Posted from Taxi Murders Sextet Hyperfiction (c) 2000 Sean Farragher. All Rights Reserved. Comments are desired, welcome, and helpful. Please reply to: seanfarragher@msn.com Full site at: http://www.taximurders.com New Site (4-23-00) http://www.taximurders.com/enfer (very dark) New Site (4-23-00) http://www.taximurders.com/lcfallon (incest poem) Erotic Prose-Poem. By Sean Farragher First Instance: When blue eyed, pale white Jade paced the floor, dressed in a diaphanous, pale pink silken gown that hugged her breasts, nipples revealed through the sheen, her pubic hair, and a great arch, exposed as she walked glistening towards the three month old infant daughter I held in my arms, suddenly stopped, her legs parted, and cleanly open, her sex pulled my hand to her legs, opening what was already open, as Jade watched my eyes, as they wanted her, and she needing to nurse us. Suddenly, pulling the silk bodice down, as the sheen, great water, floating like a cloud when the bump of the fabric snapped down, revealing swollen breasts as she pulled Megan to nurse, as our daughter struggled only for a second to suck, everything was warm; rocks, rivers, flesh, and spirit, incipient; the wind, loose, undirected. There was no boundary as my finger teased her sex while she nursed, Jade's legs open, and weak, falling backward, as the spoon, I held her while the milk leaked for a second, chest rising and falling, as Jade looking back, stopped, the young child's face falling away, nursing, throwing her head back to sense what my fingers exposed. Pulling the child back, insistent, nursing again, as the well opened, and her breathing increased, as mine, pushing my cock against her ass, nestled there, pressing easy, not too hard, allowing me to enter her sex from the rear as she continued some great race out of bounds like an ocean wave, unpredictable, a powerful curl, as a swish downward. Jade was born washing ocean by ocean. She revealed secret weather. Unpredictable as a storm, paused for the calm, she possessed Holy Mother. There was no holy grail but the proffered breast, Mother God explained to Jade. Notice, how my lips fold vagina bred for a cup. It was a test of modern rivers, Jade finished. Jade lived when the morning glory, white and flesh, plump and stark, opened naked, revealed stamen; notes dressed as floral score. She stepped forward, took her chances. Perhaps the parachute could open, Jade spoke, before descending to the earth. My life had no dusk to keep as a border for my unrecorded gender. Watch, my musical games, Jade paused. (There is an ache when the bassoon drives dark and hot into the bottom of my river.) Jade presumed speech within the flood: fabricated margins here and then. The balance, more than Houdini's magic, was beyond orgasm, greater than faith. I cannot straighten my edges, Jade repeated several times. No one listened. The air, no definite wall, faked the breach of ears. What more can you ask? What play of words do you prefer, Jade questioned? Let me know what I can do. II. Second Instance: June 16, 1904 (reference to Ulysses, Novel by James Joyce) Molly Bloom, my Jade, Jade, removed her impeccable pink blouse, placed her nipples, urgent, against my large, gentle hands. Molly on top, fucking, milk and semen splattered over belly, and the cells grew; organs aged, more than drunk; each breast, when Molly came, sprayed milk as she fucked where petals shuddered limp. Again, Molly slowly half closed her blouse, and settled in her white textured chair. My large head pressed; fingers gentled hair; blue eyes as grace, blond hair possessed in simple mirror. I swallowed slowly, carefully, my mouth overflowed. My chin resistant. Her fingers played with my lips, and I watched her hardened nipple shine, a simple flesh and scarlet river running down like vines. I once fucked Jade while she nursed our infant daughter, she looked backward, turned her lips, breathed my cock as spray. I was pleased she came, dressed with her breasts and the satin sleep of her child who, afterwards, rested beside our bed. Open, assuaged, when Molly let down, sucking at my dry nipple, crating my heart, as the well; her breast, a tear of milk drained against my cheek. Afterwards, milk was a primary reflex; lips welcomed; open hands clasped, and then assumed, above or below the penultimate chase. Eyes closed. Mouth, almost a deep mask, intent, was neither smile nor frown. It was more than a primordial water, stricken as grace. The release passed carefully on the beach. Meditation shaded the sensual flood; made gravity, each passionate, epithet, yes a wild fucking dirty, obscene curse still. That is the voice of fucking, she said. It's the grunt and wonderful dirt that flows as we take what the skin holds pressing the urge, as a patient stare. Third Instance My Dear Jade: I am immutable. You are blessed when your blind spasm pulled off the dark. More than rust, or a sheen on a silky pink gown, you are broken and smooth, woven and fit. Lust was, is a decoration- a bounty of white and silver flowers, marked by a vase; a violet ribbon struck, sadistic, ran through your mouth. Jade, my dear white storm-No noise, but the vacuum of dim assumptions. I