Blood in, Blood out

Blood in, Blood out

by Alexander Michael Ziperovich

Curdling type A sitting up in the tier thinking, how could a man get this way?

Robs my loyalty & my wealth; we know what comes first, you abject coward.

I want to ride; spit unhealthy ideas into the back of your mind.

I can’t; my life is too important – your life isn’t noticed.

You threw me in jail cause you weak, “you swore you’d never hit me,” whilst sobbing. Ha.

You’re three times my size but your heart is paperclip’s for detectives: you ruin lives!

You have no heart, even with my protection when the beef would spark and was on.

You run into the bushes and hope no one sees. You’re a part time DA attempting felonies.

Come trot into my forest again and they will make you see. Let your eyes see me.

You don’t like jail because of fear of the unknown you rat bastard; Sammy The Bullshit.

Even listen to the same beats as me despite your ‘creativity’ trying to take lesson plans,

you can’t; you’re a dump truck dumb fuck with an index finger that loves to write blood.

Blood in, Blood out

Blood in, Blood out

Blood in, Blood out

Blood in, Blood out

And that’s all I got to say about that particular piece of shit.

PS: what you need is a little time to reflect pelican bay status and that can happen for you without me or my real people squealing like a B I T C H.


Over & Out.


You Know Who You Are

Alexander Michael Ziperovich

Emotional division, subtracted wisdom and a fan of the system.

You murder lives that are always just blossoming, growing; how is it going?

Walk into my foyer, enter loudly, we can have a party. Holding?

There is the finale and it has approached us; you are the friend that turned to dust.

The Rippling Coliseum That Is My Mind


The Rippling Coliseum That Is My Mind
Alexander Michael Ziperovich

In a Cathedral with Judas, sharing a single crystal goblet filled with the wine of my blood; we sit side by side in silence, each of us pontificating, lost in our memories.

Chopin speaks to me, Nocturne in E Minor as always. The music flows through me like knives and roses yet I am unable to stop my mind from running away from me into the ethereally charged pain. “The agony is your destiny to freedom,” something murmurs. Judas’s eyes remain sealed, and he is breathing deeply, his chest almost heaving. A single tear drops from his left eye and he dies. I am alone with the white corpse of Judas, and he begins to disintegrate, flashes of light and fire, and I am left with smoke in the shape of his face resembling a hologram of ashes.

Ashes to ashes, Dust to Dust. This empty place in my heart as empty as this Cathedral, in Rome, Latin drenching the walls of my soul. I speak nothing but my words and I rarely speak those, I write them on the papyrus in my machines. There is nothing pure but there never was; all that remains are the flames…

Judas’s shivering smoke kneels and gently places his face on the ground as though in deep prayer.

I am ignorant of his desires in regard to his spiritual cataclysm’s. They are his alone as are mine. Not our.

Chopin continues to whisper, slower, slower, slower until I find myself in a state of utter feebleness inside the valvular structure of my heart.

Is this the time for my spiritual suicide, inevitable as it is, to take place?

I walk outside the door into my house. There are small cross shaped diamonds laying all over my sheets like minuscule daggers or stars and I devour them all in time to the great pianist speaking through me. My eyes tingle and lower, sinking into my cheeks like tear drops into a great, cold, heaving ocean of my smiles. I vomit the diamonds and immediately eat them again.

There is no Leviathan that cannot be destroyed as there is all men that are destroyed. I feel the rocks shining blindly in my stomach and esophagus and I am in ecstasy, the approaching Leviathan, I realize, feeding me the Chopin and the diamonds. I vomit them and gather them with my fingers one by one and one by one I drink them down like champagne, bleeding tissue resting in the pools of vomit.

The singing Leviathan inching closer by the moment. Judas’s face reappears and laughs hysterically for exactly 3 moments. I cry, clutch my stomach, and hold the rocks in place. The Leviathan hears my struggle and it is indifferently continuing the beauty and the cruelty of Nocturne, now in B Flat Minor. He swings his massive incantation toward me and the ground of my home begins to shake and moan beneath me. A single but third eye sheds one tear of blood from the ceiling onto my papyrus on my desk next to the bed where I lay, still.

