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.

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

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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 Sound of Sirens

The Sound of Sirens

Acutely aware of the boys and their fare; they’re everywhere and in everything and when they come screaming down the avenue with their metal encased death machines they tend to unintentionally threaten me.

I was in the bathroom shower, more blue suits coming to cut the stems of flowers.

I slapped the soap on and off wishing I had instructed my girlfriend to check the locks, instructed my girlfriend to grab my pills, instructed my girlfriend to write my will.

I need a cigarette but I won’t get it and I’ll be sent to a place where life exists as a physical restriction and there will be no poetry and no more love and everything stops living inside of a lock.

I ran out of the water and into the sand, the police had stopped arriving and I was naked and sad. Memories of bad bologna and mustard packets and teflon-rubber jackets and racial tension and I decided that detention had left me in a permanent semi-suspension where I would stay put like frozen jello – sitting in a fishbowl with forty men waiting to be let go into a place where your screams become echoes.

Incarceration is part and parcel of my participation so I wait for the cops like a child with his stomach growling from hunger suffering from chronic constipation and I wait patient like a patient with a tumor and I just hope and pray that they don’t hurt me bad as I remember being choked to death by five cops on a University District bicycle rack.

And it gets worse than that when VIGILANTE is tattooed on a man and he drops a razor when they shake you down and you don’t know why the alzheimer man has to go down for the hooch the boys in the tank were cooking down and when he comes back he has no idea… he thinks he went to the hole for something to do with ordering glasses on commissary and everyone vomited from the sugar packets and fruit with the worms and I want no part of any of the shit on this earth that makes people into animals and I am horrified at the rattlesnakes with their BLUE and RED rattles and they bite and they sting and they kill and they maim and I don’t think I will ever, ever, ever be the same.

If you hear the cops and you feel safer just remember that in jail you can’t shave your face unless you remove the razor from the razor.

On One

On One

Smitten in the desert, a cold shouldered devil able to be present so I present him my presence,

balanced on the church steeple with my heart encased in pedaling petals.

Addicted to the white so I am post-acute; sickness follows me when I don’t use the pen on the paper, abuse, I need my fix and I don’t give a damn who knows or knew.

A finely ground composite of particular interest, through the sun in a pinnacle on business. I can go ahead and meet your maker, discuss my fate later when the sun shines sharp and white like the blood dripping off the teeth of a gator.

I’m very determined, a young Jew orphaned in Warsaw organizing SS abortions switching vials of morphine to save the ghetto Savior. The council all has a say, so don’t perjure yourself or get murdered into the curdling earth.

The war is not real? The war is agent orange leaking from this taxi cab into my lab causing exhalations of tinted gas out of my girlfriend’s lungs; a demon here, a demon there, they come in the same beautiful cloth but they just want your face off-white numb and your heart beating their special brand of blood called tragic.

Can’t have it so it’s automatics and cluster bombs and Cold War politics that are worn out like old nuns’ habits and so I ask this, are you ready to go out and fire? Your social media implies something like a desire for recognition but when the air behind your eyes is hissing and the gunshots aren’t missing and the legs of your little brother are in the bushes blistering then the sun comes out and the truth is revealed and your little lying propaganda can’t save you but might I suggest you become REAL.

Real is a noun, depending on how you see it. It’s something or nothing, a roulette dare or candy cotton add a bullet to a cop’s Glock’s clip to remove someone’s hair and the government doesn’t like you and it certainly doesn’t like me – go get a political science degree and avoid surveillance: the black plague of academic slaves waiting for an armed messiah on a list for plastic surgery before your bail’s set.

But when the sun goes down and the gun is in the ground let them shed ten tears and ten more rounds and let the circus play and let the children find God and let God hunt them down and let the world be as it was the day I came up out of this ground.

Don’t panic or pray, don’t let this be this way, don’t run, don’t fight, just look down the sharp edge of the knife as your origin tries to kill herself on your kitchen floor, serrated so it is sparing blood like bad drills drilling in bad holes missing all the ore.

Back to Babylon for more and more and more.

Bye The Bayou

Bye The Bayou

Dirt-slicked sleeves with all places to be, the sun shining furiously.

Furiously.

A Chrysanthemum in my teeth, the bit of the horse and my spit-shined teeth are going out to bore in to this town. One brown, the other yellow leopard, pants frayed and stained spectacles for sight.

