Finally Nothing
By Sean Farragher

Sociopath and monolichen carry the lens from eye to sign
of the cross. Murder does its own song. It is a rascal in spread
when Blood Rivers raid the banks of memory for lions with teeth
rasped at the ordinary death of predator and victim. We are
victims in that dour success, when light broken as it will be
has no heaven above and no rules, laws or mercy to modulate
the little songs perking from the mouth of lovers while they die
fucking in the memory of some lost pleasure unkempt and diseased
with great saw and darling knives to cut the fascia from the soul.

Here you are in front of my knife
backed into my cock and sore
we dance and genuflect out of
some prehistoric mayhem when
Light is stung and bodies revolt
When you commence the orgasm
and I respond to it with a sigh
so loud it is a shadow of the facts
when you make love to my orbits
and my eyes arrange your breasts
For fondling beyond touch, so soft
And sprung you are alive in tender
Open complete resolution, as you
Pause with your fingers, I kiss you.

I write this poem not knowing what is asked.
I am content to tempt life with death
and to make the horror of our universe
A great amusement park of soft touches
intended to open up the clit like a lyric
note when the throat sucks that thing
you demonstrate with large wanks
and finally you are a memory, aren’t you
and I am finally lost in the unkempt history
of the universe as its cause simply rests
in the spaces where my fingers find your heart
massaging it alive, as your clitoris so swollen
with my mouth as I tenderly make it hard
to shift and lift until it is the origin of big bangs
And then the soft history rages while we watch
The endless flags follow home to some complete
connection when light stops pleasure erodes from hills
And gullies until there is a soft stop and finally nothing.

Be aware of the texture of the human race
when the Asian and Negroid suffer their lapse
and joined at the hip provide that new path
where race is a stern warning for purification
I want to be pure.
I want to signal the end of racial divides
with the languid feel of your hands kneading my male
breasts. I am torn apart. You know that
as you suck my nipples, and the milk rolls out
of your throat and into my ardor.

I am so in love with the dirty sexual tracks
that I count your fibers, your cunt, your music
until I am bound in your speculative orgasm
shouting it, spread open, broken, but alive
as you spread your cunt like a flag for my desire
to shift, to make the skin thumb and sail
and you in my arms simply wither away
while I count your ribs, make God into a savior
not for our sex, but the preservation of the flood
when my cunt simply empties out, like an old river
and I am watching the fluid steam with great course
you wait for the hump and thump to bear rejoice.




XXX