The Origin of Loneliness

The Origin of Loneliness

 

 

 

 

 

The pendulum of the sun stolen from the ground to vanish back into the dirt of the earth
that’s where our aloneness begins, our terror of having and not having ourselves
the sun’s abandonment of us
every day of our lives
evasively slips away
like it wasn’t ever
there at all

The moon rises to fill the gaping abyss that is the sky when the sun no longer burns
the desiccated, glowing moon, injured and broken, showing us our fragile reflection
dark holes that lie beneath the moonshine, a pockmarked face, a pained face
a face we know when we examine ourselves because it is like our pained face
the sun’s violent, hysterical burning, us desperate for its wonderful agony
leaving us melanoma to take from us our skins and lives but leaving warmth
the moon is harmless and beautiful
alone and ugly, like us
but without the light
given by sun’s burn
we die, because
we cannot
see each
other

sommelier of sorrow and bad dreams

sommelier

alexander michael ziperovich

dedicated to Philip Seymour Hoffman, Rest In Peace

icarus flew too close to the son again
and illumination shamelessly burned him like syphilis

with a kiss
from the heavens’ misted baptismal eclipse

the dramatist, the tragedian, the blind and bound prophet
recording reorderings, hapless with a snake for a toothbrush
or a tongue
Sophocles’
idiot sun

and as he grasped at the falling, fallen icarus,
he could not discern between the stars & the dust
that rose from the terra from which icarus was thrust
and he still grasping up, clutching grass blades
thinking “breaking harps may stop breaking hearts”

exhume a plague from a mind-field of sharp, rolling rocks
have a new burial inside his own personal graveyard
rearranging the remaining ghosts all laying charred
on the floor of the house he built from scars
with a tiny window from where he could not
see the stars

beloved rain please wash me
no one is watching

in the mud, sobbing with grief, relentlessly not free
caught in a forest of poppies smiling at me
as i try not to be

but i am
harbinger of pain as i try to heal i am mauled
by flippant, sick little
nothings
and and and my brain boils
my blood tinted with lives as it tries to dry on the soil

i must make the devil recoil
i must make god feel like black gasoline
i myself feel everything
too
bad
drowning in a pool of bloody, shattered wedding rings

and my love escapes me

That One Needs To Be Touched

by Alexander Ziperovich

Sophia’s mom showed me a poem I wrote for her on Christmas, as it were,
I had written it during our initial discovery of what was to be, and what is,
the atingle of our singing, dancing, living, breathing love,
a love so perfect it became sillily inaccurate, even inappropriate,
to use the word perfect to describe it and so I was led to
thesaurus’s, encyclopedia’s, Dostoevsky, anywhere for terms that might,
with some measure of clarity, resemble the boundless love we knew;
I came upon words like splendiferous and fleckless,
and still these did not come near to capturing the
essence, the soul, the infinite genius of our love,
nevertheless the first line of the poem read:

“I would push mountains up mountains for you,”

That was around the time I got a heart inscribed with “Yes, love a slaughter,”
tattooed on my chest above my heart which she quickly pointed out
could also be seen as “Yes, love as laughter,”
an observation reflecting her endless beauty..

She got the tattoo on her thigh
of an excerpt of another poem
I had written for her:

“And now I’m bare,
All the wounds that
I am something,
something must
keep you near,
perhaps a sound
only the both of
us can hear,
the symphony
between our eyes
that became our
love
where there was
once just air…”

I haven’t written in awhile, certainly nothing of love, even though it is always there,
like the sun and the moon and the clouds and the stars,
like air and fire and wind and water,
love like a windy fire,
smashing through buildings.
I have not written of love in some time.

Yes, a fire or a wind or a windy fire,
yet she’d prefer our love to be a vegetable,
or a family of pigs living out their lives peacefully,
sheltered from the horrors of the abattoir’s of the world;
I think it’s adorable how she loves pigs because as she put it,
“They’re in their little families, they’re cute, nice and they love each other!”
She love mothers, “Write about mothers! They’re an incredible force of nature.”
Somewhere in there she used the word Gaia,
but knowing Sophia,
it
flew
into the sky like a bird and
became a cloud shaped like a heart that rained on people to satiate their deepest thirsts.