All people a graveyard, all silence, all night.

When the sun goes down, the little lepers climb over their mother’s bosom, they come screaming like freight trains through kegs, chewing on graphite chicken legs lookin’ to reach a bottom. I just smile and flick cigarettes, the glare of the sun all over these brand new marionettes with their truncheons in my cheeks, flecks of dirty dirt in their shadows.

“Look around, son. What do you see?”

I paused and glanced, “Nothing.”

He shook his head, tipped his hat, and that seemed to be that.

In the forest, every tree my rifle, every fire is mine and to be mine there must be a recital; let those shots go in every direction. Just make sure they find the one that’s up there looking down on us, seconding our guessing.

Bye the bayou, O beautiful one, have this Rose, I’ll hold your Chrysanthemum.

O, by the bayou, wavering banner, take me in your arms and explain how nothing’s not ever the matter and I’ll swing for the stars and shake the hornets, grab onto slivers and shimmy down bitter – there’s no cold season when your pneumonia’s pneumonic but I’ll give you a taste of a caliber days and we can just pray and pretend that it’s clay and that we are not it but of it and we might allow ourselves to be molded and told of the covenant.

If not, so be it, a thousand tons of satin inside my valves and the car drives but it is very loud and all these people are making a raucous and I don’t know if they took the liquor off my shelf or if the liquor got up and walked out.

Bye the bayou, O glamor, O fame, take this Chrysanthemum from me and let it not take away your days.

Yes, Bye the bayou, in so many ways.

TANGO & CASH

TANGO & CASH

$

$

$

$

$

IN A PRETZEL SHAPE LEANING ON PINE NEEDLES,

YOU CHILDREN WEREN’T CHILDREN, YOU WERE STEPPING ON BEETLES.

FEED THE NEEDY, GREEDILY,

ANSWER JUSTICE & FALL INTO A PIT FILLED WITH SEEDLINGS.

BURNT CALLS & PHONE STALLS WHERE YOU MAKE FALLS,

FALLING AS LEAVES & DEAD BUTTERFLIES, SEPARATE YOUR WINGS TO FLY.

SHY KNIVES IN MY SIDE, STINGING & BEEPING, SOMETHING’S SLEEPING,

WAITING, IT WANTS ME, IT WANTS TO DEVOUR & I WILL NOT COWER, I WILL EAT IT’S FLOWER.

NO BOTHER, WASTE OF TIME, STICKS AND STONES,

ALL ALONE,

ALL ALONE,

ALL THE WAY HOME,

ALL ALONE.

Happily Rabid

Happily Rabid

Alexander Ziperovich

*

There’s a sign on my forehead, enter bullet, preferably a .357 caliber. There’s a signature needed for all of you people, I’m passing around the bulletin board and your needles are just getting sharper and sharper.

*

There are clouds above the sun, yet the sun is burning through; I’ve been told once, twice, three, and four times what not to do.

*

There is somewhere for me to go, a vacant lot. I’ve been told truth and I have been told lies. I lie somewhere in the middle, smoking something hot.

*

Guns, diamonds, cocaine, and God. Capitalize things when thing’s are hard.

*

Fuck life. Fuck death. Permanent purgatory for a man with absolution solution’s left.

*

Killing’s and I just want to be at peace. Someone offered me an olive branch and I spit at their feet. They offered me syringes filled with cut dope, I offered my bulletin board before I realized it was all tore up and broke.

*

Coke. I turned away.

*

Specialty pharmaceuticals, do the tango down to the bay and sit on the dock and watch all the ghosts sway like the waves from a cave.

*

Hunger. Grave starvation, bullet’s in my bulletin board for me to suffer today.

*

Today, today, today and tomorrow I’ve borrowed and followed and eaten things that tasted like maggots dipped in the sorrow of someone else’s grief.

*

This place is eating me.

Consumption is my function & I grow tall like a hunchback jumping.

Now, to the luncheon.

What gumption!

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.

Invisible Silks.

Invisible Silks.

Invisible Silks.

Alexander Ziperovich

.

.

.

Dedicated to Sophia Wight

.

I know I’m difficult to understand,

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

.

There is a plan somewhere out here in spacetime,

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

.

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.

.

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

.

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.

.

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.

.

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.

.

Hold my hand,

I’ll hold yours.

.

We will fight these wars with all of our force,

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

.

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

without any hate.

.

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

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

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