Babels of blocks to the high heavens towering
Flames of futility swirling below;
Poisonous fungi in brick and stone flowering,
Lanterns that shudder and death-lights that glow.

Black monstrous bridges across oily rivers,
Cobwebs of cable to nameless things spun;
Catacomb deeps whose dank chaos delivers
Streams of live foetor that rots in the sun.

Colour and splendour, disease and decaying,
Shrieking and ringing and crawling insane,
Rabbles exotic to stranger-gods praying,
Jumbles of odour that stifle the brain.

Legions of cats from the alleys nocturnal.
Howling and lean in the glare of the moon,
Screaming the future with mouthings infernal,
Yelling the Garden of Pluto's red rune.

Tall towers and pyramids ivy'd and crumbling,
Bats that swoop low in the ****-cumber'd streets;
Bleak Arkham bridges o'er rivers whose rumbling
Joins with no voice as the thick horde retreats.

Belfries that buckle against the moon totter,
Caverns whose mouths are by mosses effac'd,
And living to answer the wind and the water,
Only the lean cats that howl in the wastes.

I feel life from the words I write despite them being words I slurred over night it's like I fight but my pen is the sword of course I force myself into creative prospects I expect to wreck what in front of me is set
I wondered what would happen if I ruled the world gimme a shot at the top I'm not Clinton I only need one girl but seriously I hate this place controlled by industry it's ****** me up the environment and desire for right went out the window when the dead presidents kept talking from beyond the grave the money you made won't matter so cut it like a beanstalk

DaSH:
And fall into a pool of tears
From all the single mothers over all these years
Tucking youngins under covers
Undercover trying not to let the pain show through
This is the same strong woman that still holds you
Even though you're older and make your own decisions
Its gotten colder in the later years just wishin
You could go back to the beginnin
Back to when **** was simple
And all you had to do was listen
To another bedtime story
Next thing you know you're drifting
Away from all these problems and all these lights
Fluoride will **** our dreams they tell us to brush our teeth and cringe when we say reality bites
But I'm just trying to figure what's more important
Being myself
Or being Your kid
Just another thought from the tortured
I can feel the flames lick my body 'fore the torch's lit
Society's trying to burn us
And if they think they can teach us before they learn us then its straight out the frying pan and flying into the furnace

Nero:
I'm all alone like a watchtower my life turned sour but I'll devour any chance to **** up fools with rhymes perchance I'll leave you entranced with my writings but I'm sliding off topic so dash if you're ready then go a ahead and rip because we're cyphering on some poetic mafia ****

DaSH:
**** clips in the toilet with the ******* safety off
******* blood royal flushing with my king homie Alucard
All your ******* are old and lack any kind of support
So I'll hang em make their back straight with that ******* IV cord
If this cipher is random
Hope they deal with what I hand em
Four grenades a box of tampons
Watch these ******* explode while standing above the commode
Uncan them
The whoopass they deserve
Then im swervin in their hearse
Hopping over every curb
Speeding through every sharp turn
I love to watch their bodies burn
I love to catch every single ash between my teeth and eat them
DaSH is such a beast you freed him
By acting like a priest
When youre a demon in the streets
*******, capish?

Nero:
Alucard the damphir ******* blood like canned beer I'm near my apex others are below I'll free flow like arkham you won't question in a session when I leave your ***** barkin rhyme sparring call me Ali all these fools stay trying to Rock me like cheap Versace but I'm high quality leather built for your pleasure linkin words together you'll take home and treasure like Sinbad I don't sling crack but my rhymes are the pipe because reading this I know your *** got addicted tonight

DaSH:
Slicing high up on their frame
Like I'm aimin for the throat
Lots of gore on the floor
Need a boat to stay afloat
The walls needed more paint
You donate another coat
But I don't need your ******* charity
I'll stumble and I choke
Before I ever let you get to me
Before you start ***** you'll be history
How you ******* plan on ending me?
Just get Gone, Girl, be a mystery