Judas’s face reappears and disappears, disappears and reappears several times; he is laughing in vile hysteria at me, now. I cannot look. Ashes rise from the smoke of the burning papyrus where the acid blood of the Angel Gabriel, bringer of light and I cut my arm with my one diamond I was unable to swallow and try to extinguish the quarto but it continues burning, a hot white and red alternating light emanating from its flames. My ribs crack. The pianist.

The Leviathan rises up from the soil into the darkened room and devours my works, “The Great Hell & Of Man We Nought Know,” his grotesque tongue a slithering sword gathering my life’s work. Somehow the monster contorts his face into what appears to be an utter grin.

I reach for the Goblet but Leviathan swallows that with his flailing tongue and regurgitates momentarily and spits the glass into my mind. The singular balance from the Cathedral is so far away.

I start to move off the bed slowly, my left eye on the monster, my right iris directed at the black door before me and I rise and leap off the sheets into the door, crashing through it injecting splinters into my timeless, precarious finality that is continuing on like a death march.

I leave the Leviathan but he does not leave me and he deafens me with Chopin, F Major. I cannot hear or see; the door has led to a door the same in appearance and I hurl my soul and body through it collected more petrified splinters into my lungs and neck.

There is another black door.

And another.

Leviathan has blinded me and I am in utter silence before the door of my sin, blood pooling in my eyes. My sense of direction has increased in proportion to the loss of my other senses. I sneer madly and crash through the next door into a large white feathered dungeon’s fireplace, where I curl myself up, my left leg severed. I hide, like Anne Franke opposing Helen Keller in the figurative and I try to feel around my small confinement but all I feel are warm-snow-like feathers drifting around my torso like the dust of a deity. I snarl and smile simultaneously and attempt to scream, “The great paradox is upon Rome!” but I am unable as I have now been made mute as Leviathan has placed the piano into my throat. A sliver of my quarto slaved and written on the crackling papyrus shivers down the chimney and I only feel it with my pinky.

A great and thunderous crashing sound above.

I am buried in my own slavery; I reach out for God as I begin to suffocate but only Judas appears, crying bloody tears into the ash I am drowning within.

I am buried with Judas.

Ashes to Ashes, Dust to Dust; Raptures to Raptures, Lust to Lust.

The great void yawns me in and I am swallowed.

Spiritual half-vicarious suicide; for I die for Judas, gladly and God shakes his head in shame and I scream up at the blackness bellowing laughter as I fall,

and I fall,

and I fall,

into nothing at all.

There is one slight sparkling diamond on the wall of the fall.

That is all.

Mother Superior In Black

Alexander Michael Ziperovich

for Mom, the greatest survivor I know…

Black, her favorite color, her the night sky from the bottom of the cavity of a canyon, stars torching burning flaming white light – sparkling explosions in her eyes; when she looks at me, I find.

I know.

She’s always known. Had always known.

Was lookin’ at three years consecutive for a bullshit collection of variously colored sedatives and a loud voice when my lawyer fucked me and raised bail a quarter million. The boys in the bullpen couldn’t believe what they were hearing; her eyes taught me integrity that’s searing. They were almost rioting when I said three words if not for their own MISDEMEANOR cases that were beginning proceedings.

Always known. I begged her to believe me once; I used a dirty flower the first time from some El Salvadoran’s car in hell street #13’s parking lot & I poked my friend from rehab in my cluttered confined little kitchen in my penthouse who has hepatitis C, which sticks around virally longer than God. God, I (thought) knew after my next blood draw what would’ve been saw or seen; massive spikes in my liver enzymes and all other manner of indications of being a fiend.

She said, “No, Alex. It just didn’t happen.” I replied, “But I swing around, high, and poked his arm with a goddamned .29 gauge or whatever and still shot the shit, I was high,” I wined. Again: “No.”

Turns out eye dodged another fucking bullet from a repeated phantom tommy gun/uzi/the finger of God Almighty, Goddamn.

How’d she know I wouldn’t be shot down that low or rather have shot myself down that low?




No words register like the fuckin’ syringes she never saw so there is no explanation excepting her divinely inspired clause and without a pause I believe what she says and know she’s right because that’s how I’ve survived the world war nineteen of my life.

