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.

If There Was A God

If There Was A God

Alexander Ziperovich

.

If there was a god would my scars still ache, reach into me and find things to break?

Would it be too much to ask to wake up without not wanting to wake up,

ready to claw my eyes out for all the beauty people can’t see,

because of the space I take up.

.

If there was a god would monsters be so wonderful, taste bitterer then tears,

always nothing to run to, something to be afraid of, a little sun for you to do,

the heat cascading and scathing like desert storms and alone,

you are left to plead with your one master, your captor.

.

If there was a god why is there heroin? If there is heroin why is there a god?

Ventilator compassionate nurse ratchet playing games with what he hatches,

or a soft, effulgent joy that resonates deep within everything,

that I cannot see.

The Sound of Sirens

The Sound of Sirens

Acutely aware of the boys and their fare; they’re everywhere and in everything and when they come screaming down the avenue with their metal encased death machines they tend to unintentionally threaten me.

I was in the bathroom shower, more blue suits coming to cut the stems of flowers.

I slapped the soap on and off wishing I had instructed my girlfriend to check the locks, instructed my girlfriend to grab my pills, instructed my girlfriend to write my will.

I need a cigarette but I won’t get it and I’ll be sent to a place where life exists as a physical restriction and there will be no poetry and no more love and everything stops living inside of a lock.

I ran out of the water and into the sand, the police had stopped arriving and I was naked and sad. Memories of bad bologna and mustard packets and teflon-rubber jackets and racial tension and I decided that detention had left me in a permanent semi-suspension where I would stay put like frozen jello – sitting in a fishbowl with forty men waiting to be let go into a place where your screams become echoes.

Incarceration is part and parcel of my participation so I wait for the cops like a child with his stomach growling from hunger suffering from chronic constipation and I wait patient like a patient with a tumor and I just hope and pray that they don’t hurt me bad as I remember being choked to death by five cops on a University District bicycle rack.

And it gets worse than that when VIGILANTE is tattooed on a man and he drops a razor when they shake you down and you don’t know why the alzheimer man has to go down for the hooch the boys in the tank were cooking down and when he comes back he has no idea… he thinks he went to the hole for something to do with ordering glasses on commissary and everyone vomited from the sugar packets and fruit with the worms and I want no part of any of the shit on this earth that makes people into animals and I am horrified at the rattlesnakes with their BLUE and RED rattles and they bite and they sting and they kill and they maim and I don’t think I will ever, ever, ever be the same.

If you hear the cops and you feel safer just remember that in jail you can’t shave your face unless you remove the razor from the razor.

On One

On One

Smitten in the desert, a cold shouldered devil able to be present so I present him my presence,

balanced on the church steeple with my heart encased in pedaling petals.

Addicted to the white so I am post-acute; sickness follows me when I don’t use the pen on the paper, abuse, I need my fix and I don’t give a damn who knows or knew.

A finely ground composite of particular interest, through the sun in a pinnacle on business. I can go ahead and meet your maker, discuss my fate later when the sun shines sharp and white like the blood dripping off the teeth of a gator.

I’m very determined, a young Jew orphaned in Warsaw organizing SS abortions switching vials of morphine to save the ghetto Savior. The council all has a say, so don’t perjure yourself or get murdered into the curdling earth.

The war is not real? The war is agent orange leaking from this taxi cab into my lab causing exhalations of tinted gas out of my girlfriend’s lungs; a demon here, a demon there, they come in the same beautiful cloth but they just want your face off-white numb and your heart beating their special brand of blood called tragic.

Can’t have it so it’s automatics and cluster bombs and Cold War politics that are worn out like old nuns’ habits and so I ask this, are you ready to go out and fire? Your social media implies something like a desire for recognition but when the air behind your eyes is hissing and the gunshots aren’t missing and the legs of your little brother are in the bushes blistering then the sun comes out and the truth is revealed and your little lying propaganda can’t save you but might I suggest you become REAL.

