The degradation of a farce of innocence.

The degradation of a farce of innocence.

Alexander Ziperovich

.

Enveloped in clouded judgements of the vapidity and carouse of mice,

Crawling clay interned by a a function of life.

0

Three stanzas written with three zero’s,

Four cowards that prefer themselves heroes.

0

There is drought barrels to be caressed,

The sun marking diamonds and guns across every animal man’s chest.

A happier death.

Alexander Ziperovich

The somnolence of a cathedral encircled in coal-blackened doves and the howling of the wind above could be the only thing that persisted in a man’s being. The only thing a man could hear beyond the retched tune of the infallibility of a diseased world. There will be no deliverance, the golden scrolls and pythagorus and his minions all dancing hysterically, missing second red buttons on the collars of their tunics, stained with blood and grime. The odor of the ground and the heartily giggling sky mingling like inbred felines. There is a danger in this place, walking like this on this city like Thor. There is a fever in all of this that will produce no more than a storm that would devour the earth and hawk out its lungs histrionically.

To live one must die and to die one must sacrifice; the ancients and the gods and the devils and the angels all in one massive orgy of sweet surrender to the soaring winds of never.

Nevermore. Pickled souls and unwritten golden saffron inscription-less scrolls.

Let us die so that we may live again.

Unchained by the hubris of our emotional dilemma.

A dagger, four fingers in the heart.

Buried with roses and rocks.

French glassine museum freedom.

French glassine museum freedom.

French glassine museum freedom.

Alexander Ziperovich

Pocket-watch back by sixty-six minutes,

We all thought this would stop but it isn’t.

Look into the image of panes of your strain,

Benzo fever for an amnesiac memorial cain.

Sewer cells and whistle bells and things are hell but they always, well?

Bring yourself to be deloused by the moments that brought you histamines,

Cover yourself in your warmest covers and watch the fire’s flickering’s.

Base camp Katmandu,

Afraid I can’t; I’ve already paid my dues.

Pardon me,

May I be excused?

My broken new spectacles.

My broken new spectacles.

Alexander Ziperovich

—-

Vision 20/20 dateline,

See nothing,

Place time.

—-

A shattered illusion that you could have once seen,

Had it been not for the dreams of your dreams of your dreams,

Awaken to absinthe and cappuccinos and more dreams of dreaming’s of funerals and scorpions.

——

Pianists fluttering Chopin E minor,

Nocturne like a nihilistic suicidal flyer,

The end is near, late stage in a metastatic hanger.

——

Drone broken,

Bumblebees and butterflies,

Take that cigarette you’re smoking and give it alive.

A Cemetery blooming rain.

Alexander Ziperovich

Plunge slivers, fatty tissues and a cirrhotic liver,

Smash your heart with your red right hand,

Splinters devolved into grains of saaand.

Extricate your self,

Bagdad fucking Beirut,

Thank your papers of the (m)en who made all of our wildest dreams come so true.

Eat your notebooks,

First flicker the flame,

Enter the doorway, know it’s name.

Contemplate the stars,

Bodies of gas,

Composed of mostly hemolytic anemic glass.

Whine to water.

Whine to water.

Alexander Ziperovich

Your serpent in the boiling teakettle, sulfurous,

Plunge dimes and quarters into lucky altars,

The sound of your dead mother’s voice need not be mellifluous.

Agony in a cage for Ramadan days,

All places are raised with the capacity for chan— refrain.

Revelation’s buried in the spine of your ouroboros,

Council with a skeleton decanter made from your abysses,

The epicenter of a gunshot wound must be made from your most near kisses.

Eye fled over the voodoo’s nest.

Eye fled over the voodoo’s nest.

Alexander Ziperovich

There is a God.

There is a Fallujah.

There is a you, me, your twin selves and our ruin.

Pray to my preacher, take his hand, blessing.

Wine runs red, blood, blood on wedding dresses.

Eat your feel and make it last; this famished shrunken yellow cadaver’s ash.

A gin gun a mouth a son,

Five million ways to die.

Choose one.

Risen,

Lazarus on meth.

Put a tourniquet around your throat before you go burning shit.

Take heed.

Wild wolves feed,

Sheep roam,

Devoured the tide’s breaking foam like a child eating his first

ice cream cone.

BLACK LICORICE.

BLACK LICORICE.

Alexander Micheal Ziperovich

A cerebellum non replacement for the blind deaf dumb,

A heroine making his markers on all the ones that could not be done,

This will be, yes this will be what it will become,

And that is on this divineness earth’s spine,

Right until the vertebra is utterly numb.

