Little tattooed flowers, all on her arms, like signs pointing the way toward the very middle of her. There’s too much of her for your eyes to swallow in a single glance, little things missing and scattered about, left lying in her trail. She’s a wind wedded to a road behind a bullet, spent shell casing sitting here burning my palms as I rub the metal for good fortune.

These girls that are all the spoils of the world; my liquor-lacquered throat humming the memory of a jail-song from the urn set calcified in my gut. I know this one by sight and smell, I remember missing something I lost, but then I couldn’t remember what it was for the longest time until I touched her with my own hands. Hammering out poems alone in a frenzy of cocaine, digging my grave with a hard heart stolen and torn and eyes made of glass and the gnawing suspicion the abdomen feels toward the knife before it’s stabbed.

Come close and sleep, my pillow stained with nightmares I tried to swallow and eat to clear my throat, trying to breathe. Everything fell out of a hole, up, as if gravity stopped. The world become small enough to put in a box.

I sent the needle home.

I become the sun, and it’s warm and it’s known and it’s as safe as it gets, at the needle exchange with a chip on my bent shoulder from carrying around my self.

Fissile Missiles Kiss Miss Sky

Fissile Missiles Kiss Miss Sky

Alexander Ziperovich





Innocent business it is, selling only to buy back her clitoris,                                                Five steps forward into backward deliverance,
Left myself in the main receptacle she uses,
Help to mop up all her anonymous ghosts with all of their indifferent residues.

Robot lego soul is crying useless,
For faint glimpses of her sighing as she kills,
Embodying her body,
To pour bottles of crushed black hearts into glasses for us to swill.

Gargling pill-shaped sentiments,
Allowing the ghost of her to be my psyche’s last paying tenant,
Leasing release in a barrel of self-evidence, 
Killing all the kind souls to make way for the hell of it.

Wine paint splashed across my mind for me to face,
To plaster across my forehead in a gesture of grace,
A feeling beggar, lying prostrate to suddenly standing demanding you call me mister,
Ministering to these young half-formed blistering heart-shaped signs reading ‘kiss her’ but warn her of the risks here.

Allow Me This

Engulfed by calculations of how emotions should feel, so utterly given to the tribulations of the ghosts that hang about our shoulders like dead hairs, that is the moment you will begin to forget what love means.

When you become what you preach against, an open milieu of your own counter-accusations spoken in the same dialect as the language with which you were harried by your howling pursuers, that will be the next moment where you will exist apart from and without love.

Almost drowning in an ocean of stale missives and corrosive memories, floating like bad clams that won’t open in a boiling pot, you have grabbed me in your arms and smashed your hammer into my sealed shell and extracted my tiny shivering heart so that you can suck out its poison, picking me from your teeth with a toothpick shaped like one of cupid’s blood-stained murder weapons.

Only distance and wanton disregard await us now. There will be no more warmth, only recrimination and suicidality and hot geysers of blood from old wounds reopened, infected with all this time, all this time that has turned so malignant as if our time together itself has turned into a fanged beast that will provide only a shadow and fear for us to cower beneath while we count the blessings of our own misguided attempts at refurbishing our insides with one another’s.

Lining our pockets with our sanctimony and delight at our counterpart’s mistakes and each halting attempt at understanding will bring even grander misunderstanding until we can no longer identify this conversation as taking place in any language at all, but just unfamiliar noises playing out in familiar melodies: pain into rage, fear into a segue of gestures meant to look like strength that only showcase the fragility of weak hearts.

We will beat each other into even greater submission than the world we escaped together, playing house in our raccoon-eyed reflection sitting in a pile of disabused notions. The junkie and the whore, never knowing who was who, but always knowing both were in the room and waiting to be paid in full.

Blood being viscous and us being vampires, we are greedy to gather the remnants before the great coagulation drowns out our argument and we are left mute, deaf to everything except our own vacancies.

Opening my eyes to the vastness of our love’s many formidable traps we set that have sprung into the dirt past our broken ankles, unsettling the earth leaving the remainders of ourselves amidst our grief, the lamenting farmer reconciling with the fire that consumed his harvest by telling himself the soil will ripen after the ashes settle.

