Featured ARTWORKS

Les Orgasmes de Ben Buckler

The character notices the lights from the planes, and the lights from the headland where a once loved girl once lived. 

Oddly, the lights are no longer flashing towards the character's eye as they had always done. 

Instead, the lights seemed to flash differently. They were flashing slightly away and at something of an angle. 

They flashed only slightly off-course at first, but by the time the character leaves the beach with it’s view of the water, the lights from last plane coming in to land were no longer arriving normally.

The reflected light was now  askew by at least a handspan when the characters arm was out-stretched. 

The character became perplexed, goes home, drinks, can’t sleep, heads back to the beach and the headland of Ben Buckler, wondering. 

Was the character dead? Was the only one left alive? Did others see the changes that were happening, or was this the way life was going to be forever now? 

At Bondi Beach, it's now completely quiet, nothing has changed. 

It’s too late for planes, too dark for moon-tanning. 

The character wanders onto the caramel shadowed sand, stands alone. Dim suburban house-lights and street lamps of Ben Buckler in view, the unremarkable dreams of the idle rich living there snore their suburban fantasies unslept.

The character wants to wake this world, and commanding full voice frustratedly yells  “Nothing’s happening!” 

Instantly, the lights from the headland of Ben Buckler wrap around the character, encompassing the character’s field of vision, enveloping the character into altered planes, unstrict geometries of light and different ways of seeing. 

Thoughts became as beams of light. 

The skies becomes rivers. 

Sounds in the character’s mind become colours. 

Screaming guitar leads of colour joy their screams across the sky.

The perception of all and any beings unconfined from their moment now exist all at once, made just as simply as unblinking. 

All the character needs do is will it to happen. 

The Moon and Venus are as ribbon strings pinned above a black sunrise’s doorway. 

And the dim-lit houses and streets of Ben Buckler danced orgasmically until the dawn.

The light as seen through the orgasming eyes of all things, all things, living, ever lived, never lived and the nothingness that is neither yet and will also become all things.

Then the new sun, a different sun, a taking sun, as a still giant black beacon rose, blacker than any night it had replaced. 

This new ball of gaslessness was now just gravity being held together by its own gravity, taking back the light from the energy shet had endowed our earth with each and every previous day.

And the black hole spun its orgasmic event horizons over where once there was daylight over the headland of Ben Buckler, undoing the time and space in which we thought we existed, but now never do, and to this new universe, never, ever did.