BurgerPunk /bpg/

[Anonymous No.16323235]

Anyone on /lit/ ever do anything cool with the burgerpunk motif?

[Anonymous No.16323265]

BurgerPunk has been described as the aesthetic reconciliation of the post-modernist individual recognizing the cognitive dissonance between the vast nature of corporate service-based globalization and the individualist nature of consumption forced upon them by the very nature and propaganda of their capitalist benefactors. The genre’s backdrop explores the conflict between traditional american sensibilities inflated to a caricature by exaggerated use of freeway systems, suburban growth, and franchise based food products against the cynical nature of the average american blooming into a genuine need for individualized and personalized culture, after slowly exchanging their ancestor’s cultural heritage for their own force-fed culture of ease of access and frugality. Issues of hopelessness, automation, and complacency contrast the information provided through constant access to media and propagandized geopolitical news. The genre itself, becoming a meta commentary on other fantasy or science fiction based genres by using the actual occurring landscape as the basis for literary escape.

[Anonymous No.16324226]

“Concrete cleaves the conquered plain; By Circuit City spans torqued terrain.
A city of circuits that rise and weave.
Noted little as the air it breathes.

And cemented along those hollow waves,
A monument made in Medusa’s gaze,
Bob errant boys and maiden wrecks
With questions engraved of where to turn next.”

[Anonymous No.16324237]

>>16324226
The five of us sat along the curb halfway between the gas station and the burger joint, each of us no more than 14 years of age.The overbearingly bright marquee of the eatery, McSlunchee’s, glared down upon us with menacing l.e.d. Lights making it hard to look upon without offending the eyes.
“I wants a slunchee box.” Slobbered Moge. “I has a hungry and wants toy.”
“You’re always hungry.” Sniffed Polly, still doing her best of trying to straighten out the tangles of her the ginger colored rat’s nest of a hairdo.
“I wants a toy too.” Babbled her younger brother.
“You has to wait for 9 o clock to come or they won’t offer a new toy, Moge.” Said Brick, the burly kid. “If you go now you’ll get the same toy you already has.”
“I don’t want the same toy.” Moge pouted.
“That’s what I told you.” Said Brick. He then went back to tapping robotically as his McSlunchee’s issued cell phone. He was trying his hardest to play the “win a mcClucker pack” app that guaranteed a free sweaty, chicken-like morsel if you could make the animated cartoon picture of the burger mascot McSlunchee jump by the repeated, fastidious pressing of a button. His pupils dilated at the possibility of a cashless Mclucker.
I didn’t want to be there, sitting with these four upon a chipped concrete curb on a Monday night. I just wanted to be alone somewhere with Polly. The world sucked less when we were alone. I tried so hard to look at her without making it look like that’s what I was trying to do. I wanted to raid the condiment station of the Taco Poke place across the street and use the complimentary wet naps to clean the dirt from her face and the shit from her fingertips where she’d had to keep emptying the one diaper her brother wore. I wanted to be somewhere else; away from the stinking bins of garbage and boiling grease traps. Away from Moge and his relentless pining for Burgers, away from brick and his goddamn soundbite spewing phone as he drooled.

[Anonymous No.16324244]

>>16324237
Somewhere nearby but out of sight, the sharp squelch of skidding tired heralded the inevitable violent crunch of steel upon steel followed by a long blaring car horn no doubt held down by an unconscious or dying driver. The third one for the day.
I wanted to be free of the noise saturated strip of asphalt and exhaust we called home. The oil slick on the ground between my legs reflected my own face. Dirt smudged cheeks and chin with hair too long to look like a boy. A faded plastic necklace I’d made from string and last years toys from McSlunchee’s. I didn’t like it, but Polly always said she loved it so I always wore it, hoping she’d want to talk to me even if it was just over the worthless plastic. The smell of burning oil was already in the air from the accident.
I was nobody from a blacktopped strip in the middle of nowhere along the interstate. I could taste metal in my mouth. I just wanted to be somewhere else
I wanted to be somewhere else with her.

-From Gaskun’s “The chronicles of burgerworld.”
A burgerpunk cautionary tale