What is this thing that we have now upon us? This frigid little rock scratching between the palms of our hands we hold like the thorns the penitent keeps in his shoes to flagellate his feet on his trek up to god at the top of a mountain only to be felled by a jade, gangrenous sore replacing his fever-dreamed visions of immaculate redemption with the sober death of an atheist.

Leaving this hospice suite to avoid the grating sounds of the dying’s last raspings, gone back to the orphanage where we abandon ourselves once again, squeezed back into the eye of the needle, come squeezed back into a cock, our blood squeezed back into our open wrists and air into our dried up, shriveled little lungs that shriek out:

Only love could hurt this good.


Junkyard Dogs Eat Cars

Whiplash, my necklace broke in a car accident in a vehicle made from soft skin graft
and a voice that goes two ways, howling guttural rhythm and blues,
but the blues sounds better sung than does rage out of the pretty mouth of a gun,
hung by the trigger from a rope I fastened about my needs’ necks
and while I’m replacing the door slamming across my face with her singing in the kitchen in my head, I’m imagining that love is a beautiful thing thinking, that’s what imagination is for, turning old shit into new flowers without gardening.

The big sleep, iron steeling sickness, frozen with my ghost threading through my stitches,
drowning on a borrowed dime with a broken watch, watching the clock, waiting for god
in a hotel in the rough part of my head, where the girls stroll in high heels,
and the men slowly smoke as they wait to be dead.

A lopsided arrangement, entered into without really caring about the terms,
letting a murder of crows break bread at my table, clearing the crumbs from the silverware crashing around in my soul, forget and forgive or forget to forgive for forgetting to give a damn that every last piece of me was what I gave to you, and now I don’t want it back, keep it and eat it or breathe it like the final little wisp of smoke from the burnt remains of our auto accident.

Love is a Drug Dealer

Love is a Drug Dealer






The sun will wither, falling in ribbons as a darkness that swallows you whole,
the concrete will reflect only your blood and teeth and pride,
when your head appraises the ground.

Love becomes what it always was, just a crass word, an overused joke,
being played only on you, as all the world’s laughter is cued,
at the way your pain hurts.

The sky will scowl at you, clouds like anvils dipped in disappointment,
swimming in an ocean of old handwritten missives and one-eyed teddy bears,
of which gave you comfort and offer respite from nothing.

Everything goes faint when you take too much on yourself,
drowning in a thicket of foul-smelling indignity,
trying to wash it away with all the unmagic of the universe.

One last call to god, one last handshake with sin, one last medicine bottle’s contents
worn thin, one last way to be strangled into submission, one last written
word, and you can achieve the triumph of turning everything good to murder.


Gin on a Monday Night

Gin on a Monday Night






Coming out the chimney as black ash is soot,
blackened my face up and down to my foot,
down to my feet where I pray for release,
the sound of my screams
are my silent serene

The Devil is back and he has demands,
the guile of a woman with the hunger of man,
the mountaintop of penury,
paying to be damned

Smashmouth fist and teeth reworking,
faster and faster until the blood is purpling,
and now the flood is all inside me,
how to pray when God died, splattered on the highway?

The Grande Dementia

The Grande Dementia






the air I breathe, smoke,
my tongue unspent ash from a cigarette,
a broken fingered dance on a page,
like knives that nick instead of stab,
and guns that jam,
a trigger on my finger commiserating.

the holey craters behind my eyes,
my own doors to nowhere,
where the only rule is: “do not survive”,
biding my time that isn’t my time,
waiting for a flock of starving crows,
to carry my mutterings into the sky.

i have a flower growing out of my brain,
a beautiful red rose made all out of pain,
that blooms like buried doves,
and inside of every screwdriven divot is one unrequited love,
pretending i’m crippled, with a notarized contract that reads,
“you are not to be forgiven.”

my whole soul tainted red,
with pity in my chest for the psychopath that lives in my basement,
a small gesture of goodwill for all the craven and wicked,
burning good witches,
down in the valley’s unguarded prison chapel’s kitchen.