Real is a noun, depending on how you see it. It’s something or nothing, a roulette dare or candy cotton add a bullet to a cop’s Glock’s clip to remove someone’s hair and the government doesn’t like you and it certainly doesn’t like me – go get a political science degree and avoid surveillance: the black plague of academic slaves waiting for an armed messiah on a list for plastic surgery before your bail’s set.

But when the sun goes down and the gun is in the ground let them shed ten tears and ten more rounds and let the circus play and let the children find God and let God hunt them down and let the world be as it was the day I came up out of this ground.

Don’t panic or pray, don’t let this be this way, don’t run, don’t fight, just look down the sharp edge of the knife as your origin tries to kill herself on your kitchen floor, serrated so it is sparing blood like bad drills drilling in bad holes missing all the ore.

Back to Babylon for more and more and more.

TANGO & CASH

TANGO & CASH

$

$

$

$

$

IN A PRETZEL SHAPE LEANING ON PINE NEEDLES,

YOU CHILDREN WEREN’T CHILDREN, YOU WERE STEPPING ON BEETLES.

FEED THE NEEDY, GREEDILY,

ANSWER JUSTICE & FALL INTO A PIT FILLED WITH SEEDLINGS.

BURNT CALLS & PHONE STALLS WHERE YOU MAKE FALLS,

FALLING AS LEAVES & DEAD BUTTERFLIES, SEPARATE YOUR WINGS TO FLY.

SHY KNIVES IN MY SIDE, STINGING & BEEPING, SOMETHING’S SLEEPING,

WAITING, IT WANTS ME, IT WANTS TO DEVOUR & I WILL NOT COWER, I WILL EAT IT’S FLOWER.

NO BOTHER, WASTE OF TIME, STICKS AND STONES,

ALL ALONE,

ALL ALONE,

ALL THE WAY HOME,

ALL ALONE.

Happily Rabid

Happily Rabid

Alexander Ziperovich

*

There’s a sign on my forehead, enter bullet, preferably a .357 caliber. There’s a signature needed for all of you people, I’m passing around the bulletin board and your needles are just getting sharper and sharper.

*

There are clouds above the sun, yet the sun is burning through; I’ve been told once, twice, three, and four times what not to do.

*

There is somewhere for me to go, a vacant lot. I’ve been told truth and I have been told lies. I lie somewhere in the middle, smoking something hot.

*

Guns, diamonds, cocaine, and God. Capitalize things when thing’s are hard.

*

Fuck life. Fuck death. Permanent purgatory for a man with absolution solution’s left.

*

Killing’s and I just want to be at peace. Someone offered me an olive branch and I spit at their feet. They offered me syringes filled with cut dope, I offered my bulletin board before I realized it was all tore up and broke.

*

Coke. I turned away.

*

Specialty pharmaceuticals, do the tango down to the bay and sit on the dock and watch all the ghosts sway like the waves from a cave.

*

Hunger. Grave starvation, bullet’s in my bulletin board for me to suffer today.

*

Today, today, today and tomorrow I’ve borrowed and followed and eaten things that tasted like maggots dipped in the sorrow of someone else’s grief.

*

This place is eating me.

Consumption is my function & I grow tall like a hunchback jumping.

Now, to the luncheon.

What gumption!

The Fashionista @ The Funeral Parlor.

The Fashionista at the Funeral Parlor.

AZ.

Dedicated to all the artists pushing their game up… you know your name.

.

The outfit is a synaptic reaction to the directing of every cinematic, erratic reaction beyond the children construction worker’s borne into napkins unsanitary, this world is a place for the graveyard patronization and every time you just know you are out of gas at the gas station.

.

Every single thing is so black it’s bright and every single piece of every tingle of the colour white just isn’t right. I force myself to write; the IV line from my TV just will not fulfill my needs tonight. I go on like a starving Cambodian, hoping and hoping that one day this world will not be so broken and damned.

