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.

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.

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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.

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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.

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God, is there any sort of plan?

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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.

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Great.

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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.

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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?

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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.

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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.

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

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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.

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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.

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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.

Invisible Silks.

Invisible Silks.

Invisible Silks.

Alexander Ziperovich

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Dedicated to Sophia Wight

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I know I’m difficult to understand,

my mind, it’s been corrupted since before I could stand.

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There is a plan somewhere out here in spacetime,

we share the bed and you help me avoid eating scams.

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Like sautéed clams, I have opened myself whole, all my holes,

and you as well, like we were cracked out of solid gold statues that did not hold.

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There is, oh, so, so much to learn and do and ride and think and fly and drink?

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Wait, never mind, I spoke too soon, there is another line and it is not to be nasally consumed,

just holding this broom like a rifle at the sky, holding onto our hearts until the day that we die.

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Consummate this love that we have, eat the walls if I have to help you stand,

my walls are eroding fast and it’s terrifying but it’s finally happening, at last.

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I love you like I use to believe in the needle in my hand,

now I know what it’s like not to be a pillar of sand.

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Hold my hand,

I’ll hold yours.

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We will fight these wars with all of our force,

and if we lose then we were valiant, exposure like ice melting on stallions.

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A thousand treasures and traitorous snakes, watching for the venom,

without any hate.

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There is only an obedience observance of our souls in unity,

let this poem do for you, baby, what it just did for me.

Facilitate the won.

Facilitate the won.

Facilitate the won.

Alexander Michael Ziperovich

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Grains of sand from a hand that stands grande,

a statuesque picture of life lived that people cannot understand,

and I’m one of those lost in the stars types from afar,

cannot be myself because myself is myself alarmed.

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Salesman in my cerebellum, buying and selling,

a liquid solvent that smells like melons and I’m telling you please,

believe there is a thing that we all need and if I can gift it to you,

allow me that deed.

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I will ripple through turmeric miscommunication and static electricity,

just to hear what the universe is trying to tell to me,

strictly speaking I don’t know nothin’ but there’s somethin’,

there has got to be something.

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For ever and ever and every one that ever knew they were never,

accept this kind gesture with every single letter and let it bleed,

let it need to give you what you need to give me, be free,

be an iron horse in Prague, the cathedral of trees.

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Lose the forest for the pines and end up blind,

look and see and you just might lose your mind,

which is a great thing to get rid of,

you don’t need shit to be what you are made of.

Tiptoeing on the tip of the Eiffel Tower.

Tiptoeing on the tip of the Eiffel Tower.

Tiptoeing on the tip of the Eiffel Tower.

Alexander Ziperovich

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Suite raindrops on my side,

the place before the place before the place where you hide,

crying inside.

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I saw a wavering banner across the stars,

it went one through four,

the beauty beat and stung in my heart,

where is the dark?

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Thou art vanish like this?

I thought we had this good and fixed,

now I see so clear the clarity lifts me aloft,

aflame on a magic carpet that no longer drifts lost.

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I fly and I’m no longer scared of life albeit it is promiscuous.

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I fix you this wish with ten thousand gifts wrapped in the silk of my love until you feel just like this.

“that was sweet that you loved me kinda haha”

“that was sweet that you loved me kinda haha”

by Alexander Michael Marasca Ziperovich

Dedicated to a dear friend.


There are these things that mean rings,

planets our eyes rotating inside and things we don’t mean or we don’t mean to mean,

backdraft from the banality of love and we chase the fire with more fire to feel it’s strength,

our heart taken back a length.


There are these people that choose us,

hair that we like and sometimes when they feel like it they just chew us to dust,

and we fuss and we scream things and we sing and we breathe and we choke and we must hope that we won’t give in to the soap and cleanse our hearts with nooses and ropes.


There are these feelings,

living beings, betrayal with no meaning and ecstasy without seeing and we believe them,

until they leave us and we are left without and we don’t shout but rather we put our mouth

to a spout that sings better for worse and we cannot go on but we continue to work and work.


There are our hearts,

our hearts, our hearts, our hearts like art but the end without existentialism or big words,

just our love and desires and dreams and joyous burning passionate fires, we must light them,

candles standing tall in the cavernous wall that mesmerizes us and we think that it separates us,


But it does not,

hearts that cannot be eloping,

chain-gains that won’t stop hoping,

addicts that do in fact stop holding (hi),

and we thought to ourselves that everything was so broken.


And then there was a poem.

Gypsy

gypsykids

Gypsy

Alexander Michael Marasca Ziperovich

1.

The ketamine’s phosphorescent glittery saltwatery. Annie is somewhere in the nether part of the condo screaming; there are two places where the screaming comes from, the bathroom or the bedroom. I am always in the middle. I’m slicing up her mahogany dining table again with my three-razor trick. Tossing the kitty around and then lining it up again and then watching it do the waterfall and finally doing a line or two. “You hate me!” I did. “You’re gonna leave me and my parent’s are going to fucking kill you! That table’s so expensive and you’re destroying it and…” Her voice trails off into the ether after a big blow to my face like a slap of red lightening.

“Nhrruruhhhscrhhnchhchhhhhh-huuuuuuuaaah!” I snort.

“Sczizsciissss…” went her table.

This isn’t working. This K is garbage. The other goddamn ketamine I got from those parking lot kids was far superior the night I got LA tattooed on my right tricep and I would have paid two hundred a gram again but this was all there was, thanks to the fucking pokèmon crew up north.

My teeth hurt.

“I’ll be back.” She moans and draws herself up like a bow and shoots herself at the just-slammed door. “Thump,” I laugh, skipping down the stairs after sending the elevator up.

2.

I’m talking to Santa that lives on the doorstep of the furniture store at the end of the block about dolphins or shit and Gypsy stumbles up. “Alex. Give me a fucking goddamned motherfucking cigarette.” Her hair is a lime-green rosebud nest of wires. Her face is decorated with scars and her neck has apparently been doing a lot of black tar. A bottle of Southern Comfort is hanging from her hand like a rosary. She spits violently into the wind, swaying with one foot in the gutter under the sidewalk. She’s like a beautiful painting that moves.

We embrace and she has Hep C and the saliva I think landed in my eye and we start walking, down the block to buy smokes and I tell her about my wreckage of a life and she tells me about hers, again. We’ve been close like this for almost three years. In jail in a nascent ante-cell by the infirmary I saw her name scrawled with what must have been sharp metal all over the door. I thought it was remarkable, “Alex, they just fuckin’ lemme out again yesterday. Gimme another smoke, man.”

We stop and I turn toward her. She’s all rags and liquor meat but she’s gorgeous. Hasn’t had sex in six years she tells me. I believe her. Lives in a government pad up the street the methadone people hooked her up with.

“Well, Gypsy,” standing in front of Annie’s lobby again, “I need some hypodermics.”

“I got a hundred-pack at my pad. Come the fuck on.” She swigs the booze without spilling a drop. She’s quite sharp.

We rise into the Hill as the sun dips below and into her glowing amber sauce as the sparkling shimmer from the glass and the sun fade away. She unscrews it, takes a thick hit and pours out a few jiggers. “Johnny. Poor bastard.”

3.

We walk into her moodily institutional but relatively barren home save the orange TOXIC! sharps containers and the bloodstains and the burnt spoons and pipes and the little clumps of what look like metallic pubic hair. Her carpet is green. A good, honest green.

She shows me to a massive backpack full of capped orange .29 gauge hypodermic needles

!FOR DIABETES ONLY! and I ask how the fuck I know they haven’t been used. The floor is covered with uncapped bloodrusting rigs. “They’re brand fucking new if they’re in there, otherwise they’re not.” I see my face in an empty bottle of gin on her kitchen counter through the open door. I reach in and grab six or seven and look around uncomfortably. “I usually get mine wrapped individually in plastic but…” She jerks her head away.

“What’d I say?” I’m looking at a spot on her wall to which her eyes have also trained.

Her face hardens and softens and finally a small moan escapes her cracked lips. “I miss my daughter,” she whimpers. CPS took her three years ago after Gypsy violated. The picture on the wall is the size of a credit card but a little bigger, hanging from a nail and a long string.

4.

“This is the fuckin’ deal, Gypsy. If you ever want your daughter back you have got to stop doing heroin and getting arrested. I’ll make you a deal: I’ll give you as much Subutex as you need to stay well if you stay off the streets. You can sell it, or if you were smart, switch off methadone and turn on subs. Your choice.”

Her face is music, agony and dreams spilling from her eyes like black ink.

“I just gave you like ten rigs for free and you’re telling me what?” She’s scarlet in the face more than usual and she’s growling at me. “Gypsy, I just want you to have your daughter which is what you want, no?” This is the culmination of a very slow hour of Gypsy telling me what happened and me trying to tell her how to unfuck the whole thing.

I feel brave.

I go to the wall and snatch the picture and take it to her. She rattles and falls to her knees and weeps. “Gypsy…”

“If you wear this picture around your neck and I see you wearing it in the blocks and you don’t bullshit me we can go back right now and get you like ten subs, which as you know are worth a lot of fucking money, a lot more than some fucking grab-bag needles.”

“You got the real ones? Suboxone? What milligram?” She asks after immediately responding to the word subs by flying up off her knees, looking from the little pale rectangular missing picture to the picture itself in my hand. “I have the real fucking deal, the big boys. Eight milligram generic buprenorphine. Don’t get no better.” She sighs and we strike a deal. We walk back down the neon path.

I run up into the screaming condo and grab the safe and unlock it and throw ten or twelve subs into my hand and run back down. I still have the picture but the rigs I left upstairs. “Here. Wear it around your neck.” She puts the picture on like it’s a diamond necklace and for the first time I see something like hope come into her, violent hope. She reaches for the subs and before I give them to her I tell her, “No more if you don’t have that on your neck. None. I want you to have your kid, Gyps.”

5.

I’m boiling ketamine in a black pot on the stove and somehow the sight of a handful of needles has calmed Annie down. I’m abruptly and arbitrarily throwing crystalline ketamine into the pot, letting it boil a bit, drawing it up into the syringe and slamming myself in my left bicep. The memorial tattoo of my best friend is on my right arm.

Boil. Pour. Stir. Draw. Slam.

Boil. Pour more. Stir. Draw. Slam.

“Fuuuuuuck!”

Boil. Pour the whole bag. Stir. Draw. Slam, into my right arm cause I don’t know any better now and drop myself onto the kitchen floor where I sink into a black telescopic pit where I hear someone wheezing, breathing, screaming, shrieking, my heart is or is not bleeding and this ketamine finally did something I needed.

I got Gypsy sober for four weeks. She wore her daughters face everywhere she went and no one ever gave her any shit. I saw her once a few years later looking terrible and then I saw her again looking less terrible and then I didn’t see her anymore.

I love you, Gypsy.

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.

Somethin’ new

TIRED

——

I’ve returned from the dead.

It feels eery because I don’t understand a goddamn thing. Nothing.

Everything is The Great Paradox today. Everything will give anything to go away.

Even the strength of a meat-processed heart.

Art. It’s all I no. I’ve always and forever told myself no.

But now I write for you.

Everything to dust because of artistic stupidity wherein lies the genius of the world’s cunning.

Keep it coming. I’ve learned that it never stops like rotated, well oiled locksmith locks.

The rain falls in sheets; imagine the pain for the people in this world that cannot see.

Not ocularly. But the way the IQ of the universe spins us into frenzy and we don’t remember who we are or who we wanted to be but we made sure that we know that none of this will be free.

There, payments to be made for the sin and the grades and the problems I have with the fear of AIDS and I want the world to know my name. Alexander Michael Zip…

They called me Z I P. “Zip, what up!?” Things have perpetually been a little, little rough.

I survive and thrive on the pillow I lay back knowing what I know and I die knowing no one else will ever understand or care or maybe wonder or even like it but this is the way my life was unrequited. I’ll tell you about it. It’s hard and makes things impractical when I have to speak about it in tones I don’t own that make me feel like heaven’s made from stone.

Too many adjectives and I rhyme too much, they’ve said. And Papyrus was too much, distracting.

I was distracted when I was interacting with the children locked away with me in THE Aushwitz for teens and I tell you now, I spent at least one week a month in the Hobbit which means I can’t spell time.

