[bleep] bad poetry into your machine
fade in. int. morning.
franchise coffeeshop in a business district.
[two reflections of the same man briefly discuss haste and its significance in the transient and poorly defined roles of vendor and citizen.]

voiceover-narrator.

somebody once told me that when companies compile Top 40 tracks to sell to businesses to play in their stores, that the selection is not only specifically tailored toward an image-conscious consumer aggressive mentality, but that sometimes a sound technician has been known to insert barely audible messages, in soft subliminal tones, detailing the paranoid truths of their profession, like whispering into the ears of cows at the slaughterhouse so you can describe to them the finer points of how their intestines will be separated from their bodies, how they will be processed into unnecessary dietary stimulants.

“there’s an almost mechanical sense of urgency in your voice.”
“what?”
“it makes it difficult for me to believe anything you say to be true.”
[pause]
[incredulous] “what?”
“do any of those words really carry with them the emotional significance you attach? you’re not posting to a shared-access public-folder message archive. you cant flag what you say with a high degree of importance and think flshing red bars of Times New Roman is going to get my attention.”

voiceover-subliminal.

this is what you want. this is what you have done for yourself. you don’t deserve what you have. you haven’t earned your life. we will take it all away when you’re not looking. keep in step.

voiceover-narrator.
[close-in on yuppie’s speechless open-mouthed face, slowly. ]

are his eyes blank or drifting into tangental regions of brain fade? looking at people like this makes me feel like i’ve been staring at earthquake and train wreck footage for a week, makes my face ache with the terminal resurgence of manic giggling waves of grinning yellow circles with black orbs for sockets. this is pity.

voiceover-subliminal voice.
[slow-motion traces across manicured appearances.]

there’s a full life to be found in the daily pursuit of image-oriented obsession. there’s something to be said for discipline. there’s no shame in hating yourself. there’s freedom in self-contempt. there’s sugar cube decay in routine. the most corrosive elements are those that burn the cleanest holes.

voiceover-subliminal voice.
[close-ups on in-store advertisements]

we’re never going to stop. it’s never going to stop.
even when you are broken and spent and lying spread-eagled ready and willing to surrender your last adolescent rainyday cartoon hopes for another world...we’re going to be there to chart your demographic and predict the predispositions of your children in response to abandonment. because children can recognize the sudden relinquish of wonder. they are the true target market. they are the monkees that you’re hiding at home. but we’ve got their number too.

ext. sunset.
voiceover-narrator.
[corporate architecture.
post-modern commercial art.
horizon framing medical facilities and rows of traffic.]
eight hours behind the counter and then i am transfered my compensation. moments filed away crouching within the same stuffy square feet while people were born and murdered and lit fires of orgasm in palefaced galaxies of human experience all around me. there is a very particular sort of quiet unhappiness in the fading sun of an autumn evening. there is a gasuous discharge from the power lines and the wind breathes for you. it is a supple and chemical manner of relaxation, a reminder of the day i just exchanged away for more cancer cells. cancer in my food and shelter and gas and taxes and music and electronics and combustion engine and cellular phone cereal box UPCs. proof of purchase is as absurd as a birth certificate.

she waits for me listening to Air. i like to watch her before she notices my approach. the way she rocks her head and grins with her eyes closed is enough to shatter my heart. you know you are going to die and all you want is to rub your nose against hers and cry yourselves to sleep. i swallow afternoon daydreams in her scent while my automaton processes numbers and changes currency, all the while consumed by an unnamable and omniscient Orwellian dystopian malaise that wakes me in a sweat with the need to take her as far away as life allows-the ability to remain in motion. never stopping. it never stops. deafening patriarch beats me for whispering in the ears of a parallel universe but as long as i can pretend that she loves me i can pretend that she loves me i can pretend that she loves me i can pretend that i have any idea where i am and you have to spew so much garbage to expose anything helpful. so i’ll stop for now. shove your cranium right through the screen.

[[[[[[[[[[[[[chris][impatient]]]]]]]]]]]]
[[[[[[[this isn't working anymore]]]]]]]]
[np:moby, when it's cold i'd like to die]