I eat for three, I must be showing--they take care to plump me up with elite takes on food-a.
*******, dust, ****, *****, glass, staples, *****--you know.
a pizzazz that heaps years on to their vidas,
finally cutting the key to the teeth of their monsters.
I see those glued to the veil, struggle like flies to avoid what I singlehandedly spawned.
A hatred that runs so deep it almost comes out as love, the potentency of its vacuum is unmatched.
I know how many thorns are on the crown, fashionably so--like any good dramatis personae, I try it on.
the wrists & feet are a bother of fixity, I'm still spreading my gospel--no Paul, just three of a kind.
I have been dutifully informed that I am a danger to myself & others, that I will most likely spend the rest of my natural life in confinement...
"for the criminally insane" is too long-winded, I prefer: behind bars.
I may be a danger to myself in here, I've endangered many out there, & there are some for whom danger is over.
These are but minor logistics, I offer them such a prismatic sacrifice, a darling rarity to be carried out like a festive procession.
I Am: The Who's Who, whose seasons will never be canceled--I Air.
I Am a slow cult suicide--I run the risk of rays, I encircle before they encircle.
I will  encircle them once more, as all good things come in threes my friends.
You must know that I've abstracted them in blackout blood all over these padded walls, like Francis Bacon's studio.
his murderers' kit of paintbrushes clotted & snapped, forgotten in turpentine.
I would rather they do it to themselves, think of one buying rope for the purpose of straightening up a tree--only to **** up its posture with their weight.
hanging there with burdensome repetition, ******* by proxy.
they've all gone limp with oppression, they know not what they do.
I must whittle down three possible outcomes: Nicholson's Joker says: the head, head-shrinker will commit professional suicide by sampling the flesh of his underlings like hors d' ouevres.
Ledger's Joker says: the head, head-shrinker will separate a blade from its handle, into Three of a Kind--
will commit ******.
Phoenix' Joker says: the head, head-shrinker will commit suicide.
well...from Gotham to urban areas all over the world, iconography of: "Three of a Kind" is handed out & sold.

I can't hear the voice in my head, because I affected changes in the way I spoke since I was able to manipulate its medium.
I never thought about it--another incarnation just toyed with my vocal chords.
as if my foundation knew it would tilt what sat on it.
I was compelled to make sure that I would never know myself, its origin hissed like pissy holy water.
all the rest that crank out humanity would revise their approach to fiction because of me.
it was never enough for me to know that I too am God, I could never share my image, yes--my image!
of jellybeans & colored time capsules,  let me dissolve in this sugar cube!
I'm astonished that I was unhanded by so many once touched, they will thus feel the chills of my mania without the ability to shiver.
this will dull them with empty-handed inspiration, they won't be able to walk through deep-freezes of cloud to ground lightning.
how the psychologists circle-**** to me,
I really want to symptomatically convince them out of their misery.
I lower my gotcha-green head like a worry sick Madonna for them, all this superfluousness authenticates my unknowable selves.
now to my voices, how do they sound in my head you might ask--well who's asking?
I talk to & at my selves, so the voice is most certainly vexed--but in a whiney & nasally way.
it's an exorcise/exercise in futility to describe, nonetheless...I always sound like what I'm looking at, I can sound like a chair.
It's all the voices inside that do this--they don't like company so they become it, anything external basically.
it's reflexive & creatively fruitful, you should hear the voices in my head during vows of silence--they both regurgitate & originate.
I'll gift that can of worms to the head, head-shrinker...picture channeling a phone book into the ear of a whitehole.
I can speak in an assertively calculated voice on a slippery *****, that gains the footing of trust, I favor that one.
I also do famous serial killers when I'm most peaceful, it helps to fertilize the soil.
I need to cultivate one for the books, premiere it right here--the egregore of this
eyeless capstone.
I gouged it out in plain sight--I have a voice for that too.