Infant’s roars into my ears slivers of shadow,

Imagination does always forbid travel,

Bend the straits and find the refrain,

I saw a red headed prostitute smoking alone in the rain.

Elijah and Isaac, apples in hand,

The wine is new,

no tasteless famine,

Eat, drink, be merry and manage the famished cells that you

Brandish.

Gridlock

Gridlock

I.

            Despite the clouds and the rain, if you look straight up you can see the sun reaching down at the earth like a hand clutching a hazy piece of fire. Sitting on a gunmetal bench, head rolled back, Friend stares up through the silver, wiry sheets falling from the thick gray-dappled clouds weaving and coursing through each other like ghosts, and spits.

            He leans forward and unscrews the top of the orange bottle of Celexa and throws a few more into his mouth, tilts his head back and spits them into the sky like the shells of poisonous sunflower seeds. The pills taste like hammers and nails, like the inside of brick walls, like hospitals and disease. He spits hard so they don’t fall back down onto his face. He aims at the flickering sun and imagines hitting it. There is a small tapping sound as they fall back to earth, tiny obscene pink chunks melting into the asphalt around him.

            Friend’s decided to stop taking his antidepressants today. He grips the open bottle like a baseball and throws it hard away at the gutter, its minuscule contents scattering in the street. A gleaming black crow swoops down from the phone line and pecks at the ground before lurching angrily back into the sky in what Friend presumes is disgust.

            He stands and hawks a big, pink clot of bitter chemistry out of his mouth and watches as the collection of tiny pink tablets grudgingly make their way down the street and are washed away, their pink tails disappearing after them. The rain picks up and in a few moments, everything save the orange translucent bottle is gone, wiped from the street and erased from sight.

            Friend walks over and nudges the bottle into the drain with his boot. The sun emerges from behind its veil of clouds, casting an elongated shadow of Friend down the street. The sluice of rain trembles on Friend’s head as he stands there, staring into the gutter.

 

DIE ON TIME.

DIE ON TIME.

ALEXANDER Z.

The empress prison sentence(s), lascivious black eyelashes, your face lacks the pretension that belies fatuous compassion, all this mentionless ambulance driver-patient confidentiality sung from wound pond to wound national park:

THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS A BROKEN HEART.

If there was, I would have found out how to be both brave and fast, I would have reached into my chest through my ass and removed the piece of refuse and I’d have thrown it into the trash – where all bad, slimy, smelly things ultimately go.

Everyone’s got a number and the skies are not flowering down on Algiers. 

My shoulder blade hurts as it slices down, deep down into my back.

I have an itch.

Light a match.

I’ve been repressed. Sinking down my torso, the bosom of human frailty and I’m close to understanding how hell works. I can hear my organs discussing how best to ruin themselves as slowly as possible so they can feel that I can feel every single cell hurt.

Ran away with a pair of gnarled scissors and came back with a leery eye and a small twitch at the right corner of my mouth. My arms how they flail, fingers stretched out into the sky which are broken off into crusts for the birds to eat ending at my forehead.

Keep receipts and follow advice.

Die on time.

California Avenue @ 12:15 AM

California Avenue @ 12:15 AM

The glowing ember from my cigarette floating through the dark like a torch and the exhalations blowing through the curling blue coil of rising smoke, a rickety red umbrella that you can never, ever open inside, my pack of smokes and my Betty Boop lighter, and a biting rain pecking at my face curling down my neck as I sit on some stairs and watch a dry patch of pavement below become pock-marked with falling droplets of rain until it all comes together and coalesces on the surface of the ground, dark and wet, the once dry patch annexed from above by the falling saliva of the sky, illuminated by a jaundiced, yellow light; the hard clicking sound of the contents of pregnant clouds land on and around me and beyond a drunk couple sings their way down the avenue tunelessly toward me in a slow, unintentionally wistful cadence.

Lighter Fluid

Ziperovich

Forty-four magnum pillows and art as weeping willows,
long strands of art falling like the hair of your beloved,
infested with almost-beauty so bad your soul catches fire,
faces with faces that cut razors with razors, throw fire on pages,

Blow smoke on the fever,
float down a river made from memory with oars made from ivory and ebony,
elephantine sense of smell for the cane that walks the blind to and from,
hell and hell and hell will rebel into the heart of all that you buy and sell,

Throw fire on pages and fill up your lighter,
get a sense of yourself and burn a writer,
ashes to smashed faces with glass in your eyes,
smokestacks so high you can’t reach but you try,

And the last thing you will need is lighter fluid,
cigarettes will suffice unlit and glasses empty of drink,
the cellar doors of your soul, closed and opened, pry them open,
find the blast furnace and throw fire on your pages before you burn them.

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