Three Dirty Photographs

Laurie Fallon, virtual character in Taxi Murders,
presents her poem as a series of dirty photographs
further evidence of her terrible abduction and
glorious survival through the bravery of her father
retired Pennsylvania State Police Detective Malachi
Mac Donagh who gave his life in his successful rescue
of his daughter. Laurie said, afterward, "He died
in the line of duty on the day I found him."

1.
I didn't meet my true father until his last day.
He saved my life. He never stole my words,
or made them up to disguise the grift of sex.

He was the best man and died for my sins.
I was the female Jesus bearing truth
in my ribald nature of my dangerous lips
and how my howl broke windows to open
caves to let me free on another page
where the second chapter, canto would melt
words again, stretch eyes until new sight
drew down that enclosed prison where Lilith
kept my names drawn freely to form new
tales that will open up the locks until
paradise rolls down the hill again.
This father did not haunt my bed.

2.
What is paradise but a simple core:
We know fathers as we know light.
They dont bargain or threaten.
We know mothers as earth.
They dont swallow young seeds.

3.
Please, my true dead Father

I washed my life well;
don't worry; I knew
that my grief shifted
when disorder advanced.

I am not certain how we divined
camouflage. After all, with just one throw
of his pubic pears, his lance was soft there.
I cannot escape that rape too easy.
I was bound in the chair and my mouth
stuffed with a ball and my tongue pinched.

My teeth chewed at lies, and when
Father came and he did die
I could not count my masks anymore.
I feel down into that doldrum
and despair walked with my eyes
in its hands. I had been blinded
by the will of a dirty dream
that made murder more loved
than the fever of the sexual lamp.

4.
Murder, Incest and the War in Iraq

Laurie Fallon, virtual character
in Taxi Murders, presents as
evidence of her abduction
and glorious survival this poem.

By the bravery and sacrificefo of her true
father retired State Police Detective Malachi
Mac Donagh. He died in the line of duty
to serve and protect his true daughter.

Laurie spun blood from between the space of the wall
and the finger prints smeared into words on the wood.
When they caught the killers words become jails and
nihilist stories distributed by the American Bible Society.

Murder became seduction
grown as an invisible drive
to obliterate guilt. Father
appeared as great artistic
screams drawn on blackboards
with red chalk. Brittle black stone
stains letters her breasts.

"I hate where my father drinks.
He cannot clean my dry hair.
He insists on making certain
that I am pushed into his thigh.

I do not have a choice. I cannot
stampede tension away. It becomes
a thin line drawn to imitate the horizon
listing one sun, a moon and several
resurrected storms for ballast."

Nature cheats too. No one is fair. Nothing’s above suspicion.
Sex drives the mortal vehicle until the bloody exhaust dissipated by how you forget to breathe

"I am trapped as we right the past. I came quickly when my father rushed with the barrel of his fist. He banged my pubic irony. Rows of teeth spit blood that ran down his arm down my thigh down the river Hudson. I am held within my vestibule let to be worn and wounded.

I felt no remorse. I wanted to crawl above the outlines
of his wings where the edge is crimson and the spittle
on my pillow case is lemon pink, luminous from bruised skin
as the pain ran down my veins into some brittle ravine
where I had fallen asleep as I turned down my sheets
that flapped loudly in the full lake air fulsome with yellow soap.

Brutal storm dry winds made blank gray sheet new
when I recovered clear stains, pubic bones,
forensic matter within the lines of your cells.Father,
I washed well, don't worry; I knew that my grief
was a disease we shifted when disorder advanced.
I am not certain how I divined camouflage.

American is not what Jefferson said. It is not Lincoln.
It is not even the waste of Anti-Communist lies driven
with nail guns into the eyes of Christ as she walks
alone on the beach before some secular Satan.

This is not literary rape but a knife plunged
into movie trailers come to life with Henta rage.