Around then, nineteen. That’s when things get hard. Burning nose to burning foil to burning spoons the bathroom floor, blood dripping down my arm, my chin glancing off my nipples and all the way through that horrible transition to becoming what I am she was there bearing witness; she is an angel with wings made by James Perse and sexy shades by Chanel.

Who the hell knew? Wasn’t it supposed to be the junkies’ on the streets job to read up on their lives and blow my roll? Santa Clause said ho ho ho and I won’t ever again drink a scotch that leads directly to blow.


Because after a decade there are problems in the system, the plug and sparks are twisted; I made a promise I can’t break to a woman that I don’t think I’ve ever seen even age despite the fact that her 21 year old son had a ninety percentile risk of mortality with MRSA in his chest, the aortic valve of course, God Bless, God Bless, God Bless?

Strength structural isn’t grey or chrome or steel. It’s black. I know the sun is burning your eyes out your skull if you look too hard but imagine the blanket of the night collapsing but not smothering my creativity because if I was to go outside without my contacts I couldn’t see.

The black beauty.

The lady in black with the blanket of her love; I couldn’t have done it myself.

She knows this already but she asked me to tell and now I’m sober for her – not me – plus me – plus Sophie and I’m a little tired of being tired so I’m energetic writing poetry at 6:58 in September for her because she needed one thing from I, damnit, and I was happy to oblige, painfully happy.

Painfully black?

Euphorically black- no that word has the wrong connotations.

Practically ecstatic- no…


All because of the divinity of the lady in black that salvaged the unsalvageable and put me in my office with her heart so I could write this so she can see it tomorrow.

Brilliantly black.

Brilliantine white light.

My mommy.

5:28 explicit cigarette drift slits

by Alexander Michael Ziperovich

This screen, this screen, I want to stab it with a smallpox dipped pencil until it’s black with the mumps.

The only pen I can reasonably attempt to use without immediately waking up to orderlies feeding me sedatives in tiny white round cups prior to examining the underside of my tongue is a dagger; little bastard cuts up the pages like cancer and in some macabre, Machiavellian, merry way it’s like heroin injections into journals and verbs. You couldn’t know about my sharpest pen, my .38 fine tip black was the best I could find.

Give me a .1 and I bet you I’d end up gouging out my eyes with it beautifully like a conductor conducting a fucking conduction or an orchestral in a fever smiling like he just licked the best little beaver.

Things get darker. I haven’t gotten to see the goddamn cops chase the pedophilia since last night and it was only seconds and the goddamn motherfucking idiot operator bitch must have told the cop the wrong block cuz’ the dark green late model mini van was in his hand, speeding, behind the cop but lagging just enough to be the demon. “Fuck. He’s behind the trees.”

I craned my neck.


How the hell can a man stand this ball of fire and water and rock? I want to shoot the goddamned planet up like a dying vet, with ketamine instead of morphine so we can just avoid him the trouble of delusions of god. Satan has been running sprints in my mind, training for years everywhere and I don’t complain. Fuckin’ dying soldiers shouldn’t complain either then, jealous bastards. And no one gets irony. Ever. Seriously.

And also fuck those cops they would’ve taken that green van psychopath and fed him coffee to get him to talk when just as easily they could’ve Alexander Dumased his sick face right into the dungeon and had him spend six years and six days and six hours scratching a tunnel.

Him and this learned Italian. Right here, I mean. Behind the godamned motherfucking computer screen. Pardon while I go copy the romantic era from “The Best Of 1245,” onto the last sheet of toilet paper I got left while I take a shit.

And I’m still furious no one understands the GODDAMNED irony I keep pitching. CATCH you fucking alley cat worm feast fuck!

Pardon me, pardon me… I get like this with too much sleep and valium.


I awoke from a dream at 7:19 AM. Ordinarily, I’d just be passing out, pills melting into my mouth.

I got sober two weeks ago, however. Ain’t it seem unseemly for me?


But back to the bed; I woke up and remembered the dream I had just had. I was in LA and NYC back and forth doing whatever it was, writing I presume, and I found myself driving through a neighborhood in what looked like Bel Air or Westwood in my stupid BMW.

