𒌐𒌐 permutations 𒌐𒌐

Felix had found himself inside the epic trilogy almost accidentally. It had been Bradley's idea at first -- we'd just strap him in and send him to the moon without any sort of proper briefing -- this is where the story started: lots of shadows playing in the light dancing on cave walls -- occluding all that was to remain hidden until the precise moment -- which then could be set in plaster and released into the wild to roam the endless universe -- Felix didn't object because by the time he knew what he'd gotten himself into it was already too late -- someone had flushed the keys down the toilet, all he could do now would be pathetic anyway -- Bradley was nowhere to be seen on the moon's surface -- stretching his neck or folding a t-shirt, the lake was clearly open for swimming, but who could catch that vague reference? "I don't have to say anything," curling himself into a small ball Felix could say more in silence than most. He considered this to be a curse. The suicide went like this: frayed currency eliminates health. The hospital was closed because there weren't any doctors on the moon in those days -- no customers to please and far too many sex fiends lurking around the place -- he didn't know that this was his third attempt -- he had no idea that he'd developed the trilogy problem well before the car accident -- "I don't have to say anything" really meant that he'd already said it all -- was it too late to move forward? There was no way home now, and Bradley wouldn't even recognize his subject's face after all the camouflaged anima and déjà vu had been worked out of it -- god his fingers were slim: he had such thin outlines when compared to the cement hallway -- his reflective moods relinquished disgust in the name of some idiomorphic juggernaut -- semen drips into the toilet -- new sneakers fit on his feet -- the keys are flushed before the blessing could be realized -- before the day could reveal its meaning -- still he could not be full. "I don't have to say anything," or maybe I'm just not talking -- above the wreckage of the ship a floating Bradley asking for a punch in the face -- by all means bar the unfolded table -- lacking lust and send fast -- in his baptism gown begging for a glass of water Felix drifts off unconscious and unaware of the coming flood -- smothering a carefully planned chase, the brave son of colorful fish (est. 1773) ripped open again the sour tasting flesh of his neighbor's bedspread -- tossing the cotton droppings to fit the monitor home -- he could not be full, still the blessing realized his thin sides -- impermanent carvings of skin and bone, to never shit again -- semen drips the juggernaut moon wreckage into the lake -- Felix sinks under the bedspread tasting fresh bread between his lips -- the optimistic drowning daily miracle speaking in silence as if he were in one of those undoubtedly wasted dreams that punched Bradley in the face knowing cotton droppings -- in the shape of keys -- straight back under the cement. (there he goes now, water angel with his little offbeat chaos machine taking the first right, then another right, down the hallway into your room) Felix hadn't been there before this Wednesday, the small uneven television was the first detail to grab his nose and point it towards Bradley's bed -- lying down to stare up into the universe -- his thin fingers were never full and his young face never knew the violence of the office -- never would either, due to his refusal to become that sort of crony, and as an unqualified electrician, space travel slowly became the only option. The uneven set was cast against the light, painting the shadows of the wall -- there goes a dinosaur -- there goes a planetary casino -- another chance to move forward: organization tinkled the cubes in silence so that no one would talk about their time laying in bed atop stone carved heads -- Condom Step Number Five: to kiss at new peaks without the enthusiasm of the casual consumer -- Felix convinced now for eternity because of Bradley's infinite confusion -- Yes he would pilot the S.S. Voltapuke straight into him for the next century -- Yes, he would sit back as Bradley dated all of his friends -- Yes he would still not be full after swallowing all the semen and toilet water knocking at someone else's door at six o'clock in repressed perfect rest -- yes, there would be permutations. (other chances at such thin fingers, even while a pretty wife was present) Bradley's epic trilogy would guide him through the forest and that's what scared him the most -- the horse laughing in the new pasture -- Voltapuke crashed into the mountain side -- stoned heads racket round his dick changing into a fist at once for reasons beyond guilt and pity -- buzzing himself into a small ball -- jerking off as he sank in his ship's idiomorphic voice recognition, an order to sweep up the cum -- another right turn after the fishing well and someone said "I could say anything" but the situation was more sordid than that: of course Bradley had followed him under, caught up to his drowning -- attempted mouth-to-mouth but could not speak nor solve the problem -- a constant remaining since that Wednesday -- Felix on his back, floating in space -- Bradley wrapped around him like a blanket -- still could not be full. Cave walls might have taken a different form if I'd been using a different fish bowl. However there was no time to disassemble now, seriously there was a star calling out on the cosmic telephone and no more room left on the sidelines, I had to answer the ringing. A voice said "I'm not going to tell you the names of any colors, you'll have to choose them yourself. As for the smell, size, or location of the passengers, that much should become obvious after the buzzing blends with sea spray or meadow pollen. It feels just as natural as that, if you're right on target." "I think I follow you," I said sitting down on