.

God, is there any sort of plan?

.

The six o’clock news saying I need to speak on parking; I’m barking up the wrong street and yet I continue to discontinue not talking. Walking on, once again, the world is a world that I can comprehend, which is the essential problem. Robberies and arsonist martyr’s and all varieties of problems but I may say this: to be a saint one must fall and rise to the point of the stakes.

.

Great.

.

No justice on this globe, only a head made to explode, agent orange looking special like the bottom of a glass of scotch, stretched out on metal. Metallic efficiency and the worlds’ gift’s to me is shifty and shady and I might just say this to say that everyone is dying to be crazy but unable or able and lucky or something that’s fucked, see, and I’m supposed to stop my cursing and swearing but this place has my face graying like stained paintings.

.

I need some paper and pens that bite like sharks locked in waterless zoos and it is a choice that I choose to write about news and the things that are cruel and beautiful at the same time, simultaneously in fact, I do, I do, I do. I might not. Maybe so, but this is just something that I never knew which is that there is no way to absolutely know so I said no and then yes and did not buy my girlfriend the red dress but I did give up the needle which I feel should be a bit impressive to a few certain people. Even if you hate me and my writing, go ahead and fuckin’ bite me, I took it through hell nine thousand times and you children would just whine and guzzle wine while I was steaming and crying in a jail full of felons that would eat you like a ripe watermelon but no, my masochistic-sadism is the amplified piece of a master, I got a jar full of little antique can’t-speak golden pistol’s, who wants a disaster?

.

There is a magical carpet in a mind that’s not mine but was placed before me like fine French food next to ragged, crunchy cloth, feel the silky rocks and drink up before I talk.

.

This will be the time of my life like Oasis sang, I want to go out just like we came in with the big bang but I want it to bang a bit harder, for all the poverty-stricken daughters holding their mans’ automatic weapon of choice to slaughter the next heart that’s harder.

.

No barter, just trade – they gave us crack cocaine and black tar heroin in exchange for high viral loads of AIDS.

.

Killer metaphors over silence, speak too/to fast, and sleep with a violence that I never invented; this world is a sick place and Kurt Vonnegut tattooed on me his ways but the funny thing is that that way is never what it seems and so I continue with these lucid dreams that make no sense except pain like beautiful buzzing bumblebees.

.

Acception or an exception to the venemous rain. Hectic, insane, psychiatrical fame, in the hospital with 99 names. Come forward and drink this fruit, I blend it for you the best I can do.

.

Hit me up when the weather is now which is the present. I offer myself, my Devil, my God, and my sentence. Don’t mention it. A panther lying in weight, breathless with a death wish that let’s him text kids with Lexus’ and attorney’s in their families that protect their about to begotten son’s from my next kiss.

Spiritual Glaucoma.

Spiritual Glaucoma.

Spiritual Glaucoma.

Alexander Ziperovich

.

.

.

There is a bitter salt in this field of poppies, a stench of the soil that renders my involuntary sweating; tears slowly rolling from my left eye when I force myself not to cry.

There is a demon and his name is mine. There is a place that is unavailable to find. There is a sweet warm darkness that can caress my wounded bones, but I am in this place and I am in this space alone. There is the love that is offered my hand and the friends that want to understand and the writing that keeps me from being the one that caused me to be stabbed but how can they ever, ever, ever possibly see how lovely it is in this slow, deathly solitary wonderland?

Just one sip. Just two pills. Just five needles in a row making kills. Used myself up by the time I was fourteen and I swore to myself that I wasn’t finished with God until he was finished with me.

There was that, the camps, the psychological torturous maps in my head that play on repeat like tracks that are dead on radio stations filled with statistical electricity; what has this earth done to me?

I know nought for I shall not kill but I will, just give me those pills and those bottle’s of absolute, I don’t want to die but I want to be cruel, cured, fixed, filled. Meet my needs and everything shall be healed.

