TANGO & CASH

TANGO & CASH

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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.

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.

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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.

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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.

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God, is there any sort of plan?

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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.

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Great.

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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.

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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?

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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.

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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.

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No barter, just trade – they gave us crack cocaine and black tar heroin in exchange for high viral loads of AIDS.

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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.

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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.

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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

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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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

Softer Surfaces To Write The Name Of That Song On

By Alexander Michael ZiperovichImage

Eat the moon like it’s a cookie, dine on stars like cherries from a pie,

Believe you me, you won’t find nothing sweeter way up in the sky,

Unless I wrote some words…

just a couple I guess

I could write them on a sunset or perhaps a sunrise in the West,

Or wait,

            I could start the whole poem over and write it right above your head in the clouds,

But what if it rained? Would the sound of my heart beating down be too loud?

           

Hmmm, maybe I could find a big blue sky with wispy clouds where I could write all the things I think about, and I think aloud so follow me now, when I think of how it might be to know your sound, to see how your river flows and how you might feel if I asked you if you like writing on everything you see, and might you let me show you how?

 

Oh no, I’ve left the night sky untouched with paint and that’s an issue, grab a tissue, because I’ll be writing love ballads from now until your fifty two or three, depending on if they work and I have a good understanding of the love whom I’m composing them for and most critically, if she also loves me…

 

There is always the sun, which is my favorite thing to etch my verses on,

            The earth is gone but we’re in a song and it is hot and it is long, I won’t cancel,

                        If you come too, I’ll call the song “I love you”-beautiful harps get tangled,

                                    But love’s pure perfect, you let me write it than you can sing it,

                                                Your voice is soft like a kitty kat, so sing me that song, what was it called? Something about my eyes hug you? Or the sigh above you?

Now I remember,

We called that song I wrote, “I love you.”

Giving It Away

Alexander Michael Ziperovich

Tried to find my faith in bottles of pills, bags of powder for a time I saw heaven eclipsed, waiting around for the end of time, listening to the birds singing like angels, standing on a cliff looking down shameless waiting for the sun to produce me a cloud to float down into the valley before I’m forever bound to heartbreak’s razor taint, something you can’t paint, something you just break down like prison wall after prison wall to find out what’s outside it all until finally I see what the stars in my soul keep on twinkling about

Even without all the answers I thought I needed I’m collecting myself up into the man with the seedlings to plant to make trees to cut down and burn in bonfires in the blackness of night to shed light and send life throughout all that’s marvel and all the harmony so far like tomorrow, all the fights I never thought I would win but here I am at it again with some beauty and words trying to be alright but never all right, trying to sin as a saint, all I am is all I portray and all this is, just a self-inflicted wish to reduce all our pain and produce some more pretty flower arrangements that won’t ever decay

Like a rusty nail hanging from an abandoned factory alone I tap into me and it becomes a bliss factory erasing the bad shit and replacing it with sad shit and replacing that with happiness, the stages of a poet with a remarkably rose tainted madness I know it, forgive me not, the pedals fell in different spots and here’s a red rose for you and you and you so you forget me not

Maybe truths and forgetting my roots just an artist in pain with some pleasure sprinkled on top of my half-lived youth so I won’t forget all the times I didn’t want to die and I just wanted to live and live and live and live and fly and fly and fly and fly

Thrive until everyone around me saw me rise up into the sky, smiling like a prince as the sun enveloped me and gave me a kiss to which I responded with a poem and a wish and a promise to forever be kissing the sun, in love again smothered in the gems of a perfect romance that won’t ever end

This comes for you and yours, emerging from my tombs to heal our sores and wounds and erase the hate seething without breathing in its seductive fumes reaching to the tune I play my magical fiddle, coaxing fire on pages until they all burn brittle in the roasting urn and when I look at the stars knowing my life is better we share the same dilemma, is this all something you want or need to throw away before it sparkles and blinds you with your splendid beauty forever and ever

I give it away
For those that read this
And for those that need this
For everyone in need of a kiss, just use my words as lips

I Will Walk Straight Into The Cold Ocean If I Sense You Don’t Adore This

Alex Ziperovich

Needs all connected ineffable, all fees uncollected not collectable, travails of another person borne to settle like dust from a savage storm inside yourself to make you feel your love re-reflected until you’ve had enough, but it’s not enough it never would be you keep staring back into the darkness until a light relaxes into your eyes and your pupils dilate increasing in size and your heart explodes in the good way into a million hearts and you feel something, anything, probably something better, probably something you could write about in a letter to someone important or someone that knows your soul bounces and flails about like an unfettered feather, although who needs fettered feathers when feathers fly and feathers flounce askance and feathers go anywhere they want anytime they want to dance?

For us our blessing, two hearts too thin and our blood an ocean opera rearing back for a massive wind and the wave that will carry us into the sun and perhaps to a happy place where, beyond it, we can see all our misery and pain and we can gather it all up, and they’ll wait for us with sturdy steel locks built for our fate, for us to bury our shame into a small steel box – it’s all smiles as we hear the click of the locks and we release all the fucking hate and we relearn how to walk because in the gardens bathed in perfect light streaming down from the canopy sometimes you bounce and sometimes you find you’re exactly happy and free

A tear slowly rolling – a rivulet shining inside the sun, the sun shining so hard it kills the numb, the sun is slowing rolling down your cheek, effervescent as it runs, bless it when you care to, never mess with it like a perfect hairdo and be proper and always make sure you tuck in your halo and the wings that carry you

Flowers upon flowers upon pedals upon pedals, metallic dream factory lollipop creation machine, we keep the floors gleaming serene watch the magic pop out like bubble fun from a child’s mouth, no more ouch, get a bandaid, I have several, here is one you might just need to use to bandage up your mental, or maybe it’s a blanket you can curl up into it and sleep one perfect dream after another in the perfect dream blanket, it’s basically up to you, let this poem represent your happiness and if I did it wrong I’m sorry I’m unaccustomed to writing things that are about happy shit – but I think it works, in fact I’ll make that a declarative because I said it did and god damn if happiness is anything but a poet writing poetry trying to give it away, trying to let love live…

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