the floor, holding the receiver close to a bleeding ear, "but I don't want any lawsuits flapping their wings in my direction." Now the utterances became disgruntled: "it's all perfectly legal, I assure you," he said "you're nobody anyway." "Yea, but I think that makes me more libel--" "Whatever comes to the surface," he cut me off –- they always cut me off, "...you use as your name. There are dead heads and dead names everywhere for the fodder, you've seen how easy it looks. Just calculate a directive, put it down and send it off, then we'll contact you again." "But who will contact me?" "The head clerk." Oh, him again. "That seems backwards to me," I said. "It's more like an exit in the middle of the bridge," said Voltapuke seriously through the lonely receiver. This is broadcast on the new terms of being, west of the moon probably channel 1773. It should be alive -- it will be alive -- however empty the last century could've been. Some had begun to believe that the day was done, but this was hardly the case. The day was seriously starting. Though Felix had found himself much too late to turn around, this was well before the split. With all the different voices talking about the shadow and the light -- more precisely: the lawsuit in which they were engaged -- most of them failed to notice the mutual dependance existing between the two parities involved. Sure, the merry-go-round was caught in the retro-grade motion of stray dogs -- the lack lust had sent the package and Bradley was in the nude -- but detachment was called for. A knock at the door had prompted coughing as busy hands looked for pants, shirts, dirty underwear. Locking the moment by chance into plaster -- fully dressed -- Bradley opened the door letting the plastic curtains fall on his face -- then there was that boy who was brought before his judges -- who represented that sort of justice that was backed by force -- as the sentence was handed down to him they asked what he had to say for himself -- perhaps he could have broken down crying on the gallows as the hanged man called his name -- but instead he spit in the faces of his judges and he saidhesaidhesaid "I don't have to say anything" into a smallbox he pondered his curse, frayed and powerless as global supply -- in a word: juggernaut -- inaugurating the next mutation he had finally allowed someone else to get him off cause he was so weak and the moment was so sordid and the chase so stupid -- an erection of guilt beyond reason -- the brave son of curled in a ball -- forced to perform what fits in a monitor -- lacking any ability to recognize Bradley's face after the camouflaged déjà vu – wishing to do things to his head that not even his mom warned him about. Felix unconscious in the fish bowl glass of water drifts through the stream on a canoe of Bradley's making. The moon was cold enough to punch both of them in the face, but luck would have it that Bradley had brains enough to include a blanket, some fresh bread, and an ordinary first aid kit. Behind the door Felix's eyes had expanded too far after the promise of perfect vision -- reaching towards superhigh function lines where interesting faces sat in connected rooms, discussing the shadow/light lawsuit -- turning their phrases into forks every second poking at tails&tongues -- Bradley now protecting Felix from the cold, a new embrace which could still not be full -- arms wrap around to feel a front pushed forward -- basically exploding with baby -- he says "I'll show you mine if you show me yours," and in consequence Felix begins to feel much more nimble, active and swift as an arrow. (telling himself that he doesn't exist with a bottle of shelter in a sturdy building, Bradley notices that the cause of his trouble is none other than himself. now that he isn't real, he's got nothing to blame but the extreme skepticism passing itself off as the undeniable fact of his current situation. chasing death rather than living -- living would require some sort of self-observation -- he's prepared to take the fall however vulgar the framed darkness can become.) the curtain rises to reveal: hair follicles chain react and scatter against a winter lost in circles -- the flickering wind had at last become a real boy -- singing holy to the ocean with a new placid look -- elastic around the shit box mowing forwards to kiss ashes across the narcissistic organ -- there was no denying it -- the exquisitely fragile end of delusion that bring us from the beginning back again to find the true meaning -- the progress of time is to the end -- practiced like light meters praying to God's malleable imagination -- lacking the insight to pick up the receiver he takes the shape of the individual lost in that sudden grubbing growing pain that sewed up the bottom bits&pieces along the other's shoulder pimples -- in a little while the face of sacrifice would make in cursive a sweet sounding instrument -- the tick layer of dust that sat atop his thorns and he -- tired mostly to death -- failed to recognize the onslaught of time widening the gap between fibrous proteins entangled in coined platitudes -- smelling of melons -- still not full. The language was viral now, spreading itself from one end to the other -- Bradley could collect all of Felix's pieces but the suicide had become too complete, there was no reforming his shattered image -- Bradley pushed too far at the flickering wind chimes of his wallpaper -– made himself proud of biting holes in Felix's tongue -- drooling saliva hard beneath the hooting of the loons singing holy with the boys on the shore: the aluminum cold scratching at all sides to find that he had at last found his way into space -- smoking four cigarettes in a row -- he walked out relating directly to movement thru the impulse to touch, slide, intersect&collide against disjointed rhythm with matted hair, gnarled hands -- not innocent enough to have one ear lobe gone at birth...