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.


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?




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.


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…


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.


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?

Strawberry Heart Shaped Love


Strawberry Heart Shaped Love
Alexander Michael Ziperovich

And the love came flying back into my cardio like a rabid raven,
something I cognitively was sure I knew I missed but there were those ..


Now, my eyes – the dust disintegrated so that I might see,
all I see is me loving her loving me because I’m ..


Supple like hanging fruit from the vine of my mind,
don’t let me intellectualize something that can’t be for me that way,
let me just know it’s real, in the flesh so to speak,
no more biding my our time,

Yes, like a lime there was something bittersweet fleeting floating in the air,
I hear her singing “Cry Me A River” and I’m no longer scared,

No more fists to men that have jaws too big,
no more steel in my waistband, it feels too much like a trick,
this isn’t even that sophisticated, too martini too scotch,

Scoff, Scoff

Her love is a strawberry inside my heart,
I’m learning to find out that it’s much more smart to feel the juice dripping from my
valves instead of Mexican dark,

Harken back to a time you knew I wasn’t,

Look how I write Sophia love now,

Isn’t that something?

I know so.

No one has to spend their time hoping so, not anymore,
unlike Bradley, I never lost the war – I’m twenty seven,
I guess that makes this the one time that summer prevails over the season of winter in my soul.

I won’t ask you to trust me,

I just know.

That One Needs To Be Touched

by Alexander Ziperovich

Sophia’s mom showed me a poem I wrote for her on Christmas, as it were,
I had written it during our initial discovery of what was to be, and what is,
the atingle of our singing, dancing, living, breathing love,
a love so perfect it became sillily inaccurate, even inappropriate,
to use the word perfect to describe it and so I was led to
thesaurus’s, encyclopedia’s, Dostoevsky, anywhere for terms that might,
with some measure of clarity, resemble the boundless love we knew;
I came upon words like splendiferous and fleckless,
and still these did not come near to capturing the
essence, the soul, the infinite genius of our love,
nevertheless the first line of the poem read:

“I would push mountains up mountains for you,”

That was around the time I got a heart inscribed with “Yes, love a slaughter,”
tattooed on my chest above my heart which she quickly pointed out
could also be seen as “Yes, love as laughter,”
an observation reflecting her endless beauty..

She got the tattoo on her thigh
of an excerpt of another poem
I had written for her:

“And now I’m bare,
All the wounds that
I am something,
something must
keep you near,
perhaps a sound
only the both of
us can hear,
the symphony
between our eyes
that became our
where there was
once just air…”

I haven’t written in awhile, certainly nothing of love, even though it is always there,
like the sun and the moon and the clouds and the stars,
like air and fire and wind and water,
love like a windy fire,
smashing through buildings.
I have not written of love in some time.

Yes, a fire or a wind or a windy fire,
yet she’d prefer our love to be a vegetable,
or a family of pigs living out their lives peacefully,
sheltered from the horrors of the abattoir’s of the world;
I think it’s adorable how she loves pigs because as she put it,
“They’re in their little families, they’re cute, nice and they love each other!”
She love mothers, “Write about mothers! They’re an incredible force of nature.”
Somewhere in there she used the word Gaia,
but knowing Sophia,
into the sky like a bird and
became a cloud shaped like a heart that rained on people to satiate their deepest thirsts.

Once A True Love


Max Moonpenny & Alexander Ziperovich performing Alex’s piece, “Once A True Love”.

In The Garden Of Good Looking Evil


Me and Maximus Moonpenny performing “In The Garden Of Good Looking Evil”, her on the guitar/vocals and me (Alex) reading.


our candy!

our candy!

lift mountains up mountains
for you

drink rivers and create oceans by spitting on deserts
for you

initiate congress between heaven and earth
and find the sun and the moon in slumber,
wake them and announce their marriage
with stars and clouds carrying champagne around
for pluto jupiter mars and venus while saturns rings explode
for you i would do this

tear the fabric of space and time, creating a new place,
destroy the old universe
for you

take jesus’ wine and make liquor and not drink it
for you

darling, i would do any and every thing for your
eternal happiness but first, can i, may i,
have a kiss?

