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.

Spiritual Glaucoma.

Spiritual Glaucoma.

Spiritual Glaucoma.

Alexander Ziperovich

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There is a bitter salt in this field of poppies, a stench of the soil that renders my involuntary sweating; tears slowly rolling from my left eye when I force myself not to cry.

There is a demon and his name is mine. There is a place that is unavailable to find. There is a sweet warm darkness that can caress my wounded bones, but I am in this place and I am in this space alone. There is the love that is offered my hand and the friends that want to understand and the writing that keeps me from being the one that caused me to be stabbed but how can they ever, ever, ever possibly see how lovely it is in this slow, deathly solitary wonderland?

Just one sip. Just two pills. Just five needles in a row making kills. Used myself up by the time I was fourteen and I swore to myself that I wasn’t finished with God until he was finished with me.

There was that, the camps, the psychological torturous maps in my head that play on repeat like tracks that are dead on radio stations filled with statistical electricity; what has this earth done to me?

I know nought for I shall not kill but I will, just give me those pills and those bottle’s of absolute, I don’t want to die but I want to be cruel, cured, fixed, filled. Meet my needs and everything shall be healed.

I’ll make those promises even when I know I can’t, in the ambulance with a knife in my hand staring at the paramedics with hatred in my soul; this is not paradise and there is no place to go.

But up into the heavens, clouds, judgement and damnation for punishment of all the audacity of someone that suffers violently sadistic self-fuckment.

I love it.

Keep the tracks rolling; I’m at the train station looking at the coal, stair into my heart and I find that it’s cold. Need’s not met, warmth not given; locked myself away and through away the key to this invisible prison. Give myself a way out? It’s plausible. Like catching a worm with a trout.

There is nothing that scares me, which may sound scary but that is sacred and nothing could replace it; six million ways to try, choose one, I carouse the streets looking for your gun.

I’d like it to be golden and shine in the sun, antique and latin and fires only once.

But dear Lord I am sobbing to you do you hear are you here, is there a way for me to ever be near? Us, together? All I see are cobbled promises and webs and bad weather.

Spare me yours and I will not spare you mines, giggling up dirt ad infinitum.

Blow smoke out of my psyche and smoke rings that are like me as they dissipate into the air and become nothing but sightseeing. Wear out thou? Of course. I want about a gallon of liquid diacetylmorphine, we call that shit horse.

Before I finish, let me explain. My brain’s in a jar made from steel cage and rage. There in an absinthe solution, waiting patiently for something to shoot him but nothing will even though he’s begging, grinning on his knees, banging his head into the top of the jar until the cells of his cerebral vortex bleed out his knees.

And I flee, not for the first time; this land is a troubled one and I want to find God but I think I know that that could be kinda hard so I’ll say to myself that I’ll give this a try even if I won’t, two double neat scotches kept near on the low just in case I can’t keep it together. Listen motherfucker, my mother has pancreatic cancer. Don’t ask me why I’m stressed and violating pages rapaciously; this fucking planet has been raping me ever since I can remember and I so I want to dismember every single person that’s ever done me my nevers. Clever, ain’t it? Spiritual vermicide and I know you all love to see yourselves’ reflections’ in my hatred. Never, never, never landed but I saw the moon and I saw it eclipsed like a bright afternoon in Los Angeles, a needle buried deep in the boiler room of my medals of valor, take this piece and burn it, whatever, just make sure you read this letter. It’s from me to all my fellows and if you know what the fuck I mean then we were meant for this hell together. Follow me down a path filled with fallen branches and we will gather them in our arms and sing the forest romances until we are so lost that we cannot emerge, the birds circling looking emaciated and hungry; this laughing I do is not supposed to be funny. This is my continuity and my poison and my elixir and everything my father never gave me. This is every single time every single person blamed me. This is for every child that will suffer today, please, hear my pleas because I am down now on my fucking hands and knees, begging for lost children to be saved once again, but God has plans other than that; throw a boat on a rock and flood the earth with salt like a waiter you insult. Like a flavorous malt filled with black licorice and faults and fault lines and the fault is mine and I accept that frivolous reality.

In actuality, I enjoy feeling badly.

Sadly.

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.

Hands grasping at venom.

Hands grasping at venom.

Alexander Ziperovich

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There was a girl who was not a girl who believed herself to be without merit for the world,

she went to the zoo to play nice, brought a basket and a sack of rice,

she went to a reptilian keep, black as satt cloth,

to feed the snakes her frothing heart’s cough.

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There were children and vendors, ice cream and water,

she paid them no heed, she was no ones daughter,

she leaned in and blew a kiss,

and the hisses blew slits.

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Carnivorous cannibals, she had her animals, her rice,

time to make nice, had she not the right to her life,

holy mass at the holiest fork in the road,

she through herself into the cage,

and french kissed her bent rose.

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They rose up and snatched her soul like a dirty cop,

and she thanked them with all that she got,

which wasn’t much from nowhere,

they drove up her back,

and she wanted it hot.

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.

The degradation of a farce of innocence.

The degradation of a farce of innocence.

Alexander Ziperovich

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Enveloped in clouded judgements of the vapidity and carouse of mice,

Crawling clay interned by a a function of life.

0

Three stanzas written with three zero’s,

Four cowards that prefer themselves heroes.

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There is drought barrels to be caressed,

The sun marking diamonds and guns across every animal man’s chest.

A happier death.

Alexander Ziperovich

The somnolence of a cathedral encircled in coal-blackened doves and the howling of the wind above could be the only thing that persisted in a man’s being. The only thing a man could hear beyond the retched tune of the infallibility of a diseased world. There will be no deliverance, the golden scrolls and pythagorus and his minions all dancing hysterically, missing second red buttons on the collars of their tunics, stained with blood and grime. The odor of the ground and the heartily giggling sky mingling like inbred felines. There is a danger in this place, walking like this on this city like Thor. There is a fever in all of this that will produce no more than a storm that would devour the earth and hawk out its lungs histrionically.

To live one must die and to die one must sacrifice; the ancients and the gods and the devils and the angels all in one massive orgy of sweet surrender to the soaring winds of never.

Nevermore. Pickled souls and unwritten golden saffron inscription-less scrolls.

Let us die so that we may live again.

Unchained by the hubris of our emotional dilemma.

A dagger, four fingers in the heart.

Buried with roses and rocks.

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

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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.

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