Up Behind The Clouds

Up behind the clouds,
me down beneath the ground,
eyes of stilted slits,
finding starry eyed stars,
just to stare down,
just to get even with

My big blind telescope in a world,
that’s a vandal’s braille,
i hear the clinks of glasses,
in my head i hear the wails,
siren songs, singing spelling wrong,
as always, the petty flesh will fail

Potted palm fronds, flitting about in gusts,
for all we’ve done that isn’t wrong,
a song written in dust

Add weight to my shoulders, break back and repeat,
release nothing until depletion, mixing iron into meat,
drink wine with dead soldiers’ clamors, pleading for the ink,
one pen left to write with and so we write until we’re weak

Leave the rest to the weary,
i’ll write so the half of me that thinks,
doesn’t have to think so scary,
for blessed is the one,
the one that surrenders nothing,
except the right to breathe until he decides he’s


You’re No Better (probably)

The Victor, a lion resting in my chest,
waiting to breed, to breathe,
waiting to feast on meat.

Bloodborne antonyms, can’t spell no no mo,
I got my little empty trinkets,
early onset, trying to forget,
all the things I remember, from so long ago.

Yes, the platinum in my eyes has dulled,
the dew on the web of the spider,
I sip into a lull, foregone conclusions,
doing things wrong, catching spiritual contusions.

Lord forgive me, all I am is the thinking thoughtless, a human being.

Claws for teeth and bullets for fingers,
gingerly testing for taste,
letting the brew simmer.

This road is long and filled with potholes that break axles,
taxidermies for friends, leaving no doubt,
about who is really the asshole,
unassailable vassal of things other than nice,
break myself off a crucible and go around pretending I’m Christ.

Rats into mice,
huge vicious bubonic rats from cute little, white mice.

I know nothing except the truth of pain,
spare me or sacrifice me, lacerate me,
just make up your fucking mind,
and have at me.

At Every End

At Every End






Defiled stop signs lying scattered across my mind,
A vandal ripping into the laughter of the sky,
I fell up into a star but it burned me,
Left me with all these cheap, pretty, happy star-shaped scars that I earned if you please.

Shrouded in a gauze of bittersweet insolence,
Trying to off the soul remaining witness,
Quite the incompetent assassin,
Loudly leaving a long trail of collateral victims like a broken vacuum.

Nothing is free, not even a scream,
All these mirrors keep staring at me,
Like some merciful attention,
That I didn’t get when I was the misanthropic child,
I needed parts fixed because people were troubled that I was troubled.

All so delicate.

Everyone threw stones,
Many others hurled bricks.

Like dying or fucking or going blind or insane,
Like falling in love or smelling flowers in the rain,
Like a scalpel crawling into my brain,
Every single day is recycled time spent in vain.

But that’s just how life works,
Remain calm and no one gets hurt.

Yes, calm and still as your teeth are eaten,
Consumed with garbled delusions of speaking some meaning.

Art Died Gasping For Air

Art Died Gasping For Air






Breathing throat’s softened, marred with blades’ razors replacing the honesty of nature

spitting faith into a jar built to hold the viscous little outcomes of the wicked, wistful labor

caught inside an act of love as it’s written before you exhale the words from your tongue

as if it was a sappy love note’s burning paper.

Fine Print

Fine Print

A stigmatized eyes, little slippery happiness-painted lies so that I might see better,
waving a feather daring oncoming traffic, breaking promises to myself,
reading an old letter letting me remember the memories,
the ones I haven’t yet surrendered

A semantical cemetery buried with all the things I try to dig up so that I can go back and
do them just a little bit better, exhuming heaps of glittering, worthless treasures,
and now it’s cold post-September, words’ ink staining the soft little pads
on the tips of my fingers

A big frozen chest filled with splintered ice chips and pressure,
and I have not forgotten the impracticality of pleasure,
nor how it smells and burns,
turns and yells at me,
“You never learn.”

My words talking to other words in one of my poems, paint talking to paint in a painting,
this life we had thought we had owned was merely an assassin in the shadows, waiting,
it burnt down leaving smoldering scaffolds in what once was your mother’s basement,
die like numbers with a cigarette handshake and a nice slice of the mustard,
a bandaged thumb-busted knife-burn to take home to the family so you
can show them what your life learned

Waiting patiently in the past like incubating gothic contagions, back beneath the silt,
lying very low until things stop changing the way they’re changing,
pointing my pen like a finger directing the hunters at heaven,
toward prey that has learned its lesson

Instead, time forgot to fly and landed on my eyelid and stayed there,
heavy and absolute

You can’t have the blues, you can just assume the mood.

%d bloggers like this: