Hurrah, Hooray, Huzzah
By Sean Farragher

Exalt barely alive for ends of skin
combine relief as harmony begins one end
uncounted as the billions seeds before
this one and that make lust and melody
into terror which is one way to know rage
or the pressure of lust -- stars breaking
down into assembled parchment as idols
drawn and quartered with dark ink for
every phrase and iambs tied down
with bondage the intent in no
peculiar kink raised up from banal groans
for worship and without warning or delusion
suddenly dissolved when that wrist
of pleasure congeals and you are past
the start, click, and come when muscles
tease the lips to kiss that marvelous
restoration of peace as the time past
the tumbler in twitch and tremble
afterwards every shock multiplied by
the stroke and suck of vulva lips.

Yes, there is a heaven for solitary sex
that leaping up and down when you
and you remain maker of fertile tides
surge down Mississippi from forgotten
falls to the banks of mud where
we wrestle with limbs of Eve
brought forth before Adam.

Now, in the pleasure of human
lights Pollack’s resumed
paintings of sand and gold
are not tragedy or comedy --
yet abstracted become more
than grains of petrified sand
in one value and hue with
her strokes green fields become
brown and blue while her gray,
wrinkled hands wave O’Keefe
withered as she touched eyes
to discover at least one question
in one lifetime settled without deceit,
in rattles of love when she removed
last particle of cloth before her soul
rich red, never artificial flowers
unfettered with multiple thorns,
always deceptive in its fragrance
like wet winds without snow flakes
or the design of bibles as treatise
for the beginning of that motion
when hand rubs glan or clitoris
distends and rapt into its pressures
for perfect recoil and sudden relief
the lurch of a train suddenly stops
and the spine fixed like eyes clouded
in a death none can really call small
for no perfect form can witness
sexual decree in unblemished act
the great cartoon of the painting
drawn down while salted mouth
ascends notes in F fucking sharp
while flute arranged the harmony
an dialogue opened healing wands –

My hands and hers make cocks revive.
We walk into the summer park nude
and deadly stares ignored. Hallelujah
you old fuckers, rejoice. I came again
to anoint the life I saved again
one war before end before the end
where violet cherry trees blossom as salt
dries on the back of lips and spends
that weary stroke has finally reached
where human crows blast blast
that last note at the terminator
that geometric line divides
arbitrary days and nights
making sex into April’s voice
she whispers with her hands.



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