American anti-hero (a white-noise poem)

kicking like a gun,
sinking like a sun,
brilliant in the floral hues
of expansive opiation:
coupled with an elaborate pharmaceutical regime...

you might think
you get the general theme
like a bad recurring psilocybyn dream:
Warhol turned into a vampire vendor
selling a whole new can of soup,
the digital Manhattan meta mind-scape:
a maniacal wax-museum of co-orbiting talking heads
spewing cheerful confusion
marking the thin line between oratory and illusion...

breathing within such a deluded labyrinth,
the alienated young man lives nihilism
in whatever form
and at whatever class and expense
his particular personal montage expedites...
it's easy to follow the falling lights
or to read the scrawling on the derelict walls...

The hero saves the day
(or steals the show,)
but the glowing anti-hero:
he walks another way
in the 'beat'
of Thoreau's different drummer