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.

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.

These Words I Write Have No Right

Alexander Michael Ziperovich

It’s so crucial to be neutral these days, hesitate before I let myself go bleeding away,
decimate the page with my sordid references embedded inside splintered, decayed
sentences, remove myself from it and say it’s abrupt literary fucking, you can’t
stop my blistery wondering, it’s like the stars are on fire directly in front of me,
you can see them up close, unfurling of a rose, a ghost, caught in an inferno
lost in the woods during a forest fire, going to burn down our funeral pyre
die a mortal, a coward and a liar worth nothing, I just think it’s about
time we had this discussion, my brushes with death a few minor
digressions, the point of this is that the points I like make blood
like blades and they cut deep if they have any grace, they’ll
leave gashes in your mind that you can’t wash off or stitch
you piss off momma bear it’s hard calming a violent bitch,
you’ve lost your innocence, your presumptions intimate,
so infinite, our collections filled with what they gave us,
knowing it won’t save us, we just got spat on charity,
bent down, collected their spittle, the generational
learned with their belligerent fiddles, out of tune
ballads of knowledge and philosophical riddles
that don’t end with a lesson but rather they
begin with the same redundant toy titular
thistles meant to scrape your shins and
break your wind until you can’t run
and painful is sin and your mind is
just a piece of the giant lake of hot
burning oil in the desert with the
limbs of soldiers dead in wars
that we adore for hating the
people under the other
stars, like loving afar,
I love you, it’s hard
words weren’t ever
going to kill, maim
you or stab, hurt
or leave scars
I just wanted
to show you
the way I
collect all
our hell
in
a page like butterflies in clear empty jars

Allow Me To Introduce You To Evil Incarnate Or The Good Doctor

By Alexander Michael Ziperovich

I’ve had a thousand experiences with astonishingly demented sociopath sadist pseudo-medicine men physicians during my grand tour of all the rehabs in the universe but this is the one scumbag with a DEA license that beats them all, just cooks it black and crispy, raw meat cooked with a blow torch. This guy, I forget his name but his name isn’t important. He’s short, so he’s got the short-man complex and he’s small and square and jagged like a block of wood, burning fire internally and his eyes, it was in his eyes where you could see what he wanted, his needs, right there the beady little black fucking abominations that allowed him his vision, that the world tolerated the rapturous desecration of everything upon his gaze itself is somewhat mind boggling. Fucking animal, this “healer of men”. Like I said, it was ALL in the EYES, each eyeball having a different sort of sick and twisted agenda, each eye speaking its own language of hate and malice and deception and iniquity.

He was a machine built in hell’s own garage by the Devil himself, so help me God.

Dr. Brand, that’s his godforsaken fucking name. That man, if that is what you would call him, the things he did to me, fuck. We’ll get there.  So let me explain first how I came to be in his possession. See, guys like me, we like drugs. Hard drugs. Good drugs. Bad drugs. Scary drugs. Mean drugs. Nice drugs. DRUGS. We like fucking getting fucking high as fucking shit. Around that time it was the Ketamine slash MDMA era, meaning for those that don’t know, I was playing with some very entertaining toys that affected some very special and sensitive parts of my silly little puddle of a brain. I don’t know how I can still spell T H E after all the fucking ketamine I snorted and injected. Anyhoot, I walked into this fuckers rehab smiling at flowers and basically sporting a skull with a brain inside that was in remission and upside down and inside out, the fucking thing was not working right and I was up for grabs for any sadistic motherfucker that would have it like that so thank the good Lord himself King/Queen Dahmer wasn’t around cause I would’ve been one of his masks he liked to wear around the house casually. I mean, really, I was very, very scrambled. Look, I was talking to myself, smoking huge cigars in the rain in a tank top and shorts at bus stops, hunting for nonexistent bags of cocaine with my Labrador in a suit and tie on the beach in the middle of the night, shit like that. You get the fucking picture. ALSO, please care to note that ketamine is what is commonly referred to as a dissasociative drug (its legitimate use is anesthesia for cats and horses and the other four leggers): but with human beans, you unbecome yourself experiencing ego death, you are not you, there is no you. Right. Okay. Hold on tight, grab a loved ones hand.

