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.

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