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Paramore - crushcrushcrush |
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Joker drabble for you, Kendra ( bellumina).
There is glory in madness. There is a method, a sweet despair in the blood that sings when you slit flesh open and apart (skin and nerves and veins and they musn't be dead. They musn't - no, no. Not yet. It sounds so very dull when their hearts stop beating). It sings, and he trills along.
Mother says it's only polite.
This is the eulogy they are worth - and he wonders if he cuts them deep enough, ink will bleed out of them, for all those plans, all those structured, pretty little frames they hide themselves in. Such an insult, such an insult to his name, he thinks (Cross your t's and dot your i's, boy. The Joker hates tearing down incomplete perfection.)
Come play. Come play. Jack's not dull, is he? Jack's waiting, and waiting. Jack be nimble, jack be quick, jack in a box and boxes he hates, hates boxes. All the lines and symmetry and a box can never be round, his mother said.
Boo.
Don't look away, boy. Don't swallow. Look at me. You are invincible when you're nothing. You're omnipotent when you're nowhere. You're a god when you crawl like a worm. Topsy-turvy inside to outside and nothing makes sense when intestines are the best features to ever adorn a man's body. (Armani had the wrong idea - old Giorgio and all his worthless little lines - and where is the poetry?)
Nothing makes sense, a mismatched jumble of the devil's truth spoken through too many tongues. The purest beauty lies in its unbridled entropy and he's in a good temper because there is no smudge in that clarity.
Come play, boy, and the Joker thinks that he can be merciful this time. Maybe. But mercy makes him look fat, and we can't have that now, can we?
I hope you liked it, bb. =_(\ And I should probably stop being pinged by nutcases.
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