Until the recent discovery of cloning, no one thought that technology was helpful or successful. Helicopters over Morningside Heights with searchlight and siren. TV drives the wooden crosspieces under the wrists, elbows. I sneeze. No one cares. I pull out more vials. He wheezes. Place it to your nostrils, form an outer wall, like a sliding unit, move the vial about the nostril. Move the vial reciprocally so it connects to the minute members of the perfume into your brain. Move the rotating shaft 31 degrees. I look at the vials, horse tranquilizers, poppers from sex shops that skewer the victim. I once had a friend who destroyed their friendship. I huff between the dance floor and the toilet stall. The perfume vapours create massive holes in my brain. GIF file as newspapers. I lay flat on the ground. He completes his work inside the company’s holiday villa. He reads the instruction manual several times. There’s more than one narrative in the instruction manual. I work besides vacuum gauges under hot sweat, steam and pressure overhead. He is alone. Track suits / brand name. Billboard’s advertising TV documentaries that outline the beauty and savagery of the human contribution to war. The process of strengthening / integrating CPU into plastic brain moulds. I slide into midnight. Crimson-stained. Emotional signs that include sighs and deep breaths. The door opens. Take that money. Polluted lobsters trawled from the East River. Identification bracelets around pincers. I swig synthetic water. I wield his hips. Dawn over NYC on a projection screen. Nothing brings my attention to it. The sun rises. Xerox of a Xerox over Manhattan. Bubbling fat on my skin. Bright lights, loud music, young kids. Women with moustaches. Men with waxed shins. Spires with no leaders. No worthy humans. People travel by steamboat or light aircraft. They watch The New Price Is Right, Wheel of Fortune. They call the city an apogee, a vertex, the meridian, something up there, something above them. Slowly, repeatedly, I lift his legs at the knees. He strangles herself. He drops his feet down. He repeats this process. Tension, then none. Tension, and then none. Choking, and then none. Strangling, then none. Guttural noises come from within his. Strange rasps from inside. His throat, his neck cracks, it wallops. He lift his legs. The noose tightens. He repeats three times and then struggles for breath. He repeats further as the noose draws blood from the skin on his neck. He repeats, then stops, reconsiders. He repeats, takes sidesteps. I fling to the side, lifting his knees. He swings. Pendulates. He thrashes. He repeats. He swings again. Left to right. He chokes. Stops. Reconsiders. Repeats. Stops. He swings again. The rope snaps. I crash. He’s face down on his stomach. Motionless. Lanterns. Trump Towers. I twitch. New Yorkers doused in kerosene. Lottery tickets in supermarket aisles. No one buys, no one wins. Holes in plasterboard where canned fish are stacked. My mental efforts. Bubble Tea. The wind washes, the sea is wild. A chair next to the cash register, a cat settles into a cushion. Advertisements. Greeting cards. Railway tracks. Stock market magnates in limousines. He skulks around the rubbish bins. Bad suits. Spectacles. Lottery tickets in envelopes. His shoes stop at the doormat. Drinking until dinner time. Tough material made into a shirt. Comic books. Sulphur permeates the alleyway. Petroleum beach. Stockings get fastened. Bones produce echoes. Flesh over his belt buckle. Glass on the road. Fingers along the brick wall.
Shane Jesse Christmass is the author of the novels, Napalm Recipe: Volume One (Dostoyevsky Wannabe, 2017), Police Force As A Corrupt Breeze (Dostoyevsky Wannabe, 2016) and Acid Shottas (The Ledatape Organisation, 2014).
He was a member of the band Mattress Grave, and is currently a member in Snake Milker.