I’ll make those promises even when I know I can’t, in the ambulance with a knife in my hand staring at the paramedics with hatred in my soul; this is not paradise and there is no place to go.

But up into the heavens, clouds, judgement and damnation for punishment of all the audacity of someone that suffers violently sadistic self-fuckment.

I love it.

Keep the tracks rolling; I’m at the train station looking at the coal, stair into my heart and I find that it’s cold. Need’s not met, warmth not given; locked myself away and through away the key to this invisible prison. Give myself a way out? It’s plausible. Like catching a worm with a trout.

There is nothing that scares me, which may sound scary but that is sacred and nothing could replace it; six million ways to try, choose one, I carouse the streets looking for your gun.

I’d like it to be golden and shine in the sun, antique and latin and fires only once.

But dear Lord I am sobbing to you do you hear are you here, is there a way for me to ever be near? Us, together? All I see are cobbled promises and webs and bad weather.

Spare me yours and I will not spare you mines, giggling up dirt ad infinitum.

Blow smoke out of my psyche and smoke rings that are like me as they dissipate into the air and become nothing but sightseeing. Wear out thou? Of course. I want about a gallon of liquid diacetylmorphine, we call that shit horse.

Before I finish, let me explain. My brain’s in a jar made from steel cage and rage. There in an absinthe solution, waiting patiently for something to shoot him but nothing will even though he’s begging, grinning on his knees, banging his head into the top of the jar until the cells of his cerebral vortex bleed out his knees.

And I flee, not for the first time; this land is a troubled one and I want to find God but I think I know that that could be kinda hard so I’ll say to myself that I’ll give this a try even if I won’t, two double neat scotches kept near on the low just in case I can’t keep it together. Listen motherfucker, my mother has pancreatic cancer. Don’t ask me why I’m stressed and violating pages rapaciously; this fucking planet has been raping me ever since I can remember and I so I want to dismember every single person that’s ever done me my nevers. Clever, ain’t it? Spiritual vermicide and I know you all love to see yourselves’ reflections’ in my hatred. Never, never, never landed but I saw the moon and I saw it eclipsed like a bright afternoon in Los Angeles, a needle buried deep in the boiler room of my medals of valor, take this piece and burn it, whatever, just make sure you read this letter. It’s from me to all my fellows and if you know what the fuck I mean then we were meant for this hell together. Follow me down a path filled with fallen branches and we will gather them in our arms and sing the forest romances until we are so lost that we cannot emerge, the birds circling looking emaciated and hungry; this laughing I do is not supposed to be funny. This is my continuity and my poison and my elixir and everything my father never gave me. This is every single time every single person blamed me. This is for every child that will suffer today, please, hear my pleas because I am down now on my fucking hands and knees, begging for lost children to be saved once again, but God has plans other than that; throw a boat on a rock and flood the earth with salt like a waiter you insult. Like a flavorous malt filled with black licorice and faults and fault lines and the fault is mine and I accept that frivolous reality.

In actuality, I enjoy feeling badly.

Sadly.

Hands grasping at venom.

Hands grasping at venom.

Alexander Ziperovich

.

There was a girl who was not a girl who believed herself to be without merit for the world,

she went to the zoo to play nice, brought a basket and a sack of rice,

she went to a reptilian keep, black as satt cloth,

to feed the snakes her frothing heart’s cough.

.

There were children and vendors, ice cream and water,

she paid them no heed, she was no ones daughter,

she leaned in and blew a kiss,

and the hisses blew slits.

.

Carnivorous cannibals, she had her animals, her rice,

time to make nice, had she not the right to her life,

holy mass at the holiest fork in the road,

she through herself into the cage,

and french kissed her bent rose.

.

They rose up and snatched her soul like a dirty cop,

and she thanked them with all that she got,

which wasn’t much from nowhere,

they drove up her back,

and she wanted it hot.

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