Enlightenment

A hallucinatory sexphonic future where pleasure and consciousness are conflated with classical art and orgasms.

© Sam Archer

In the room with the sea on the ceiling, Jeremy Powers unwound his spine and coiled the sticky whip round the phonograph. His pale seashell eyes watched the spine unfurl slowly, like a vaudevillian umbrella, and catch the wave of splintering crashes always in A minor. Lying jellied in his armchair, Jeremy listened with his locust ears to the stress of the day, a hiss signifying a peppered evening at his step-mother (as stale as an airplane frozen for posterity). She’d worn her cat-claw earrings, and Jeremy politely spent dinner staring at her neck while she cemented her jaw. Her unruly iron eyes watched Jeremy as if he might caress his teeth into her throat like razors through silk. “Being a vampire should be any drone’s fantasy,” Jeremy murmured, “but why she thinks a dull pharmacist at CVS is a diva of the night…maybe her eye transplant failed.”

A yawn oozed from the ceiling, where Adam contently sat in lotus beneath the tepid waves of Jeremy’s private ocean. “Have you found the source of that bizarre panic attack my nephew’s pet wallaby gave you? I think its name was ‘Piffles’? Do hurry, I’m to become one with a mating Praying Mantis in two hours…I don’t want to miss that infinite glance of thorny seduction.”

“Are you male, or female?” Jeremy sighed, winding his way past unpaid symphonic dildos, bills to Ho Hum the cyber organizer, all a little screech of tires against asphalt. Adam curled his leafy hair, and grinned mischievously like a satyr about to land a prized nymph.

Self-Portrait © Sam Archer

“Both — I will be devoured whole by the me devouring myself,” he grinned coyly, suddenly a young girl greedily blossoming under attention. “It’s very cosmically orgasmic. You should come, you could be two sleepy beetles battling for expediency — wait; doesn’t that remind you of us in Malibu?”

“Adam, I’m listening,” Jeremy muttered, inadvertently blushing red at the scabbing memory of Adam’s drunken kisses, riddled with a slurred and dribbling, “It’s all one, right — but not you, man…you’re all mine!” A swift jolt rocked Jeremy’s ear — and the wallaby bounced across the neon sponge grass. Adam was helping his nephew tie up a kite in a bumbling but determined way. The nephew, a sour lemon-faced boy with a retro Power Ranger’s suit, gazed at Adam with dimly lit eyes that said expressly, “Stop touching my toy.” Adam handed the kite to the discerning nephew, watched him run his banana legs till the kite caught in the synthetic sea breeze like fire. Jeremy gazed on, sipping a bitter neo-beer while the psychedelics he’d dumped along in began to ripen inside his head. Adam looked handsome again — no more ivy hair, or pink false teeth — just Adam’s frazzled mud-colored hair slopping in the breeze, his cigarette yellowed teeth glinting in the now fragrant peach light of the sun. Cranes dove by like fighter jets, the corpulent nephew inflated into a beach ball. Jeremy drained his neo-beer, and looked down into the eyes of Adam’s nephew.

The boy glared at Jeremy with foul fox-hole tinted eyes. His mighty mountain chin trembled, and with great swells of tears he began to cry. The wallaby, now a moose with a bunny rabbit’s haunches, had the kite in its snarled teeth and was munching stolidly — as if it weren’t the eye of a storm. Adam thrust his nicotine stained hands between the wallaby’s teeth, but Jeremy was too late — and Adam, for the time being, lost two fingers.

“Adam, you really do have all your gray matter in your bowels, don’t you?” Jeremy sighed, resplendent as a Christmas pudding in his study chair. “The kid needs a new memory graft.”

“Don’t see why,” Adam bubbled moodily. “Tarnish gives character. Anyways, why did you give a screw loose over this? You’re the king of finding ironic ways not to care.”

“I was worried about you — is that so unnatural?”

Adam raised a delicately painted red eyebrow, his red lips parting as a newly formed bud. “Listen, I bought my first symphonic dildo the other day. It vibrates to Beethoven’s ninth, base, cello — everything. Well, half hour in, I realized my tender flesh does not like bas drums one bit, the violins tickle like mosquitoes, and there’s so much getting on that I couldn’t concentrate on getting off. So I returned it (which is possibly unsanitary, but I wanted my point taken) — and that night I jerked off in the pool, and it was enlightenment with pyrotechnics.

“So no, Jeremy, it was perfectly natural — forty years ago. Now, come on; it’s time to have myself be devoured by myself in love! Bring the cam…and maybe a bucket to be sick in.”

Forty years ago, I’d have married him, Jeremy thought, unwinding his spine and threading it through the hook at the top of his spinal column. “You go ahead and…do that,”Jeremy muttered. “I think I’ll catch up on some reading.”

“Oh, what?” Adam asked, perching a pair of electric blue spectacles on his thin nose.

Jeremy smiled. “The Picture of Dorian Gray,” he said, and bled through the door.