is blood and muck filled
history run through the dying score of win and lose
I cannot find the place where I can stop to watch it
happen over and over again. I whistle. You mock. I eat
raspberries with white cream that floods like mammary
milk in its blue echo. I fear terror, do not want to die
too soon. There are undulating plates from the past
of the earth driving my skin into its flat, dead at least cold
memory of what I once fabricated by the deft imagination.
I can only dream in the after colors of murder. I kept
him alive but finished him off when he begged for survival.
I hate weak living gods. I hate the edges of the last trails
where I shudder as I masturbate on the edge of the moon.
I love the chalk white yellowed skin of the moon dust
and the festival began before the Lunar Lander found its home
within the dirty rocks and the historical rant of man
walking on the moon in some fateful precise steps 
as if dancing were enough to placate the spirits 
who now feel our intrusion and the sacrilege
of counting the skin of the moon as human triumph.

I love sex in the early morning. I love to suck fruit
from her bowl, and open the pits, and collect the ribbons
from her hair simply falling down her neck like water
does when you can hear the warp of the waves
and the terrible calm of watching the earth die one more time --
No matter what we did, we failed. No matter how hard
we tried to make chocolate raspberry sauce, it was bitter.

Bitter is the end game.
I cannot measure speech when you forget your first gene.
It keeps you in pace and lets everyone know you are ordinary
when in point of release, you are the memory of her dying
and the orgasm has only to drift again out of my hands
and be found in my mouth as I swallow the chalk
marked on the graves to keep them separate
that way we can all know who died and who lived again.

It is important to know the names of the survivors.
I do, and I feel them, as their breasts simply push
against my hands while I fuck the river Soup.





Sean Farragher
Ridgefield Park, NJ  07660
201-248-2688
Poetry Web Site of Sean Farragher
http://www.seanfarragher.com/

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