have forgotten them all. Yes, you said, as Nora Barnacle said to Joyce before the sigh deciphered later as Molly's disaffected offering. What do any of us want, Molly Bloom asked, and Jade answered? James Joyce wandered the Dublin wound from Paris or was it Troy or Charlotte? Am I, Sean. no harm as need and patience? What can I strike as Hector? No, Achilles? Leopold Bloom possessed? Stephen comforted. Sean delighted. Yes, I say, yes, Jade; you are serene. Jade is pale, invisible (as I am), and my exposed hands dances her alive, as a return from a great death, or our translucent past, and then transposed, this instant, much later, for another place where we stretch undying. Each laugh echoes, as a charm marked in sand, asleep on the beach, waking in the morning, sand in our toes, rustled to the warm air, pushed together by what we ache to speak, as I turned, she pressed against my mouth, and lifting my leg over hers, gently as a the transposed heat of a wave, the hidden curl, as I strike, heating the core, as white Jade melts, opening herself, pulls my single word with her hand, insistent, as If I am resisting (I am not). As a hot mouth, Jade closes as I kiss each of her ears, entering, not a swoon, as the deep cleft of her full round breasts flat against my cheek, and I was at home, drowning, reaching up to her eye, reversed my mouth, paused as her well, my lips nibbled her clit, stirring each side, climbing the miniature mountain, reaching the crest with the tip of my tongue, a bare cup from the wave, as the curl of my taste, as Jade pauses, arches, trembles, slows, rises again, pressing her hands in the sand, compressed, the thousand grains, each of her thighs taut, breathless, waiting, and then the swoon, a release, as my face, taking hold of her sweat from lubricated lips, spasm, pause, and then again, her mouth shut tight, eyes closed, face twisted, intent, as a ecstatic mask and then another instant, shudder, spasm, pause, and as my tongue pushed against her clit, still stiff, pressed her sex against my whole mouth, my tongue reaching deep as it pushed inside her cunny, as the final rush, as a groan, screamed across the sand, turning quickly I rise on her belly, quickly slip my cock into her open, mouth and when I come, quickly, so I can finish, while Jade's orgasms continue, as a warm life to enclose, and then released, in the afterthought, as we rustle silence, and then slowly speak, filling her, as I am floating within the taste of her flower, nothing will alter my taste, as I kiss, the arch of her lips, pausing, and then asleep, entwined, watching her legs move as a dream, and reaching down to feel her wet hairs, and the soft lips, and the nectar, slowly drying on her thigh, in her pubic hairs, as the pearl let down from her sexual mouth, as one last river, visible, as I kiss it back to my source, tasting the mixture, as a swirling dress dancing across a ballroom in St. Petersburg, with the Tsars, White Jade and the Prince, that's me, Pierre, as Natasha, jealous, knows that Princess Jade, as a great Peruvian icon, holds inside what I inspired to release, as a form, or a great storm of words, details from what the ocean gave and the waves let down, more than milk or sperm, or lubricating natural spit and seminal lubricants, really dreams, making the puddle under our bodies more than an ocean, simply a Modern River, a lust as pleasure, but more an inestimable bond, as great music, the notes salute the ears, a balance, a soaring crescendo, as Johannes Brahms or Ludwig Van Beethoven might have written with Joyce, or as Picasso, that great universal art, stuck in the pale white flesh of a painting, you and I, Jade witnessed as he painted your naked sky in Paris in 1904. Great words, dear Jade, to keep in place my harder cock and your soft mouths settled and open, full, and at peace, at least until the next morning, when it will all begin again, I promise. Isn't lust, pleasure, respect, and wanton grace wonderful? Yes, when it all works, who knows what doors will open and then reopen, again, again, she said, yes. What a great word, Yes, Molly Bloom said, we said, dear woman. ---------------------------------------------- These Sites reflect my life in writing and are offered to readers free of any cost to further share my work with ASSTM Readers. http://www.taximurders.com Taxi Murders Sextet Hyperfiction Novel http://www.farragher.com the Selected Poetry of Sean Farragher http://www.taximurders.com/lcfallon The Journal and Poetry of Laurie Fallon http://www.taximurders.com/enfer The Greater Hell. Serial Murder and Violence Sexual Nightmares Copyright (c) 2000 Sean Thomas Farragher under US and International Copyright laws. All rights reserved. May not be re posted to any site without the express written permission of Sean Farragher. If you are downloading for your own reading enjoyment there is no charge solicited. Please note statement copied from ASSTR Site Terms and Conditions: ASSTR's Copyright Agent for notice of claims of copyright infringement on or regarding this site can be reached as follows: Copyright Agent 6425 South IH-35, Suite 105 PMB #288 Austin, TX 78744-4230 Email: copyright@asstr.org