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heart on a sleeve and panic bleeding on canvas, slit open a vein and suck it through your straw; take it all in, breathe it all out and sigh with a relief you never knew before this lucid moment. life's imitating an abstract art of inkblotclots, and our collective consciousness is reeling now; death is on each and every television station, the apocalypse coming to pay-per-view soon. pucker up, suck it up and quit your precautions, tart yourself up like an existential whore 'cause your essence still matters, so cake it on thick: urban decay's a hobby today, yesterday's downfall. empathy's out, apathy's in, spoken-word symphonies on every street corner and the bum's lying in a gutter death, no glitter for him and his whiskey; the funeral party clicks its heels, sympathy died and the grieving widow mourns with a dirty needle: the crowd applauds a magnificent performance and warhol is rapping on his coffin door: bad andy. a fitshaced pinstripe doll snorts lines in a stall, boss passed out in the next with a bloody trickle; the heroin fags mingle with fashion tourniquets, mainline abscess steadily oozing jello green pus. the black velvet curtain descends on manhattan, now what would you do for a klondike bar?
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