For The Thrill Of It All

Alexander Michael Ziperovich

Dangling from a blood-moistened, rusty silver string from the top of the heavens with three broken legs dipped deep into the swamp with my heart in my right hand, my left hand empty and sharp.

That’s where you find yourself, where you know that you can decide what kind of man you are, where that can be decided for you.

Ambulatory coordination after a fist fight I can’t win; the fat kid with the shitty homemade purple wine and my girlfriend in the very far peripheral. “Fucking fuck! Ahhh! I’m in pain, I’m in pain.”

Screaming for a liberal nurse without a grudge to bring some clear, synthetic fudge.

Three shots of hydromorphone and twelve specks of glitter to take home and run with.

I can’t take the way my head feels when it’s empty because it’s so full.

I can’t take the way my bones feel when it’s raining inside me.

I can’t take the way people look at me when there isn’t anything to see.

This place, these places, all these shining, crumbling towers; there isn’t another city in this world I want to see that isn’t in high definition. The corners are buzzing like fruit flies on shit and my ears are tingling and my neck and the little hairs on my arms raise up like rifles to greet the news: you’re not going nowhere.

Look into my eyes if you want to know.

If they’re big then I’m angry and sad. If they’re small then I’m satiated, angry and sad.

Ambulatory uncoordinated dance-steps for fruit fly mingling; mosquitoes in the dead of winter and I sing so loud they come to me and drink dying of thirst.

The plastic-metal Glock flitting through my head like dream sequences.

They say a bullet never lies. How do you calibrate the caliber of the way you fall on your excalibur?

I went to the big ball and spilled red wine on the vest on my chest and the rest of the rest of this mess has ever since been something to try to cry about, something to think about unthinkingly stupid while I never rest. See, it dries up your face, your mucous membranes when you learn that you don’t belong in this place.

God bless, God bless, God bless.

The weak shall inherit the mirth and be blown away by fucking tsunamis made from steel pricks and invisible plagues.

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