NEAT.

Neat.

by Alexander Michael Ziperovich

A Short Story

—-

“…the old man would ever have.” Almost arching his prepubescent back up toward the ceilinged sky, the child breathed in Hemingway’s finale. “Get back to the Abacus. Now, Charles.” He glanced sidelong at the horrid teal wall with the crooked spines of the books. “I’m just putting away my ultimate division scenario arithmetic, Ms. Apple.” He had adjusted the room so that he might read a short story, here Hemingway, over by String Theory, Ezekiel, by addition/substraction he kept the Koran.

The Abacus was a wretched teal bubble stick with which Charlie never would have been exposed despite his extreme calculative abilities, which he could perform in his heart, if not for his father and his mother’s docility toward his father’s hatred for art. “The only art you’ll ever have boy, is the art of selling paint for cash.” It was a wretched time to be alive. It always was. He imagined himself languishing in the desert outside Cairo building pyramids and tombs with massive rock and—. “Back to work.” The Abacus slid into his hand like a snake and he gazed at it lovingly for the sake of Ms. Apple.

He took the Abacus to his corner of the nearly shrill room full of the pain of children being forced out of art into death. As was customary for him and Abacus Hour he turned inward and faced the corner that was his that day at the Academy for the Righteous Arts and Splendors. “Georgina, I need your string theory proposal in two and a half minutes, you’ve had three days by golly!”

He gingerly worked the Abacus with his small, nimble fingers and pried it in half so that a small Papyrus scroll rolled tight fell into his torso. He unrolled the ten foot document about seven inches and his fingers hurt and he knew what arthritis was and he glanced at that horrible wall covering the heavens and asked why, again. “The Beauty and Solace of Man Lie in The Struggle to Achieve the Freedom of Paranoia from The Reality of The Beasts of Servitude…”

Ms. Apple was staring into his physical cave where he was reading his scroll that he had created based on the diseased ideas the Academy suggested he was experiencing due to a strong and difficult to pry open codependency with his mother and the world above the teal. They suggested aversion therapy based on Pavlovian and B.F. Skinner models.

“No.” He knew he would be forced to burn it himself. He had worked on the transcription from only his mind in the fashion of Dumas forever.

“Bring in the slavery bucket!”

All the children immediately turned inward, angst, pain, and humorous sadness on their faces apparent as the color of their scorched eyes. Charlie moved to the middle of the chamber.

“THE SLAVERY BUCKET!” The children chanted once, twice, thrice.

A black crockpot filled with gasoline that supported a single, tiny, white candle appeared.

Charlie fell face first into the drum of gasoline right before the commencement of the Slavery and the entire Academy was burnt from the very innermost sanctum.

Charles incinerated the split Abacus and smiled, burning in flames.

Art or nothing.

5:28 explicit cigarette drift slits

by Alexander Michael Ziperovich

This screen, this screen, I want to stab it with a smallpox dipped pencil until it’s black with the mumps.

The only pen I can reasonably attempt to use without immediately waking up to orderlies feeding me sedatives in tiny white round cups prior to examining the underside of my tongue is a dagger; little bastard cuts up the pages like cancer and in some macabre, Machiavellian, merry way it’s like heroin injections into journals and verbs. You couldn’t know about my sharpest pen, my .38 fine tip black was the best I could find.

Give me a .1 and I bet you I’d end up gouging out my eyes with it beautifully like a conductor conducting a fucking conduction or an orchestral in a fever smiling like he just licked the best little beaver.

Things get darker. I haven’t gotten to see the goddamn cops chase the pedophilia since last night and it was only seconds and the goddamn motherfucking idiot operator bitch must have told the cop the wrong block cuz’ the dark green late model mini van was in his hand, speeding, behind the cop but lagging just enough to be the demon. “Fuck. He’s behind the trees.”

I craned my neck.

Nothing.

How the hell can a man stand this ball of fire and water and rock? I want to shoot the goddamned planet up like a dying vet, with ketamine instead of morphine so we can just avoid him the trouble of delusions of god. Satan has been running sprints in my mind, training for years everywhere and I don’t complain. Fuckin’ dying soldiers shouldn’t complain either then, jealous bastards. And no one gets irony. Ever. Seriously.

And also fuck those cops they would’ve taken that green van psychopath and fed him coffee to get him to talk when just as easily they could’ve Alexander Dumased his sick face right into the dungeon and had him spend six years and six days and six hours scratching a tunnel.

Him and this learned Italian. Right here, I mean. Behind the godamned motherfucking computer screen. Pardon while I go copy the romantic era from “The Best Of 1245,” onto the last sheet of toilet paper I got left while I take a shit.

And I’m still furious no one understands the GODDAMNED irony I keep pitching. CATCH you fucking alley cat worm feast fuck!

Pardon me, pardon me… I get like this with too much sleep and valium.

arachnophobia

K

i’ve been scared of spiders since forever
and forever is really just how far back i can remember
which is not that far
essentially
my
brain
is
in
a
jar

 

“it’s like an antidepressant!” here i refer to just one bump
arylcyclohexylamines for everyone! especially me!
i’ll beg & i’ll plead for just one more grain of something crystalline

our favorite thing?
ketamine pee is blood urine
a bleeding dick?
oh, how lovely,
did i mention involuntarily being committed more than a few times around the country?
california fifty-one fucked me – i must be unlucky?
“ghhrrrrn”, the sound of me snorting my brain into a psychiatric ward is funny!

drugs love me/as a writer it was exhilarating forgetting
what
“the”
means!

yes, dissociatives aplenty mixed with amphetamines so i never sleep and miss a moment of
this deliberate, horrifying waking dream that is the reality of casually
breaking my brain with a drug they call
ketamine

i want to eat myself

by alex ziperovich

disneyland & starbursts
what is inside this man, this man whose scars make his heart smirk
bitter is the flavor, neighbor.

have you tasted or even savored that taste, that taste of waste devouring waste?
eat a chimney, bellow pain, world rewinds to the same damn thang,
i killed mickey mouse right before i incinerated art – for god & war & all things sang.

i spilled my scotch on the devil‘s shirtsleeve,
he looked over at me grinning immortality,
and he sang a something that went like this:
“one moment of peace for a botched robbery is bliss
two die zero speak grief but that damn virgin, god does she bleed,
(he leaned in whisperin’) between the sheets she makes me weep!”
his boots a knockin’ he turned round & hissed,
“that bitch virgin mary gave me syphilis”
and he couldn’t stop laughing
him smiling pearly suns
i said, “devil, how come you so mean & so fun?”
he smiled snarled and barked back at me through his cocaine teeth,
he said, ain’t ya heard?

“god had twin sons…”

Poetry Tends To Be About Love


Birds that can’t fly…

Tear at a man’s soul, 
Turkeys flapping breathlessly, endlessly
Until Satan’s exhalations crystallize into confetti 
And Hell freezes and Chanel requires their models to have late stage leprosy and
Facially visible infections contracted sexually during the commission of a felony whilst
Meth cooks return to being lauded as men and women of impeccable integrity,
Celebrated for their unending, boundless, inexhaustible
empathy!

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