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IDLE TONGUE SITS AT THE ROOF OF HIS MOUTH,     stiffening at   the calamity   caused by the king of their barbed wired,     metal-gated paradise.     the muscle is dry:     sitting in its equally torrid cave of clenched teeth.     the collateral king who could,     and would,     sing to you so   SOOTHINGLY   as he drove the    BLUNT END    of a rusted-tipped knife through the   BELLY OF YOUR CORE.     and although gregor wasn’t sure if this was   one of those moments,     he continued to stand in the familiarity of   A DRILL LINEUP   that negan once commented on in a discomforting appreciation.     /     @odinsleep​​  :  for negan  ( mo )

+  heavy hand palms at opposite shoulder ;     gripping   at     something     knotted   beneath   skin .     pulled   sometime   during   a   firewood   session .     ALWAYS THE ODD MAN OUT ,     the     survivalist     stands      OPEN-FLANNEL ,        bare   hands   comfortable        (  hooking through  )        the   belt   loops   of   his   cargo   pants .     teeth   exposed   in   beneath     the thicket of his beard     bearing       *THE BRUNT       of   the   december   wind .          “   cold yet marine ?   ”

[     arkham    ]    :      dead  of  night ,    end   of   ends.     night,  dawn and the dusk,  morally heinous,  his very own circus.  he feels the watching eyes,  the authority,  the camera,  those that lie upon him,  that creep and steal glances.  there’s a quiet moment,  just a fleeting a handful of seconds,  before the doubt settles into the marrow,  when the eyes are watching and ogling,  cackling,  open-mouthed and scrutinizing,   they’ve seen a joker in his natural flesh and bone.   and they’re laughing,  they must be,  hoarse and sturdy,  for this was the punchline.  the killing joke.  there is an empire on his skin,  gotham city,  and it burns to the ground in a day.  for it was built upon the old,  rickety foundations of calamity.  have a taste of the fire if you’d like,   hell,  stick your tongue in the flame.  the flavors compose of circus ringleaders and charcoaled dreaming.  a lure for chaos.  a lure for those as crazy as himself.   𝚃𝙷𝙾𝚂𝙴  𝚃𝙷𝙰𝚃  𝚆𝙰𝙸𝚃  𝙵𝙾𝚁  𝚃𝙷𝙴  𝙼𝙰𝚃𝙲𝙷  𝚃𝙾  𝚂𝙿𝙰𝚁𝙺  𝚃𝙷𝙴𝙸𝚁  𝙵𝙻𝙰𝙼𝙴 .  there she is.  a waiting match.   ❛  yoo - hooooo  ..   you,  you,  you.  ❜   his laughter is a dysphoric,  uncomfortable orchestra,  exploding and erupting like the city around them.  if his laugh was a person,  a living breathing thing,  it’d be pale and sickly thin,  with limbs that flail to a macabre tune.  an omnipresent sort of darkness that looms over the eyes.  he slams his forehead once against the tiny window,  and a grin kisses the edges of his lips.  how interesting she was. so reminiscent of his laughter’s personification.

he’s  nothing  if  not  larger  than  life,   :   he stitched royal and kingly blood into the artery,  and sports it with a smile to lip.  the king of the castle orchestrates his knights with antagonistic cadence,  with hunt and prey.   ❛❛   uh - oh.. ❜❜  he sings,  whistle like the throne trumpet.  the myth and legend and orion personified.  he woke up this morning to greed and power and gunpowder.   ❛❛   looks to me like, uh   ..  well,  like you’ve gotten yourself in a bit of a pickle,  here,  huh  ?!   ❜❜   these walking dead,  these people who still breathe,  they echo the likes of a world when church bells rang,  windmills turned,  and the cities stood with liberty.  this earth is unkind,  this earth kills.  this earth is as monochrome as the dead.  juvenile,  he’s grinning.     ❛❛   see,  ‘cause,  like ..  i mean,  come on  :   shit’s like a movie scene,  i tell you what!   there’s at least twelve big ass guys pointin’ at least twelve big ass guns at the back of your big ass skull right now, and let me tell you..  ❜❜    lions tend to bare their teeth and claws,  and the savior is not far from the image.  

jonathan  crane  is  composed  of  haunted  skins,     the keeper of both evil and trickery,  intelligence and virus.  i’m a doctor,  he thinks,  and the truth of the title falls somewhere between the syllables that make up the word,  but the boogeyman is groped and clutched within the thresholds of the demons of gotham city.  thirsty devils with sin on their tongue.  perhaps,  it is,  that his fears cuff his ankles,  hold him still just like a vessel and they burrow within the depths of his bone marrow,  stretch capillaries like highway.  perhaps that is the truth.  perhaps it’s denial, more so.  because fear does not fear itself.   ❛❛    i’m afraid the villains’ grotesque disfigurement,  the ..   the glowing eyes,  or everything alike is a thing of film.   television.  most monsters i’ve the pleasure of meeting look very much like your neighbor.   like your closest companion.   ❜❜    look closely,  there is empathy mixed within his blood,  and it glows carmine red.  it’s hot bile too,  burns the tongue,  a volcano that erupts within his next words.