Some asshole parked like shit and I left-side clipped his scotch colored lincoln.

Furious biblical anger.

I break into the first house I see, incidentally the same damn color as the car, Macallan 12 single malt to be exact.

I went in angry as a pit bull with untreated rabies; threw off my shirt and tried to find someone to blame with knuckles. Pitched my keys at a wall, screamed shit down the hall at two faces, walked downstairs to confront an older Asian (Cambodian or Vietnamese). Turns out they’re all Canadian and finally they ask me, “What’s wrong, bro?”

Dumbstruck. I thought this was earth.

“My car got scraped up. Fuck.

Uhm. Sorry or something.”

Now, here is the point of the story I’m relaying; I have of course remembered dreams, (very occasionally) but never bothered to speak them. This cold morning my mouth came out of sleep like a gaping tunnel producing a torrential downpour of words relating the dream, detail by detail by detail in exact exactitude to my Sophia. It was strange.


Last night on the roof there was a dark green late model van with dark tints with a dark-spirited looking man driving fast behind a cop with sirens. Clearly connected. I said, “He’s behind the trees.” I took a big swallow of my cigarette and watched for more action. None to be had. Now that I think about it, it makes me miss the fucking casinos. Action, I require action. At least if I don’t want to feel a corpse, cold as a fridge.

Crime interests me; not the punitive shit I’ve been dealt, my fucking red-headed lawyer fucking me at my arraignment on three and a half turn coated misdemeanors not objecting to raising the bail 249,000 dollars in cash from nothing but change. The arraignment took roughly 13 seconds and I was back in the bullpen with the rest of the boys. “Wow,” they all said, dumbfounded. Turns out my mother had the bitch raise bail to keep my ass from getting busted out by my succubus. I don’t know if any of that meets the definitive definition of irony but god damnit, it felt blasphemous. I was not amused.

I was in there during Christmas, New Years, Thanksgiving & the motherfucking playoffs the season my team finally was winning; thank god they didn’t win the bowl or I would have needed high dose lithium and ECT therapy. The guards wearing santa hats with my teams color configuration laughing and smiling and being pigs. Cunts.

The county jail; about as humorous as syphilitic insanity in my mother’s uterus.

Action, moves and scenes; at hollywood park I saw an Israeli and a skinny white man at the hold em’ table exchange a few words and the skinny was wearing a beanie that he removed which then revealed a swastika tattooed prison-style on his forehead. He leaped across the middle of the red velvet imitation with a razor blade at the Israeli and missed. No one got kicked out. They didn’t even revolve tables. This life feeds me impulses and urges that are hard to purge. I like that action, I like seeing that shit, ya know? The whole, ‘break your neck looking at car accidents’ thing they talk about. I try not to every single time but I always do – I still have yet to see a real juicy gruesome good one. I guess there is no prophylactic for degenerated behavior patterns – I called my neighbor’s woman guest a cunt when she entitled herself to humor by telling her friends and me that she smelled cigarettes and “wondered where that came from,” - “I smell cunt. I wonder who’s smelling like that.” Some poor bastard’s wife, too, hand her some humility and a tissue.

I lack the empathy, no, the decency to give two shits. I had diarrhea that day you fucking cunt. Don’t you dare attempt your pitiful wit on me or I will cunt you out. That’s how I stay out of the bullpen now.


Oh, and I dropped my decade of dropping myself in a poppy field two weeks ago.

Funny how irony works, if it does at all… cunt.


My life.

Magnetic metallurgy will pull you through my script like gale wind and tidal currents in my current titles, it’s not idolatry to believe that me could be making you flee; back and forth like an exorcism, indeed.

Well, let’s see.

Ten years and slot machine change without change and now I changed; sobered the fuck up somehow but I’d be illuminated greatly if I could see you face the things that have passed directly under my eyebrows without immediately stroking out.

Let’s not be melodramatic, Alex. This is illustrative of the illustration of integer’s of integrity and all the nights in the streets and all the other nights in the sheets, my nose burnt out like a bulb – unable to sleep. Feels like red roses that stick you every single fucking time you hold them, apparently someone higher up in the management decided I had the time. I deliberated and watched the clock but I always knew I’d be writing instead of inhaling lines.