Perpetuity

by Alexander Ziperovich

 

You will become whatever it is you most want not to become and you will never become whatever it is you most want to become,

 

And they will rip into your soul until your soul lays in tatters until you have no soul left and they will keep tearing at the emptiness where your soul once was, screaming with laughter,

 

They will drown you until you become accustomed to not breathing and then they will raise you above the surface of the water like they are baptizing you in flames and they will let you breathe fire,

 

They will come into your heart and establish themselves, they will diarrhea and vomit on the most precious parts of you, they will howl with laughter as you cringe and lose yourself in the pain,

 

They will place you in a hall of mirrors until you go insane confronting yourself, then they will remove you from your own true reflection so that all you see is the person you might have been and this will be far worse and the mirrors will shatter and you will bleed upon your own hideous reflection,

 

They will give you an endless amount of happinesses, you will ruin it all for everyone and yourself and you will learn nothing except that you are a ruinous, decrepit creature,

 

You will gain not a thing.

 

You will gain nothing except excruciating pain and even the pain won’t be worthy, the pain will be false and contrived, the kind of pain that people will scream at you for having, the kind of pain that you are not allowed to have, that you are not supposed to have and you will be ridiculed for having it,

 

And they will laugh,

And you will gain nothing.

 

You will find it impossible to move, you will wither but you will not die, you shall become a statue, a cold stone shaped into the shell of your lost soul, you will try to move an inch and for every attempt you will be scorned and hated and looked upon with the utmost disgust until you stop trying to move at all and you will be laughed at even for that,

 

You will break your back breaking everyone else’s back, and nothing will be good, the pain will never stop, god will never come, only the devil, only more agony, only more confusion, only more of the same, you will become used to it all, you will wish to die but you will be unable because you will find yourself a coward,

 

And then you will at some point die but before you die your father will tell you in no uncertain terms that he will hold no funeral for you and that to celebrate your life would be blasphemous and you will breathe your last breath with his words like knives in your head and you will be eternally alone and damned,

 

And to fight will be futile,

And you will gain nothing at all, nothing.

 

Nothing at all.

The Heart of an Angel Coming Apart

Alexander Ziperovich

 

Apart from your heart it is cold and wind blows,

hard, bitter winds that will blow snow inside of your soul

 

Cascades of red freezing arterial blood flowing out of you,

masquerades, people smiling, trying to convince you they aren’t scowling at you

 

Lies aplenty, Christ must have fucking hated Christmas, 

let the wood burn in the happy homes of all these fake Christians

 

We sit insufferable, suffering in our stupor of pain,

there is no pain like being alone, there is no agony like watching others carry on happily,

as you sit and think how you are probably not even worth the word ‘tragedy’

 

But you must burn fire, burn the house down, burn until nothing is left,

burn the frown down off of your face until you are left with scar tissue,

life cannot be explained by me in six stanzas, but if pain is the issue,

I can relate with plenty of tears and a lack of soft tissues,

and before I wrote poetry for others in pain, 

I dealt with the hard nights 

with heroin and cocaine,

so try to float above

all that is

insane

December

Alexander Ziperovich

The bubbles rise up to greet you at the surface when you drink,

meeting your lips like flowers meeting your nose,

and the smell is mellifluous, the sweet nectar melting into you like spring snow.

 

Breaking your teeth on rocks.

 

Falling constantly like reckless Tetris blocks into messy spots,

walking home from Harborview alone in my socks,

and they still flushed everything in the box -

and even though the box had just killed me I wanted to climb back inside to feel free,

ironically.

 

Breaking all of your teeth on rocks.

 

I didn’t believe the ER doctor about the CPR this time,

last time they left my chest and ribs bruised,

I believe in pain – everything else is a ruse.

 

No regards for petals of pretty roses ripped by knives to nothing,

no hiding from cities hopeless, defined by the dying,

no smiling, no smiling, no smiling, no smiling.

 

Days later I’m pulling EKG leads off of my torso, attaching them to paintings,

having conversations that sound like prerecorded daydreams,

and my brain swells and sings and screams,

and my heart continues to beat.

 

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