portion of the artwork for Maggie Shurtleff's essay

Faces of Sean
Maggie Shurtleff

… I remember last days more than apocalypse.

 Wild feathered birds, their air bridled by
incontinent stare from human witness
cannot ascend the gyre, no Yeats in hand, to kiss
where reason has no answer for human things
while Blake sings innocence, experience waits:
“He doth sit by us and moan.”
—posted by Sean Farragher at the Zoetrope Virtual Studio

Sean was a blur between reality and fantasy; and you never distrusted either completely. Never quite knew if there was (a lot or just a bit of) truth in every story he ever told. There was always sex.

Sean was a whore.
He wanted everything, and everyone (with a vagina), and every second of life to be atop his cock, or on the tip of his tongue. The latter preferred. And I spent hours on the tip of his tongue, and made love with him through fonts and fantasies and fondles that made the red-light district seem like Sesame Street. And there were hundreds of women; laid upon him—this way.

He wanted them. Sexual. To be free. To be uncensored. To be in awe of him. To be turned on; by him. And there was always too much, too far, too over-the-top without apology. This made him alive.

Sean and Marilyn.
Sean dipped his life into the cleavage of Marilyn Monroe; and lived there between her lips. Being fed by mother and her kisses. Eddie Wyman fell away long ago; just sleeping—behind little boy blue eyes that haunted. He longed for real touch, real love, real companionship, and every bit of him was laid out on pages for everyone to know.

Sean’s work.
He wrote passionate, complicated, and driven images that at times a sugar-cane machete couldn’t get through. All the while—you knew, just knew it was brilliant. Like an artist gone mad vomiting on canvas; once you got past the undigested chunks—there it was, the genius. No topic untouched. Fearless. Unwavering in his vision. Sean lived there in the spaces between his birthed words.

Sean, so proud.
Loved his children. Was in awe of being a grand-daddy. Eyes lit up. Heart full. Soul complete.

I miss his laugh. His voice.

Table of Contents

FRiGG: A Magazine of Fiction and Poetry | Issue 40 | Spring 2013