paint me a rockwell fantasy to the tune of a plasticized bubble-gum sugarpop hit on the radio of schizophrenic delusion-- for is it not your own delusion that gripped your audience for years manifold in a jested effort to dilate your pupils like pot-metal dimes jingling in the pocket of a sign-flying tweaker seeking his street's ephemeral mayhem in the coagulated flows of bypassing motorcars and their ossified pilots jostling through the machineworks of their liminal destiny__ i hate these goddamned schizophrenics articulating their sour entitlement as though they didn't warrant a hard day's work in the rebar fields of a blue father's disdain-- what of it all now?
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