There is a spellbound way about me because art must be the only thing that is beautiful and lasting, everlasting like the dreams we are having and heaving and breathing and believing that we need em we go 5150 trying to achieve them and they work and my mind hasn’t worked because I injected some temporarily rich asshole’s work into my work but I Now I work and things have stopped having to hurt and I feel like the earth is not cursed and the plagues are not disease and I am not going to die without my entire chest on my sleeve because I give you my heart as utter as it is, utterly full of the knowledge and stone of my arms reached out alone to nothing trying to shake his hand and say something…

This is NOT for everyone that said I was a fucked junkie piece of shit that would die soon this is for the people that admire a survivor won’t allow anything to let him slide down anything that leads to bullshit, I lost my talent for the tired lies that replaced hits, so when I attempt to shake your hand feel free to shake your head, too, because you know that I am THE man.

Irony has never worked since the far edges of civilization and because everyone told you Hemingway was the best than you have been politically reeducated. Political science taught me how to smile as you kill and whistle while you don’t dance and prey and become pray everyone the light is on and if you want what there is for you, you cannot allow the docility to cast you and accost you, you want your enemies to love you and want drugs to answer hard questions and you want everything that was not ever, ever, ever correctly planned. Myself.

I imagine the day my father was certain I was a junkie. It was the night when I was wearing long shirts around the house with small red hue and he crept down into my room where he pulled up my right sleeve and shined a flashlight into me.

It taught me how not to want to be.

I learned one or two things since then but most of all I have learned that this is and is not the person that I am. I am what I like to call, The Great Paradox, as are you and you and you and none of you have EVER TRIED TO TELL ME WHAT TO DO?

Blood in, Blood out

Blood in, Blood out

by Alexander Michael Ziperovich

Curdling type A sitting up in the tier thinking, how could a man get this way?

Robs my loyalty & my wealth; we know what comes first, you abject coward.

I want to ride; spit unhealthy ideas into the back of your mind.

I can’t; my life is too important – your life isn’t noticed.

You threw me in jail cause you weak, “you swore you’d never hit me,” whilst sobbing. Ha.

You’re three times my size but your heart is paperclip’s for detectives: you ruin lives!

You have no heart, even with my protection when the beef would spark and was on.

You run into the bushes and hope no one sees. You’re a part time DA attempting felonies.

Come trot into my forest again and they will make you see. Let your eyes see me.

You don’t like jail because of fear of the unknown you rat bastard; Sammy The Bullshit.

Even listen to the same beats as me despite your ‘creativity’ trying to take lesson plans,

you can’t; you’re a dump truck dumb fuck with an index finger that loves to write blood.

Blood in, Blood out

Blood in, Blood out

Blood in, Blood out

Blood in, Blood out

And that’s all I got to say about that particular piece of shit.

PS: what you need is a little time to reflect pelican bay status and that can happen for you without me or my real people squealing like a B I T C H.

BITCH.

Over & Out.

Mother Superior In Black

Alexander Michael Ziperovich

for Mom, the greatest survivor I know…

Black, her favorite color, her the night sky from the bottom of the cavity of a canyon, stars torching burning flaming white light – sparkling explosions in her eyes; when she looks at me, I find.

I know.

She’s always known. Had always known.

Was lookin’ at three years consecutive for a bullshit collection of variously colored sedatives and a loud voice when my lawyer fucked me and raised bail a quarter million. The boys in the bullpen couldn’t believe what they were hearing; her eyes taught me integrity that’s searing. They were almost rioting when I said three words if not for their own MISDEMEANOR cases that were beginning proceedings.

Always known. I begged her to believe me once; I used a dirty flower the first time from some El Salvadoran’s car in hell street #13’s parking lot & I poked my friend from rehab in my cluttered confined little kitchen in my penthouse who has hepatitis C, which sticks around virally longer than God. God, I (thought) knew after my next blood draw what would’ve been saw or seen; massive spikes in my liver enzymes and all other manner of indications of being a fiend.

She said, “No, Alex. It just didn’t happen.” I replied, “But I swing around, high, and poked his arm with a goddamned .29 gauge or whatever and still shot the shit, I was high,” I wined. Again: “No.”

Turns out eye dodged another fucking bullet from a repeated phantom tommy gun/uzi/the finger of God Almighty, Goddamn.

How’d she know I wouldn’t be shot down that low or rather have shot myself down that low?

Wisdom?

Experience?