Love Poem


i love you this much:
heroin/cocaine uncut refraction, my north star
a cowardice you drink it out of my eyes and my iris’ feel dry
but blood as red as a registered syringe runs through
my heart
my heart
my heart
you have a heart and it’s damned pretty even beauty
beauty yours
beauty yours
beauty yours
my heart jumps and waddles its way into your drinking, drunken E Y E S

sophie’s voodoo sophistry gathering the hopelessly me
until i do not burst; indeed i hope to free us;
these burdens mine and yours like sirens i have no choice:
like all sounds screaming in the night
we hear them
you hear us
the evil fears us; fake dice they toss craps,
you have revealed us and by us i mean me,

p l e a s e don’t stop l o v i n g me
you voyeur to my pre/post indiscretions until one day,
one day our need my needs; your need for my needs,
it all comes together
and i can stop fighting and
all the red lights at all the intersections will die

our days are only numbered in the moments
the seconds i gather my soul look in your eyes silently
begging atonement
its very lonely
it was always solitude
you have fallen into me, my swamp, my desert of ingratitude that is:
it’s something still and endless and embattled that you,
you sink into to clutch my trembling hand to you;

and all of the other things a poet might write about
the love of his life that aren’t just junked up junkie platitudes

none of this is junkie platitudes this is alex grasping
at all your gleaming sugar so i can stomach the moments
handfuls of tragic – it has to, had to have been you,
will always be you, making me not so sad you (life)

i won’t give up as long as…
i just won’t fucking give up as long as i have you
as long as you have me centuries millenia hours milliseconds

i won’t let your hand go at the bottom of my murky bog,
and we never ever have to ever again be alone in that draping,
that smotherfuck of f o g.

Sophia singing Lua beautifully (early in the morning)

Sophia, my darling, has an indelible, magical voice; it’s as though everything disappears when she sings except for her unforgettable love and it moves through you like the wind leaving you new again.

It’s Been So Long



By Alexander Michael Ziperovich

I can’t help but think,
me without you, you without me –
how cruel of the world to let that be,
some kind of sadistic iniquity – but,
you came here and you’re with me,
and every single time that you kiss me the flames of this
fire we’ve lit free rise up to lick me,
until every doubt is burnt,
burnt black crispy,
this blaze engulfs me just consumes us,
our beauteous touch,
stars so high up colliding showering us,
a dust of flushing plush starlust twinkling in our dusk,
the stars must regard us as far up,
sitting atop the heavens just bright twinkling starloves,
our love, up there embracing our hearts touched,
among all the fire of the stars ours was enough and like the sun it was blazing,
the sky painting pictures of us, yes, so far up and all the lonely stars softly staring stargazing at us because they know,
they know how long we’ve been waiting

Our Song

symphonyBy Alexander Michael Ziperovich

You don’t know, you all in my hands like they haven’t beat fists through souls, these unclean hands you hold as if they were gold,
so bold,
giving me your love to hold,
you this lone orchid but my cold wind howls and blows,
smashed flowers before yet you let me touch through to you
and I watch your garden grow, flowers explode flashing brilliance in the sun like light reflected from
magnesium bulbs-

So, I suppose our eyes were our exposure in repose,
you saw me and I saw your heart, like mine, in throes,
don’t hurt me, it hurts too much to be alone, scared,
but you and me and me and you, you lost my cold like you’re spring melting my winter snow, something rare,
our heart beats shared intertwined something I never
thought possible, something divine and I’m scared-
and now I’m bare, all the wounds that I am- something,
something must keep you near,
perhaps a sound only the both of us can hear,
the symphony between our eyes that became our love
where there was once just air…

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