Joker is confined at Arkham State Hospital--he's an amalgamation of: Nicholson, Ledger, Phoenix.
the essence of these portrayals will fluctuate as would a possession.
the following will be written with all three in mind (no specification)--the reader is free to infer which, there is no incorrect imagining in this case of psychosis.
greener to the pasture hair, cropped short & feathered on the right side--shoulder length scraggles, that stream oil from a receding hairline on the left.
**** pillow-talk padded walls, an experimental recording studio--millenia of disassociative voices.
institutional-white disciple wear, beneath a straitjacket that can be tricked open.
he takes to contemplatively stalking the room's perimeter like John Nash's doppelganger outlining university grounds for sanity.
suddenly sawing himself into boxed halves, the pros & cons of junked minds.
then stands at attention as if absorbing the insults of a commanding officer.
he's unmuzzled, but his iconic makeup was polished off as an immaculate castration.
licking his lips like a perverted lizard, hot for his cold bloodbank--a cleaning product salesman's ear-engulfing grin.
a: Try Again mouth swallowing beanbags.
an overdeveloped feature, circled red over & over like a happy accident--boo!
a cosmetic surgeon's: Project X, a scorned *****'s unevenly applied lipstick spread around by a passionately hateful kiss.
now just a presentable choirboy with a hardon for the whole mass.
a choppy quack rolling into a chainsmoker's weepy guffaw, self-heckling giggles of bozo persistence.
a hung jury of tears snorting & spitting out antecedent laughter--reeled in by a forced seriousness that believes its deadliness.
as comfortable with one-way humor as a malfunctioning parachute, that dead silence that breeds bat symbols.
contrary to the funny wastelands of his surveillance footage, a notoriously unprivate life turning cameras on themselves.
three of a kind, says he without saying--each having explosive dance offs, while cutting into unrelated dances.
the lighting in his room is as changing slides, that look for patterns of behavior,
with a misleadingly stark evidential buildup.
a Joker--that Joker needs a smoke, that Joker stares up at the cameras, motioning to guards.
his eyes are dead set askant, with a backtracking deviance slyer than a meat hook without a carcass.
a drowsy pick-me-up, melting with baby's candy, a cocky knower of inner names.
whites like wet dreams of glory-holes.
a feminine ruefulness that signals overkill before the ****, eyes that victimize rehabilitation.
brass that will be unaccountably drawn to them like Poe's: "The Tale-tale Heart."
a gaurd un-maximizes security enough to slide a cigarette into the Joker's mouth, then removes it.
the Joker looks up & disentangles a plot of smoke--then smiles sheepishly at the gaurd.

the sky was crookedly airlifted by BC & AD--as two strangers walked toward one
another on a sidewalk.
wanting to appear polite, they both delayed choosing a side in which to cross paths.
consequently--they both chose to do so mere feet away.
a blend of of irritation & awkwardness held them right before they veered aside.
recent memory is hardly history, so any unlearned lesson may not be doomed to repeat it.
their day will be comprised of more subtle & overt disparities as this.
surely there was a place from which they emerged & will return to--in which they encounter themselves in a similar fashion.
a place of fanatic familiarity, a place where things don't dare move--as not to
displease their master.
a place where a degree's dereliction would rack them subconsciously.
who knew homemaking could be a dark little art.
even if you subvert personal history & the world from which it hails--you've still done nothing.
the most controlled environment, which one has to work hard to interface with as a: "known"--doesn't sit tight.
its alchemy uses this life, this world--for starters.
whereas subject & object keep crossing paths as different subjects & objects.

it was done through you on April Fool's Day 1876--Offenbach, Germany.
even so, irony is for the pairers of unlikelies, wowed by what poetic mystique they can milk.
you were carefully stacking fresh copies of the first part of your magnum opus:
"The Philosophy of Redemption"--on the floor of your apartment.
the weather must've been hiding evidence of winter, with sloven chills hasting its spine.
a raw cusp of bipolarities, like an unwelcome lovesickness.
you were winter for thirty-four years, its
last will & testament.
it was ****** upon you with your mother's ****--no one could see where that would go but you.
as far as death can go as a religion, it got into you as the only purifier.
there was Phillip, death & its world.
it was more than the transitory triteness of a: "living-death", you were its absolutist.
you gave nothing time to transition to that inevitability, death was--inherent & imminently supreme.
constance with no need of reminder, this
rootless seed durated until your philosophy was realized.
strange was the way that had you, finding it appalling for heads to rear at the way you were--you published under a pseudonym.
outside was a pregnant music box, atypical sounds made by soundlessness.
your four walls unfortified, they stood after the fact while before it.
you stepped on to the stacked stair of your philosophy--to the word.
as you were given to a noose whose knot
tightened with more confliction than you.

Artaud consults a witch doctor, as

chicken wire winks around a martian

sand dune.

a screen experiences morning sickness

during the moon's live feed.

who's busy drumming in-between her

knuckles--as she squeezes through tunnel

vision.

just to see Pythia rolling on the ground to

put herself out, in preparation for an

offering to Helios.

a sallow pouch of poultry skin with an

egg in it.

to exchange her all-seeing blindness with

Helios'--as his: "Nerve Meter" twitches.