Persistence?

No words register like the fuckin’ syringes she never saw so there is no explanation excepting her divinely inspired clause and without a pause I believe what she says and know she’s right because that’s how I’ve survived the world war nineteen of my life.

Around then, nineteen. That’s when things get hard. Burning nose to burning foil to burning spoons the bathroom floor, blood dripping down my arm, my chin glancing off my nipples and all the way through that horrible transition to becoming what I am she was there bearing witness; she is an angel with wings made by James Perse and sexy shades by Chanel.

Who the hell knew? Wasn’t it supposed to be the junkies’ on the streets job to read up on their lives and blow my roll? Santa Clause said ho ho ho and I won’t ever again drink a scotch that leads directly to blow.

Why?

Because after a decade there are problems in the system, the plug and sparks are twisted; I made a promise I can’t break to a woman that I don’t think I’ve ever seen even age despite the fact that her 21 year old son had a ninety percentile risk of mortality with MRSA in his chest, the aortic valve of course, God Bless, God Bless, God Bless?

Strength structural isn’t grey or chrome or steel. It’s black. I know the sun is burning your eyes out your skull if you look too hard but imagine the blanket of the night collapsing but not smothering my creativity because if I was to go outside without my contacts I couldn’t see.

The black beauty.

The lady in black with the blanket of her love; I couldn’t have done it myself.

She knows this already but she asked me to tell and now I’m sober for her – not me – plus me – plus Sophie and I’m a little tired of being tired so I’m energetic writing poetry at 6:58 in September for her because she needed one thing from I, damnit, and I was happy to oblige, painfully happy.

Painfully black?

Euphorically black- no that word has the wrong connotations.

Practically ecstatic- no…

Joy.

All because of the divinity of the lady in black that salvaged the unsalvageable and put me in my office with her heart so I could write this so she can see it tomorrow.

Brilliantly black.

Brilliantine white light.

My mommy.

MOVEMENT

My life.

Magnetic metallurgy will pull you through my script like gale wind and tidal currents in my current titles, it’s not idolatry to believe that me could be making you flee; back and forth like an exorcism, indeed.

Well, let’s see.

Ten years and slot machine change without change and now I changed; sobered the fuck up somehow but I’d be illuminated greatly if I could see you face the things that have passed directly under my eyebrows without immediately stroking out.

Let’s not be melodramatic, Alex. This is illustrative of the illustration of integer’s of integrity and all the nights in the streets and all the other nights in the sheets, my nose burnt out like a bulb – unable to sleep. Feels like red roses that stick you every single fucking time you hold them, apparently someone higher up in the management decided I had the time. I deliberated and watched the clock but I always knew I’d be writing instead of inhaling lines.

Like the betrayal of a titan for flame, prometheus had the brass balls and look what happened to him, it’s kind of like the OJ trial plus the paradoxical reality of his ass pulling armed robbery after Cochran passed on blazing cameras in vegas, makes no sense, like eggs and licorice for breakfast.

Spoken. Licorice black as a Chevron ocean will twist your arm until you writhe and scream, the blood pulling and pooling in your mouth but you think you remain similar – there are no resemblances that I can tell but you feel free to imply whatever you like.

Pull you like whipped horses in a carriage.

Pull you apart – twin children concurrent of the divorce – their parents.

Pull you apart like Muhammed, think the Sunni & Shia gunmen.

Pull you apart like blood and your skin during a facelift on more twins.

This is loyalty to the cause I’ve endured. Ninety nine problems of my own and I own them all far, far too long, the lease with a fucked up rate that can’t be stalled like the car itself I’m driving which I hope crashes into all walls.

At least I did before I smelled this bourbon colored flower yesterday.

Like a Nazi scientist with a good heart; conflicted but about his business inserting typhus and syphilis to study the art of zombie making whilst drinking fine wine before the allies started invading, listening to Chopin or Brahms or even Beethoven with a family he loved once upon a time before he knew his heart to be as black as volcanic ash colored mud. He used one bullet from one gun; before he did it he inscribed the initials of the people he hurt on the bullet and now he’s floating somewhere between purgatory and hell.

Oh, well.

Roses are red and violets are blue, I guess.

At least that’s what they say… now, could you resign yourself to my fate?

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