Somethin’ new

TIRED

——

I’ve returned from the dead.

It feels eery because I don’t understand a goddamn thing. Nothing.

Everything is The Great Paradox today. Everything will give anything to go away.

Even the strength of a meat-processed heart.

Art. It’s all I no. I’ve always and forever told myself no.

But now I write for you.

Everything to dust because of artistic stupidity wherein lies the genius of the world’s cunning.

Keep it coming. I’ve learned that it never stops like rotated, well oiled locksmith locks.

The rain falls in sheets; imagine the pain for the people in this world that cannot see.

Not ocularly. But the way the IQ of the universe spins us into frenzy and we don’t remember who we are or who we wanted to be but we made sure that we know that none of this will be free.

There, payments to be made for the sin and the grades and the problems I have with the fear of AIDS and I want the world to know my name. Alexander Michael Zip…

They called me Z I P. “Zip, what up!?” Things have perpetually been a little, little rough.

I survive and thrive on the pillow I lay back knowing what I know and I die knowing no one else will ever understand or care or maybe wonder or even like it but this is the way my life was unrequited. I’ll tell you about it. It’s hard and makes things impractical when I have to speak about it in tones I don’t own that make me feel like heaven’s made from stone.

Too many adjectives and I rhyme too much, they’ve said. And Papyrus was too much, distracting.

I was distracted when I was interacting with the children locked away with me in THE Aushwitz for teens and I tell you now, I spent at least one week a month in the Hobbit which means I can’t spell time.

There is a spellbound way about me because art must be the only thing that is beautiful and lasting, everlasting like the dreams we are having and heaving and breathing and believing that we need em we go 5150 trying to achieve them and they work and my mind hasn’t worked because I injected some temporarily rich asshole’s work into my work but I Now I work and things have stopped having to hurt and I feel like the earth is not cursed and the plagues are not disease and I am not going to die without my entire chest on my sleeve because I give you my heart as utter as it is, utterly full of the knowledge and stone of my arms reached out alone to nothing trying to shake his hand and say something…

This is NOT for everyone that said I was a fucked junkie piece of shit that would die soon this is for the people that admire a survivor won’t allow anything to let him slide down anything that leads to bullshit, I lost my talent for the tired lies that replaced hits, so when I attempt to shake your hand feel free to shake your head, too, because you know that I am THE man.

Irony has never worked since the far edges of civilization and because everyone told you Hemingway was the best than you have been politically reeducated. Political science taught me how to smile as you kill and whistle while you don’t dance and prey and become pray everyone the light is on and if you want what there is for you, you cannot allow the docility to cast you and accost you, you want your enemies to love you and want drugs to answer hard questions and you want everything that was not ever, ever, ever correctly planned. Myself.

I imagine the day my father was certain I was a junkie. It was the night when I was wearing long shirts around the house with small red hue and he crept down into my room where he pulled up my right sleeve and shined a flashlight into me.

It taught me how not to want to be.

I learned one or two things since then but most of all I have learned that this is and is not the person that I am. I am what I like to call, The Great Paradox, as are you and you and you and none of you have EVER TRIED TO TELL ME WHAT TO DO?

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