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.

Eyelash lashes.

Eyelash lashes.

Alexander Ziperovich

—-

Corneal inflictions ruinous mentions,

Ride the phantom with misted glasses,

BLACK out the pain and let it drain from your ashes.

—-

The bedlam in the crematorium smells of saffron,

Soul on a kebab,

Made and make to crack them.

—-

Youth falls like leaves from oaks,

Split you in the cedars until you’re jaundiced and choked,

Hope but you won’t.

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.

Of This I Will Give

Of This I Will Give

And and aaand the light from my cigarette will blind you and burn you,
from under the cover of my fire blanket and you will thank me!
your eyes like plankton – all coming and going,
a feline face with antipsychotic properties playing monopoly
over my days

Ten oil drums full of the paste of my ways, boiled one screaming infant that knew to run,
before he could walk, “here, have a gun” and scream your best scream,
save room for
profanity/me
and there will be every flower for every person at every time mandated by federal law

From inside sleep I come and eat, uselessly,
handicapped by the world,
all the ugly artistry in all the parts of me being defiantly wrested from me backwards into walls and liquor,
poetry is a progressive disease and I keep getting sicker
dragging out my cigarette so it lasts a little bit longer

Fire your weapon,
the world is a nuclear ashtray with a blast radius like a face that heaps insults on to the backs of beggars and blind men, please blind men with sirens and let the wolves loose, eat tires,
roll on your back and dangle the world from its strings onto all of the everything,
until you become the person who’s hurting so bad they’re willing to shed nothing certain to be happy,
strike deals with the gods and squint into the darkness like
the flickerings of dead stars

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.

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.

For The Thrill Of It All

Alexander Michael Ziperovich

Dangling from a blood-moistened, rusty silver string from the top of the heavens with three broken legs dipped deep into the swamp with my heart in my right hand, my left hand empty and sharp.

That’s where you find yourself, where you know that you can decide what kind of man you are, where that can be decided for you.

Ambulatory coordination after a fist fight I can’t win; the fat kid with the shitty homemade purple wine and my girlfriend in the very far peripheral. “Fucking fuck! Ahhh! I’m in pain, I’m in pain.”

Screaming for a liberal nurse without a grudge to bring some clear, synthetic fudge.

Three shots of hydromorphone and twelve specks of glitter to take home and run with.

I can’t take the way my head feels when it’s empty because it’s so full.

I can’t take the way my bones feel when it’s raining inside me.

I can’t take the way people look at me when there isn’t anything to see.

This place, these places, all these shining, crumbling towers; there isn’t another city in this world I want to see that isn’t in high definition. The corners are buzzing like fruit flies on shit and my ears are tingling and my neck and the little hairs on my arms raise up like rifles to greet the news: you’re not going nowhere.

Look into my eyes if you want to know.

If they’re big then I’m angry and sad. If they’re small then I’m satiated, angry and sad.

Ambulatory uncoordinated dance-steps for fruit fly mingling; mosquitoes in the dead of winter and I sing so loud they come to me and drink dying of thirst.

The plastic-metal Glock flitting through my head like dream sequences.

They say a bullet never lies. How do you calibrate the caliber of the way you fall on your excalibur?

I went to the big ball and spilled red wine on the vest on my chest and the rest of the rest of this mess has ever since been something to try to cry about, something to think about unthinkingly stupid while I never rest. See, it dries up your face, your mucous membranes when you learn that you don’t belong in this place.

God bless, God bless, God bless.

The weak shall inherit the mirth and be blown away by fucking tsunamis made from steel pricks and invisible plagues.

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.

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