it always comes out of america, it really does!
  you start listening to these guys
in the 21st century talking about psychedelic
"pioneers" from the 20th century...
- hey man! like take this l.s.d.
- n'ah man! d.m.t.! 15min of fab!
- magic mushrooms!
               to be honest, i wouldn't do that -
i don't know why i wouldn't...
       maybe because it's no longer a secret?
carlos casteneda's anthropological study
of a yaqui shaman, don juan -
and don juan says: keep it to yourself!
but no... the americans in the 20th century
had to write poetry... shout the mystic experience
from the rooftops!
and i'm like: well... that's ruined, what's the point
of doing these eywa roots?
              eywa? the avatar planet goddess...
i'd love to have tried those things,
but these fungi have been contaminated by
other people's experiences, which they noted down...
is it really that bad? someone might ask...
                                               yes!
it's a bit like disrespecting other people's privacy,
the term privacy? should anyone attempt it...
          you can easily create junkies that way...
i was watching this video once...
  this american girl went in search of ayahuasca
in south america...
   she posted regular videos...
                             after a few videos, and she's
back home in america...
                   she's no longer eating / smoking it...
whatever... she's injecting it...
             move it back to europe...
                                    well, compared to you
"cool kids" in america... (apart from the dutch)...
  we're still going: give us enough *****
and a good song, some tobacco and we tell you
of mysticism of another kind: the type you see
with your naked eyes.
            i can't remember how many times
i had mystical(?) experiences drinking and listening
to music... usually nordic, but also germanic
music... ok even some slavic music...
                               english music?
                          you trying to bribe with candy
and a heart-numbing anesthetic?
                    you think i'd emotionally get-off
on english music? some henry the 8th greensleeves
suite?                        but, it's, only, alcohol...
   i'll mystify alcohol for you... end up feeling
so much that you have to burst into tears
    without any "enlightening" images,
geometric geriatrics...
                                i base everything on sounds,
**** the images, if there's a heaven i want to be
sitting next to homer, blind as a bat, as he ended
up being.
                  you want to know a mystical
experience from europe?
  well... yesterday i woke up with this unforgiving
pain in my neck, like i might have popped a ******
and it got stuck in my neck...
                 i blame the builders making a racket
too early in the morning...
                      so last night i was like: that's it! i've had
enough! **** this *** is good...
      so first it was 70cl of capn' morgan's white ***,
not bad, not bad at all...
              and then onto the pièce de résistance
   capn' morgan's original spiced gold -
                    making up about a litre of ***: in m'ah belly...
i'll be doing an apache yawn in a minute:
   ap ap pa pa pa - lazy onomatopoeia, i know:
i can't be bothered exacting that battle cry...
      but the zenith of this mystical experience came
after i butchered some food (ate it like a ravenous
wolf) - but i said to myself: not tomorrow!
   i'm not going to lie in bed with a neck-ache
like i might have popped a ****** and it got stuck
in my neck (austin powers' ref. third movie?) -
   and lo! behold... i woke up today chirpy like
a sparrow... chirp chirp! chirp chirp!
                                   and did the oddest thing
imaginable... i watched a "movie" -
                      watched batman: arkham city...
the walkthrough... up to chapter 20...
                                  now i see the funny side of professional
gamers... i can sorta start to build up a respect
for them now, before today i thought they
were a joke...
                               it felt like: the opposite of an audiobook?
in my life i might have listened to about 10minutes
of 1 audiobook... couldn't stomach it...
       but these game walkthroughs? now that's an
area i'm really going to discover after today -
they're practically movies (games these days) anyway -
   i remember times when playing games
meant you had sore fingers... like the first
time you pick up the guitar and one of your arms
starts aching because your fingers are getting
fried on the copper strings...
                           for some reason i can't imagine
myself playing a game like the one i ref. -
                     i prefer the game of hacking google...
but yeah... these games are great to watch,
but actually play them?
                        i'd rather shoot myself in the foot
before i start playing them...
    so yeah, the zenith of yesterday's mystical
experience...
    a. about a litre of *** (white and amber)
        b. 25mg of amitriptyline
   and crucially    
                                    c. 500mg of naproxen.
and this is for you, *******, having ruined
       the potential of having a psychedelic experience!
i didn't want to know... but thanks for telling me...
    **** yourselves, 20th century buggers
                                      and your poetic buggery.

Romance is only shred human in our love

The flavor of the air is tense,
I am plagued in these unsafe streets.
They are hidden but I know they hunt me,
I can feel them tearing at my in most brain.

How many shots do I have?
I cannot remember when confronted with pure unmasked terror.
An ankh like shadow protrudes slightly
One bullet spent.

The pharaoh looking man dropped to the ground,
His curled fingers clutch his tools.
But he is dead with black blood dripping,
However it is still not safe.

I can hear the delicate footsteps,
they echo along the brick walls..
Calling ahead of the dainty voice,
that sings prayers of madness.

I lie in wait.
Maybe I can jump her,
**** her before she me,
Or maybe I am a fool.

She rounds the lit corner,
and drops her frail veil.
What a bloated beastly thing she becomes,
with tentacles flowing from her mouth.

