Heart break pass, broken dreams and nightmare screams, visions of some corporate monkey drilling deep into your soul with carbide eyeballs, iguana yellow bullets, lifeless orbs of no relief. Pinball eyes that after twenty-five years on the job got him a paper card with ink scribbles of his own blood tattooed on it, a gold watch, a fat belly, a shredded heart and a flacid cock he ain't used since he can remember.

Where is the organ of memory, the soul, the urgent reminiscence of sex, of a feeling of can't wait lust for her? Real desires long lost jettisoned ever since he fell to the trick, the hype, became vaporized and consumed within a life incinerated from birth to tomb with mortgages, VCR's, PTA's, HMO's, IRA's and other cheap trinkets like cars, condos and celluloid images of a Betty Crocker wife he never touches. A loveless woman who had a velcro zipper inserted between her lips moments after the wedding vows were murmured within a life distorted all by anal Mad Monk Maniacal Madison Ave. Spin Doctors, run amok.

Blazed and burning, retro rockets of babble-speak by crazed IBM Cyborgs with two-hundred dollar a day cerebral nose candy habits. Writing, saying anything to keep the machine grooving, the buzz spinning, to stay away from homes of daughters and sons traumatized and anesthetized 24/7 from the visual and visceral drugs he creates for MTV, XBOX and SEGA billionaires. Pimps pushing addicts, virtual reality junkies, moving jiving images that his corporate thug bosses demand as they slap a 9-millimeter pay check to a burnt out brain of a hopeless life formulated by the sins that he has created for his corporate masters.

The spooks are waking. Ad Agency Execs with cholesterol counts plugging their black hearts disguised as user friendly heart attacks and early burials along the silicone graveyard of ram, rem and chips and bytes and software nobody needs, or wants or will ever need. Except to pull themselves out of the crypt as they wake one day after suddenly finding themselves entombed within one.

Trapped and tragic, tricked out in a plexiglass coffin stalled out on a daily cemetery called the New Jersey Turnpike. Where corporate puppy mills churn out lobotomized, victimized, McDonaldized and Down-Sized cubicle human beings more stillborn than alive. Robots possessing forgotten dreams and passions and desires destroyed by the greatest mass brain washing campaign ever orchestrated by a gulag of sinister Fortune Five Hundred hit men.

A human Ponzi Scheme loading the pulsating tube with visceral images of impossible goals. Disc thin bulimic children walking on stilts. Amazons on bamboo legs touting false wants. Pamela Lee, Paris and Britney and MK and fluff and bleached blond bimbos hyping the American Dream and lies to lost generations of MP-3 Player kids who think its way cool, caring for little, being little, wanting little except emulating soulless touts on their lover, their TV.

Crave it, lust for it, retail junk pushers, whoring The American Dream. Where a Lexus will answer your prayers and Gucci Studs are to die for and a new hard drive, instead of the old stand bye, a hard on with a women you simply adore. A girl with skin and bone and blood, an air breather that touches back, not like some cheap cylindrical love machine you have your ass planted in day to night cause you're too damn tired to remember how good it felt when you made love to a women instead of some pile of nuts and bolts with a steering wheel.

Wearing thin, are ya my man? Desperate plights trapped in nightmares of vague memories of images nobody can any longer understand, wants nor needs. Where lust for gleaming chrome and eleven thugs on Sunday afternoon under The Super Dome, where violence, reel to reel turf to ice, too Sly killing yellow gimps and Arnold is bullet proof and Bruce and Vin OFF them all and "POP POP POP" there goes another Browning 9-millimeter hail of truth. While mommies at detox getting her nails done while little Billy, with his friend Don is off to school, backpack, skateboard, cell phone toting daddies 44 Magnum, Smith & Weston Cyclone.

357, AK-47, 38 Saturday Night Special Cannon bloating out an executioners song, a fire storm of video glee, to many Gangster Wanabees. Twenty dead children at the local highschool, blood swabbed on the "Golden Rule", swat and cops and parents tears, neglect and kids with very real fears, a child's heart forgotten, disappears. Who will stop the violence flood, "Chill Man, it's all good" after all we paid for it with our baby's blood.

What a we gonna do man? Maybe step back, reevaluate, recalibrate, reload and relax and rejuvenate. Maybe unplug the Zombie MAchine, rip the umbilical cord from the Mother Ship, napalm the Micro-wave, line up the media pimps and their vicious Cable Gangs slithering their venom into our eye sockets and shoot I'm up, take I'm down, cut their throats, drink their blood, perhaps making Lincoln smile from the Capitol Steps as we recapture love and the urge and care and anger and above all our companionship.

So this is it amigo, women and baby cakes. Cut yourself some slack, forget you bought the hucksters pitch, open their coffin lid, allow the light to expose their sins, begin to become human again. Hell thats alright, you never saw it coming, but now that you know it has, erase the hype, fuck your wife and kiss your kids, pet the dog and fluff the cat, set a bottle of wine out to decant, kill the neon, light a candle and make a meal and take some time and maybe we all can once again learn how to feel.

Sounds like a plan to me.