At The Banquet

Alex Ziperovich

Crushed grapes and you try to feel what you need to feel but you’re left blind and feeling what you tried to escape, beg for mercy but there’s only hate, beg for mercy but there’s only fate

Syringes filled with ghosts filled with lies you are the host, become part of the collective, become part of something that sparks like a match when you scrape it on the hard part of you and the hard part is a hoax built for black balloons exploding in the atmosphere, how clear and how dear and how near you came before you were sent back in tears

Full of fear like all of us always are, the hope that one day we won’t be what we are, the tragedy of finding yourself in the proverbial mirror and all you see is fear and dinner, voracious eaters around a crystal ball, panting and praying and preying on Gods

Collapsing everywhere everything forest fire and napalm art galleries for no salary except pain and bondage and freedom from reality

Gravity fills us but it refuses to carry us like an insolent soldier, impotent mortars we fire with no orders just disorder and chaos within ourselves cracked broken skeletons and our personal heart shaped box of hell

We grasp onto anything we see because we’re lonely and nothing is easy and nothing is free and we know so much more than we’re given credit for, we’re given headaches that shoot pain into our eyes and all we have to show for our war is a credit score and judgment from the people that said they love us more than to judge us for the things we did that made us poor, the things that we did that made us whores

We climb and we fall to our death, we stand on mountains and scream our mortality at the wind and the wind reverberates with our sin, merciless with no end but we make sure we’re there to witness everything and then we take our heads and lay them low and we remember we’re nothing but the product of our vision being stolen from our eyes by hungry crows

But there’s hope in our knowledge of self and we might indulge in our solace, our lack of wealth, I’ll go to the jungle and find water and air and breathe in the health but I’ll die in that jungle not from hunger but from a lack of your eyes and in that circle I will find my slumber

And we become dumber
And number
And we drink the fruits of the crushed up angels in a crystal tumbler

To become angels and devils
Our paths beset by trembling and serration, we are facing our faces and weep in elation

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