Wandering close I wonder if she can smell me,
For I am drenched in the fear of all things.
This night is one of horrors,
The worst that Arkham ever offered.

As she bends down to my level,
Groaning as she meets me.
I shot before the tentacle could gather,
Around my fleshy throat.

I missed the fatal blow,
she took off at a giggling run into the night.
As I chased after her,
Horror found me once again.

This time it came as a dark skinned man,
with the hoofs of a beast.
My trembling gun in hand ,
He responded with a finger to his lips.

I began to waiver in my steadiness.
He smiled a wicked smile,
4 words floated through the air,
" The Dark Avatar is coming".

Courage resumed its timid grasp,
And I put a bullet in his gut.
It spilled open as he laughed,
A wry corrupting laugh.

Out of his stomach feel as shining jewel,
And out of it came a bat like beast .
Screaming chaos to the winds,
Cracking my heart and mind.

There flew the Haunter of the Night.
A Malicious creature of atrophy and leathery wings .
I shot again and again and again,
Until the last tick where no bullet fired.

As I back away from the circling monster,
I felt something slimy grab me from behind.
Constricting me till breathing became a luxury,
All faded and I lost track of the world.

I wake with the a foul breeze wafting over me
Above me stood a hunched and twisted figure.
From its mouth were a hundred teeth,
And a tongue drench in the reddest blood.

It dragged me along the ground,
To the darkest bend of the forest.
There I could hear chanting,
that held me tighter than this beast with a ****** tongue.

When We rounded the corner ,
I dug my bloodstained fingers into the moody ground.
It was to no avail however,
The figures round the fire were loomed ever closer

The fire played with their shadows is strange unearthly ways.
As they chanted praises to the crawling chaos.
Maniacs danced playing wilde flutes of bone,
And the dark priests turned to face me.

I was stripped and bound by ropes tied to posts,
A sacrifice of naked flesh.

Out of the Shadow of the flames loomed  the form
The beast of thousand  tattered minds,
The god of a thousand forms ,
My heart and mind both shattered .

And I was devoured wholly.

I'm sorry about possible mistakes, this is not my native language.
Thanks, Guilherme*

The son was sad
The daughter went mad
The mom cried, breathed in deeply and fell on the ground

The raven wearing its black elegant suit
Was standing, staring at every moment of that morning
While someone else was moaning

The son still cries
The daughter became angry
The mom was still lying on the grass beside the grave

The raven in a black feather coat
Was standing, staring at everyone
Wearing those pathetic black clothes

The son still cries
The daughter was turning into insanity
The mom was taken away

The raven wearing a perfect black crush hat
Was standing, staring at all those fools
And watching the gravedigger disappear beyond the hills

The son had stopped his cry
The daughter was finally hysterical
The mom was declared really dead

The raven rose from the tree, above the grave
Took a brief flight over everyone at that funeral
And landed on an old rotten log

The mom was really gone
The daughter finally got crazy
The son, the son… yes,
He said to the raven:
‘Let’s go my friend,
Who didn’t notice you
Doesn’t understand life
Doesn’t understand that we’re like grass
Waiting for a reaper,
The Grim Reaper that owns you’

The raven took another brief flight
Till the shoulder of the son
Meanwhile the coffin was buried
And the grave was sealed,
The mom was taken to a morgue
And the daughter sent to Arkham.

Probably now she’s having some fun with Joker.

And don't ask about who was dad...
It doesn't matter : now he's buried and...
He's The dead!

Her hair is dyed, red and blue,
Her looks give not a clue,
Of her part in Joker's dark
paradise,
She rid her old self a lively
demise,

A dangerous mind she does
possess,
She's worse than Joker, they
confess,
With your cool bat & ornated
revolver,
You're the best problem
solver,

She's made of mischief, & she ain't
hidin',
She's a darlin' with her dear
puddin',
Her life's not an open DC book,
But more, care to take a look?