Like the betrayal of a titan for flame, prometheus had the brass balls and look what happened to him, it’s kind of like the OJ trial plus the paradoxical reality of his ass pulling armed robbery after Cochran passed on blazing cameras in vegas, makes no sense, like eggs and licorice for breakfast.

Spoken. Licorice black as a Chevron ocean will twist your arm until you writhe and scream, the blood pulling and pooling in your mouth but you think you remain similar – there are no resemblances that I can tell but you feel free to imply whatever you like.

Pull you like whipped horses in a carriage.

Pull you apart – twin children concurrent of the divorce – their parents.

Pull you apart like Muhammed, think the Sunni & Shia gunmen.

Pull you apart like blood and your skin during a facelift on more twins.

This is loyalty to the cause I’ve endured. Ninety nine problems of my own and I own them all far, far too long, the lease with a fucked up rate that can’t be stalled like the car itself I’m driving which I hope crashes into all walls.

At least I did before I smelled this bourbon colored flower yesterday.

Like a Nazi scientist with a good heart; conflicted but about his business inserting typhus and syphilis to study the art of zombie making whilst drinking fine wine before the allies started invading, listening to Chopin or Brahms or even Beethoven with a family he loved once upon a time before he knew his heart to be as black as volcanic ash colored mud. He used one bullet from one gun; before he did it he inscribed the initials of the people he hurt on the bullet and now he’s floating somewhere between purgatory and hell.

Oh, well.

Roses are red and violets are blue, I guess.

At least that’s what they say… now, could you resign yourself to my fate?

Strawberry Heart Shaped Love


Strawberry Heart Shaped Love
Alexander Michael Ziperovich

And the love came flying back into my cardio like a rabid raven,
something I cognitively was sure I knew I missed but there were those ..


Now, my eyes – the dust disintegrated so that I might see,
all I see is me loving her loving me because I’m ..


Supple like hanging fruit from the vine of my mind,
don’t let me intellectualize something that can’t be for me that way,
let me just know it’s real, in the flesh so to speak,
no more biding my our time,

Yes, like a lime there was something bittersweet fleeting floating in the air,
I hear her singing “Cry Me A River” and I’m no longer scared,

No more fists to men that have jaws too big,
no more steel in my waistband, it feels too much like a trick,
this isn’t even that sophisticated, too martini too scotch,

Scoff, Scoff

Her love is a strawberry inside my heart,
I’m learning to find out that it’s much more smart to feel the juice dripping from my
valves instead of Mexican dark,

Harken back to a time you knew I wasn’t,

Look how I write Sophia love now,

Isn’t that something?

I know so.

No one has to spend their time hoping so, not anymore,
unlike Bradley, I never lost the war – I’m twenty seven,
I guess that makes this the one time that summer prevails over the season of winter in my soul.

I won’t ask you to trust me,

I just know.

The Deaf, The Blind

Photo on 9-14-14 at 9.11 AM #2

The Deaf, The Blind
Alexander Ziperovich

no sleep in two weeks,
two different beta blockers and I sleep,

Inside my head there is no water,
I go down the stairs sixty six times,
And appears there my father,

And disappears there my father,

I’m in Sophia’s home,
I’m not alone,
Her family, uninvited babies her brother her father and these ghosts surround me,

The refrigerator not empty but no glass to mouth,
Let the liquid drain into my toxic bloodstream,
Diablo and ataxia and heroin are running this house,

My mind,
My mind,
Not mine,

Up and down stairs sixty six times,
Begging my girl for help – she can’t hear me,
I’m lost screaming mute, she’s asleep – I’m in hell with no one to see me bleed,

Up and down stairs,
There is no hydration,
I’m going fast, my blood pressure, it’s waning,

Falling out, the blackness, it’s drowning me south, out, into his liquid-less inferno,
Ten more minutes and I can feel Mephistopheles waiting to grind me in his mouth,
Blood pressure falling, my heart stalling,

This is the way I’ll finally know their fiery lake they’ve been trying to push me under for my sin since I was eight,

