Allow Me This

Engulfed by calculations of how emotions should feel, so utterly given to the tribulations of the ghosts that hang about our shoulders like dead hairs, that is the moment you will begin to forget what love means.

When you become what you preach against, an open milieu of your own counter-accusations spoken in the same dialect as the language with which you were harried by your howling pursuers, that will be the next moment where you will exist apart from and without love.

Almost drowning in an ocean of stale missives and corrosive memories, floating like bad clams that won’t open in a boiling pot, you have grabbed me in your arms and smashed your hammer into my sealed shell and extracted my tiny shivering heart so that you can suck out its poison, picking me from your teeth with a toothpick shaped like one of cupid’s blood-stained murder weapons.

Only distance and wanton disregard await us now. There will be no more warmth, only recrimination and suicidality and hot geysers of blood from old wounds reopened, infected with all this time, all this time that has turned so malignant as if our time together itself has turned into a fanged beast that will provide only a shadow and fear for us to cower beneath while we count the blessings of our own misguided attempts at refurbishing our insides with one another’s.

Lining our pockets with our sanctimony and delight at our counterpart’s mistakes and each halting attempt at understanding will bring even grander misunderstanding until we can no longer identify this conversation as taking place in any language at all, but just unfamiliar noises playing out in familiar melodies: pain into rage, fear into a segue of gestures meant to look like strength that only showcase the fragility of weak hearts.

We will beat each other into even greater submission than the world we escaped together, playing house in our raccoon-eyed reflection sitting in a pile of disabused notions. The junkie and the whore, never knowing who was who, but always knowing both were in the room and waiting to be paid in full.

Blood being viscous and us being vampires, we are greedy to gather the remnants before the great coagulation drowns out our argument and we are left mute, deaf to everything except our own vacancies.

Opening my eyes to the vastness of our love’s many formidable traps we set that have sprung into the dirt past our broken ankles, unsettling the earth leaving the remainders of ourselves amidst our grief, the lamenting farmer reconciling with the fire that consumed his harvest by telling himself the soil will ripen after the ashes settle.

What is this thing that we have now upon us? This frigid little rock scratching between the palms of our hands we hold like the thorns the penitent keeps in his shoes to flagellate his feet on his trek up to god at the top of a mountain only to be felled by a jade, gangrenous sore replacing his fever-dreamed visions of immaculate redemption with the sober death of an atheist.

Leaving this hospice suite to avoid the grating sounds of the dying’s last raspings, gone back to the orphanage where we abandon ourselves once again, squeezed back into the eye of the needle, come squeezed back into a cock, our blood squeezed back into our open wrists and air into our dried up, shriveled little lungs that shriek out:

Only love could hurt this good.

 

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.

 

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.

Up Behind The Clouds

Up behind the clouds,
me down beneath the ground,
eyes of stilted slits,
finding starry eyed stars,
just to stare down,
just to get even with

My big blind telescope in a world,
that’s a vandal’s braille,
i hear the clinks of glasses,
in my head i hear the wails,
siren songs, singing spelling wrong,
as always, the petty flesh will fail

Potted palm fronds, flitting about in gusts,
for all we’ve done that isn’t wrong,
a song written in dust

Add weight to my shoulders, break back and repeat,
release nothing until depletion, mixing iron into meat,
drink wine with dead soldiers’ clamors, pleading for the ink,
one pen left to write with and so we write until we’re weak

Leave the rest to the weary,
i’ll write so the half of me that thinks,
doesn’t have to think so scary,
for blessed is the one,
the one that surrenders nothing,
except the right to breathe until he decides he’s

done

You’re No Better (probably)

The Victor, a lion resting in my chest,
waiting to breed, to breathe,
waiting to feast on meat.

Bloodborne antonyms, can’t spell no no mo,
I got my little empty trinkets,
early onset, trying to forget,
all the things I remember, from so long ago.

Yes, the platinum in my eyes has dulled,
the dew on the web of the spider,
I sip into a lull, foregone conclusions,
doing things wrong, catching spiritual contusions.

Lord forgive me, all I am is the thinking thoughtless, a human being.

Claws for teeth and bullets for fingers,
gingerly testing for taste,
letting the brew simmer.

This road is long and filled with potholes that break axles,
taxidermies for friends, leaving no doubt,
about who is really the asshole,
unassailable vassal of things other than nice,
break myself off a crucible and go around pretending I’m Christ.

Rats into mice,
huge vicious bubonic rats from cute little, white mice.

I know nothing except the truth of pain,
spare me or sacrifice me, lacerate me,
just make up your fucking mind,
and have at me.

At Every End

At Every End

 

 

 

 

 

Defiled stop signs lying scattered across my mind,
A vandal ripping into the laughter of the sky,
I fell up into a star but it burned me,
Left me with all these cheap, pretty, happy star-shaped scars that I earned if you please.

Shrouded in a gauze of bittersweet insolence,
Trying to off the soul remaining witness,
Quite the incompetent assassin,
Loudly leaving a long trail of collateral victims like a broken vacuum.

Nothing is free, not even a scream,
All these mirrors keep staring at me,
Like some merciful attention,
That I didn’t get when I was the misanthropic child,
I needed parts fixed because people were troubled that I was troubled.

All so delicate.

Everyone threw stones,
Many others hurled bricks.

Like dying or fucking or going blind or insane,
Like falling in love or smelling flowers in the rain,
Like a scalpel crawling into my brain,
Every single day is recycled time spent in vain.

But that’s just how life works,
Remain calm and no one gets hurt.

Yes, calm and still as your teeth are eaten,
Consumed with garbled delusions of speaking some meaning.

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.

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 Death Throes of Marionettes

The Death Throes of Marionettes

Books of sand written by a mathematician with an abacus made from broken hands,
watering broken plants that look away from the waning light of the sun scissored into a wavering, wilted strand inside of a styrofoam box inside of a rock that recoils and cracks whenever it’s touched and all blooming flowers renounced their blossoms and crawled back down into the dust, their innocence hacked away by the axe handles of love, a sunset that forever fell filled with dead stars scrawled in paint that never dries captive in a canvas carved out of the sky by dull, rusty, heartbroken knives spitting hot blood at your eyes but only concealing the lens’ of the glasses art wears when it’s blind, the moment before it quivers, withers and silently 
dies.

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.

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?

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