Locked & chained, was her heart,
Until, one day, came Joker's dart,
& so he's her one & only,
Now she nor Gotham will ever be lonely,

The queen of Arkham is a feat,
Her suave style, none can beat,
Harleen Quinzel, well played,
I don't mind comin' to your aid!!!  
                                             THE END

All my love
All my hope
All my books
In vain

He said
He saw Prince
Amazing show
In Spain

Death is annihilation
The end
Of all
The pain

Bats
Cats
Rats
Bruce Wayne

idealism is dead on the kneel, gleaming mile-high glow
but leaking some blood, desperation, realistically
the ideal road is twisted and melted into the bars
to walk past till sundown and turn left to the county
turn right to the world of the corrupt, leaching, and thieving
maybe you'll get a life son, like that man right there
that man in a white hat wanted to buy the world, whole
he blows on his tambourine like he blows on this world
a dark shroud of a man covered in green, a mountain of it
the next day, a long night in Arkham Asylum, a lil' Johnny Cash
an old man was traveling that bleak road, smoking and smiling
when he turned right, he saw the man in his dim eyes and asked
"my blued son, where are my valleys and the mountains?"
"Where are my swans and rivers, birds and children playing?
"Where are the mothers, drunks, and the lovers?"
"Where are the commies, the reformers, the queers?"
"Where are my space rockets, satellites, and science stuff?"
"Where are the trees, those green insects, or flowers, it's near spring?"
the man said,
"Old man you're insane, that was all in your head.
dipped and planted like a seed, the moon was a joke, and the sun too.
You need to be electrocuted and controlled till you're better, this is the real world"
he turned to some corner to say
"come, writers and critics, invite and incite some distinct pain
don't block your mind with senseless meaning, be blinded today
come, ladies and gentlemen, curse some distinct verse of words
struck together by your vision of hell, spun to heaven"

Future Is A Bleak Piece of Music

Hi praise from a genius.
Interveniusly fed from the heavens.
Birth of concept directed as a gift
Of immaculate conception.
Weapons of an angel.
Death and life in direction of travelling passengers
On a raft in river of
Deliverance from ****** repression.
****** suspension.
Chemical intervention. Medication meant to be a super natural circumvention. Of a dramatic urge to ****** sessions with **** men and .
And I'm a menace. With a compass pointing north like magnetic attraction to a hardened compression
of gravity in the pants of attraction in a storm of upwards direction known as your skyward awakened sacred *******.
And I'm going south with plans of making my face take southward facing face plant
A face cant.
Take that.
Make me decorate my place with fake plants
A baby with a fate that.
A man that grows apussy cant ******* make that.
Following gods naked granted word
Promise that a baby
Is promised.
Like a slate that.
Cant clean
Itself. Like jesus needs to save that which
Is depraved inside my nature a
Way of naked anger
Attempting perfection
With a worthless self appraisal
My name that
Needs saving and re decorating
In a place of carpets draped
On windows
In the light. Where the saints dance
And the devil waits to take that
Which cant protect
Its life I took for granted
Need to stand in
Saving grace
The light that fades
From mystic music
Cascading
From her hair and face and
Her smile great like
God inside the depths of hell
Shining light in darkness
With compassion
For the fate of which
Was elaborately persuaded
To abandon sacred ashes
while jesus dusts the grey ants from my dusty plant which
Smells like eminem kanye and jay z
Diamond eyes. A mind of detention
Crime of perfection
With genius mention
For the sentence
***** is a craving. That leaves me weapon less and unprotected
An urge to get pregnant
While imspeaking of future intentions
I should avoid my hatred
Of self expression
I should forgive
My pseudo intellect
And goof like intentions
**** I **** I say all thisshit
But cant break my body
In the alottedtime
Not pragmatic
*** I'm tempered like a serrated blade.
And worthless with a great chance
To face agrave.
Of shallow grief speaking of a reach from Angel's breaking bread with words that make that
Mission
Like s vision
Of envisioning
A great plan
Prophetic
Eradicating
Drakes laugh
From my gay half
Laughing like I'm cisgendered
Not a gay man
Or a Jays fan
Break leg fam
You fake glam
**** fan
I'll shave my legs
And drape your legs with my ankles
Breaking bones
As I wind up on your face champ
So ******* break dance
Kick it like a karate
Break my body like
A babe lamb
Bones are inventions
Of a name
A single world that makes me think
I'm ******* great and
Than people speak of changes
Like a fate of
Slated fake plants
I honestly believe
I'm going to conceive
A baby from a great man
But the tragic truth remains
Imdeluded. Polluted conclusion
Undoing of pursuing my inner truth
Like serial killers pursue
A cell in Arkham county
But there too smart to take a g

I frequently walk the path of solitude
Though I often wish I did not
Still don't know how
But I'm gonna help my brother Scott

The Fortress of Solitude
Superman retreats
Arkham Asylum
Batman defeats

In my solitude
Memories of her smile
Memories of her words
Memories of denial

One is the loneliest number
Everyone must stand alone
Fr. Louis knew us
Telephone to Rome

            God Unknown

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.