I wake… I think,
She hears me, my chin in my chest, my eyes begging help, it’s clear – I can’t breathe well,
my body unfit for liquidation in the form of a nightmare splitting
me out like canon fodder – the evil of men hooking steel into the valves of my heart like a pedophile abducting your newborn daughter,

Sixty six stairs, up and down and down and up,
you’re reading this because of dumb fucking luck? No. Never. My girl knew somewhere in her deaf, her dreams, that something wasn’t getting better and she saved me and I live to write, only Gabriel the Angel of light or there is no god, I can’t know, but I breathe and my breath was shallow and slow and my lungs protestations meant nothing until she awoke.

Sixty six stairs, up and down and down and up,


Sixty six stairs,
Sixty six stairs,
Sixty six stairs,

Is this the oceans rearing? Trying to impose meaning? I don’t know.

Sixty six stairs walked slow.

I touched the golden gates with my soul.


Alexander Ziperovich

The nose of a 747 into my forehead for beauty, the heavens, high up above all of this, high up above my culpabilities, above everything and nothing. I see mostly black with some shadows; I go up at night, laying in my golden sarcophagus during daylight, grinding my bones, chiseling out my skin.

The string doesn’t have a color, not one that I can recollect, just a feeling, a touch softer than the petals of tulips, harder than granite and mortar fire. The threads around my neck to hold me in place and my shallow breath.

A noose hanging from clouds, a view of eventual throes of pain, insanity and doubt.
But the taste of the air, it’s like levitating over the cauldron of a smokestack that tastes like raspberries, the pleasure and the pain you can and must have up there.

Yes a noose from the clouds, soaked in frigid rain yet I remain to feel the alleviation of one microgram of my pain.

The rope hanging down like the umbilical cord of the mother of war and I am the son, the prodigal child caged and tattooed, sharp blood ink emblazoned on everything I’ve ever tried to do. No, the string hangs forever like an immortal balloon waiting still, coiled just for me and you.

I’ve been here before, my throat raw, my legs broken and mangled, screaming the star spangled at anyone who would take it away.

The string must be given away and the clouds must float away, be given away like candy to children by men in dark vans.

I turned away and looked and what I saw made my eyes drip and my muscles shake, this is the end of the line if you believe in fate.


Alex Ziperovich

Blue bubbles and white for dear life, the roundness pretending to keep my mind backwards alive,
and they crawl from the bottles into my hands and into my nights,
so many black nights,
down my throat, my esophagus toxic hot kisses the sun the moon the stars inside my locked out soul,
dreaming of outside wishes,
the top of the bottle twists and turns and burns and burns and burns and burns,
a trauma unit in my mind,
and the spiders crawling into my time,
into my valves,
cardiovascular arachnids surround,
only way to escape, that’s umbrellas off buildings,
the spiders crawling into my head,
I can’t seem to kill them,
they come back for me like lost children,
i’m no parent; this resplendent way of managing the emptiness i carry,
pray for me,
pray for the spiders
i’ll never let them take me alive, rather burn my napalm into my eyes,
ignited by lighters fired into my teeth my jaw,
insecticide forever sprayed into my highs so they can no longer crawl,
good bye.

The Stars I Saw

The Stars I Saw
Alex Ziperovich

I haven’t looked into the sky for ten years; my darkened eyes glazed down heaving on all ashtrays everywhere I look. But then I did see the stars, in Canada. I looked into the sky and the little torches were glowing and I imagined all the fire and brimstone of those suns. I looked away.

Yes, my head wavering toward the ashtray for ten years, my eyes spilled into the burns. I looked again a moment ago, having a cigarette, and the stars were more distant, harder to get into my heart but all the more beautiful.

I haven’t smiled for ten years.
I haven’t laughed for ten years.
I haven’t cried for ten years.

The ghost has been given, taken, ripped out of me like the blade of a serrated knife. Scar tissue covers my soul and I imagine it will always be that way for me.

But I saw the stars and I smiled and I laughed and I have not cried, not yet, not really and my being suffers for it.

I don’t won’t make empty promises but the elixir that I’ve been poisoning myself with for ten years is gone.
And now I see the stars again.


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