THE MEMETIC DRIFT
Donald Trump on sale at Bemelmans Bar. Earl C sweeping out the sickroom. The door ajar. A well-dressed, rather wise-looking man hanging around the murder scene. Private prisons dot the landscape. Potatoes and mash and gloom for prisoners in these penitentiaries. People walking leisurely down to the East Village. Burton stands up, unsteadily panting. Earl C ushers him onto the gangplank grinning. Beyond lies death and sunken faces. Too louche to be religious. As being unfashionable. The handicapped would rather crawl. Burton wearing high-tech surgical gloves. Sense in some heightened way. Enhancements to fingertips that make the electrical properties of tissue more profound. Burton conducting targeted ultrasounds on reclaimed cult members. In Washington Square, subhuman cyborgs sew together electronic skin. Skin draped over burn victims to restore sensation. Hands tied behind my back. Optic implants. Certain times of the year the city gas lamps have their supply cut off. Bionic limbs. Artificial organs products for augmented reality. Too much government interference Burton notes. Cashmere jackets with MIDI controller interface. A meatpacker in NOHO warehouse mass-producing medical modifications that permanently alter or replace the excretive function of the human body. An ugly scene. Daft prototypes. Earl C promoting involuntary cochlear implants. Ears removed at birth replaced with headphones / transistor earpieces. Uptown Manhattan now has more citizens whose body contain prosthetics. Birth-hands sheared off and exchanged with cybernetic ones. Robotic exoskeletons rejected by war veterans and hash browns and draught beer. Waiters tearing up our order. Anodic voice mounting on my internal rocks. Earl C dips four fingers into acidic liquid. A girl stands aside as Burton enters the room. He shuts me out. POTUS on the television screens. Burton ushers everyone out onto the terrace. He provides a presentation on the human-machine symbiosis. He into it. A millionaire who wants to live forever. He will make it happen. Pushing to float on the stock exchange siren wailing. The paper stainer making wallpaper again. Fingers spread out limply. Sheets of blank paper. I walk the corridor. Taking spare change from the alms box. The crowd at Times Square, Penn Station fall back into the subway. Fleeing with ravenous eyes and muttering monosyllabic: Alive—alive! Humped all the way from the Hudson River up 42nd Street, past the Actor’s Studio into the bar of the Algonquin Hotel. Ushered and sat into booth for a late lunch of hamburger placements for potato mash, more doom and gloom on NBC. Earl C walking leisurely down to the East Village. Holograms of Lindsay Lohan’s autopsy. Pipettes of poisonous bacteria and Dilaterol. Syrup, tables and injections to assist in mind uploading to the internet. Burton by the side of the road. His two legs broken. Body in a wheelchair. The stars come out every third night in Manhattan. Our arrival @ JFK in the winter of 101741 far out over the deathlands. Police Burton suggested we go to sleep. Shot clocks buzzing on the basketball court. Prosthetics twitching on the shoulder of the expressway. Tears rolling down Earl C’s face. Robots acting as unusual animals. Native cats sleeping inside salience. News tickers spluttering in deflated pixels. Further silence. Children dope smoking for ISIS. Police in civilian clothing advancing with mace rifles, squinting in the sunlight, pulling at the rope with a noose at the end. Netflix offering a season’s pass for advertisements. Product of product. A paper bag full of prolapse. Burton gets into the car. Earl C burrows into the trees. After about forty minutes, Burton gives up and head back to the subway. A new side part in his hair. is ancient times. She struggle for breath. A bus, repeat, a bus. Soldiers hanging out smoking Camels. A glimpse of their murderous results in the newspaper headlines. In a wood cabin. Warm bed this morning. Earl C doesn’t use a tape measure. Suddenly the voice of Crypto-anarchists making settlements out near Hell Gate. Orange headbands around their foreheads. Donut-mongers on the forecourt of the United Nations. Concurrent damage caused by BGM-109 Tomahawks. Burton with a minty-fresh mouth. Enemy Identified Man. Jacket pocket rubbing against Burton. Virginia takes her sunglasses off. Her gaze mentioned, this broadcasting is completed. Movie poster torn on alley wall. Rain sodden. Half-snivelling songs coming in from the outside. Immense sunshine over cold fields. Car parks up to the front entrance of a tenement. Dew drops emulsify under the girders of Robert F. Kennedy Bridge. Vehicle’s inside is in flame. Earl C drops his wine glass. He’s bored, depressed, stacked and tied up in twine. A Hare Krishna awakes and learns that his entire life has become secondary to the broadcasting of a meme. At every opportunity that Hare Krishna is Zero. Mouths open but no sound coming out. Canons adjusted. Canons erupting. Cacophony. Dust and bullshit. Technocytes in the blood stream making the user immune to commit acts of treason. Mehums pounding the steel body of the abandoned cars. Scrap metal, flint sparks, shattered glass. The Armoured vehicles to the right of soldiers. Armoured vehicles blaring down the street. Smouldering houses with fire fighters stripping off their clothes. Tiplerites burnt by enormous ironing surfaces. Burton got close enough to see the pained expressions on their faces. NYC bombed back to Year Zero.
Shane Jesse Christmass is the author of the novel ACIDD SHOTTAS. He’s been a member of the band Mattress Grave, and is currently a member in Snake Milker. He firmly believes that the future of the word, the novel, will be in synthetic telepathy. Most of his writing/artwork/music is archived at: http://www.sjx.digital