MONSTER IN BLUE EYES GONE BLANK
(Prose-poem about the incest of plenitude)
By Sean Farragher

Blue has the ache of beaches broken by old waters
untamed. My mother’s eyes were arctic waste. When
she became a monster, as she rose above me,
or I above her, in that intimate embrace, she had shrill
slanted eyes that would not breathe color except
invisible. I did not see. I felt only color pink, the lips
of her cat as she called it opening its mouth to bite.

I had wings. She sat at the dark table slumped,
her night gown barely holding up perfect breasts.

Her nipples were large and hard. She was drunk
On pain and her right cheek bruised, partially
hidden by make up was rash red. My father left
yesterday for the far seas of Oceania. He would
be gone for a year, and mother was drunk out
of pain and loneliness. She must want sorrow
like bed sores to itch or her sex that would never
stop shaking even after hours of kissing buds
and fires of bellies, so help me, I was lost there.

I think that now as man on that borrow beach,
when she played with my inner coil but I was ten
I said she said no matter, just enjoy the waves.

All the colors of seduction burrow the balls until
eternity denied has its hell made into soft ice cream;
the fat that would grow around my middle.

I had been seduced. This was a repeat performance.
No first times exist, and Mother shifted offered
me some whiskey, and I drank. I was twelve in this
incarnation, and I hated the cigarette smoke, but
I was trapped by her breasts, partially flesh and
without blood, and when she pulled down the top
and carried me to her room I was food and spirit.
I kept her alive she said. When I was twelve and
I finally reacted as a man/boy she cried when she
felt filled with the glory of surprise. “I love the
wet, all of it, before swell, after, at the peak,
in the valley” she said. I said I love how the horizon
empties into floods and rivers but I am not shore,
the palisades or the city of Rome where life is borne.




Mother in Blue Eyes Gone Blank
Book Two

At twelve, Monsters glow bric-a-brac embers
of shadow coals -- heat that slips the skin
from the palm, so much in the mind,
as yellow eyes are fright. My mother I called
Marilyn, after the actress for the fall of her
bleached blond hair, and perfect breasts danced
from the lips she pursed to stuff her dry teats
into mouth no milk sprayed over belly, cheek
to illuminate my swollen almost grown cock.

I remembered when I was half way five
my sister nursed and I was set to finish
how the taste of blood and skin made
my silent sleep close until I wanted more
than her fingers on my thing as she did
before when bathing my chest in lips.

I remember how sweet milk and fingers
rip my bottom and my thing. I saw it again
as movie not hallucination when hypnotized
by sweet small woman with wise surprise --
She said nothing was all father’s choice.
Look to your mother the Dr. warned.

I loved the beautiful yellow eyes that torment skin
when I was pushed to her and thrust inside
my child worm barely filled the space.
I slipped and skipped falling out and in
pushed by her hands to I was contained.


It was fire hot and the coals were strong
Midnight had its hour of horror and I was shorn
of mouth and she of lips, and fear was base
to broken bones and soft, decadent flesh
that acrid sweet too soft waste with decay
as that sweet soup that makes death, life
or we imagine it as great noble horror played
before the magic of our noble love of graves.
We begin as incest root as the teeth mark
shoulder, heart and breast, as cock digs inside
to make its art when we fools decide to shriek
that monument falls as marble dust on hands
for nothing is all the ends recalled when duty
speaks as we recall the mastery of genesis.




XX

(More to come)