So, my non-self is sleeping in this shitty non-house with a cracked, crooked foundation and two rotating shifts of fat Mexicans handing out the rehab pills but wait! The fucking nurse bitches are handing out narcotics, it’s not hard to tell when you’re in a rehab jonesing so hard you would take on Tyson in his heyday for half a vicodin so word gets around, you know? So I am completely Stanley Kubricked out right now, cannot process this insanity, I just can’t make any of this make sense to me; they’re handing out morphine and oxycontin to the patients in a rehab? What the fuck kind of devious plot have they entrapped me in this time, jesus fucking christ. You shall see, my friend, you shall see.

So I’m in this scam rehab which Dr. Brand has created as essentially a pain clinic practice with a few houses to stuff some junkies in and it’s all intermingled and mixed up like salad and it makes no sense but he’s making great money, I mean, what junkie doesn’t want to go to rehab and get their pharmaceutical fix and be told that that is the correct treatment methodology? All of em do stupid! God you’re dumb.

Anyway the first time I get in the van and they take me to the “office” and he sees my drooping, amused face, eyes wandering around innocently like so many balloons in the sky at a local carnival he immediately targets me for extreme punishment, brainwashing, and physical and psychic pain and I could not have been an easier target, it was like I was a small child being told by a massive tattooed rapist that I could get a ride home if need be, and accepting that ride because the child was lost, and god damn if my child wasn’t lost as shit, deep in the slums.

He immediately barks at one of his nurses “Two milligrams intramuscular Ativan, stat!” and I fucking love benzodiazepines so I’m like YAY! and I pull my pants down and take a nice shot, stinging in my butt like some dramatic part in a symphony. Ahhh, relaxxxxeeeeed. “Come into my office, let me get to know what’s going on with you so I can help you to recover.” I oblige. And then it starts.

Note this if you may. Now. To be honest, my biggest problem as a writer writing autobiographically is that I have taken so many fucking benzodiazepines (xanax, valium, klonopin, ativan, serax) I have no memory or what little memory I have is very foggy and vague, like you can see the lighthouse through the storm, but only because you can see the light IN the lighthouse because without the light there is no lighthouse in my world. Good, I’m glad we’re together on this.

So I can’t tell you every single fucking word this evil cretin spit out at me in my very suggestible, relaxxxxeeed, ativan filled state, but let us just say this: he convinced me my parents hated me (opposite of the truth although they should), that I was probably gang raped by an entire Mexican drug cartel at some satanic initiation ritual in the desert when I was 8 or 12 and all other types of sordid insane shit. He was just having his little fun with me, toying around, and I had no where to go because my mind, it was weak, it was weak, my mind it was Edgar Allen Poe delirious and dying in the streets of London, collapsed, my mind it was Tyson after years of drugs getting a Maori tattoo and fighting MMA, my mind it was weak, it was the bodies’ antibodies trying to fight off the bubonic plague without penicillin, I mean WEAK. I had no defense whatsoever and he would bring me in every fucking day, unlike the other people in the house, and just sit me in an exam room and mindfuck me for hours, I mean this guy really, really was enjoying himself and who am I to say NO to a fucking shot of ativan, what are you kidding? I absolutely love that shit, I live for it. I knew what he was doing but I liked the ativan poke in my butt so I kinda just let it happen, like a girl that really doesn’t want to have sex but says “Fuck it, I’ll get something out of this, maybe some perfume.” The perfume was my ativan was my perfume was the ativan. So, I let him fuck me between the ears every day.

Okay, so that’s happening every day and each day I am becoming more and more lucid and my head is clearing up from all the lovely chemistry experimentation I performed in there and I begin to pace around the empty pool at the house calling my mom begging for her to come rescue me from this evil sadist fuck. No. Fuck.

Then it happens.

It’s sunny and I assume I’m going for another fucking glorious mindfuck session plus some ativan if I’m a good boy and do as the nice doctor tells me and I repeat after him type shit. I arrive at his office and I’m sitting there in his waiting room reading a pamphlet on how suboxone saved some Mexican woman’s life from heroin addiction and how a housewife in Wisconsin, formerly addicted to oxycontin, believes it to be essentially the same as insulin for a diabetic. [I AM COMING OFF SUBUTEX/SUBOXONE (SAME THING) RIGHT NOW AGAIN AS I WRITE IT IS NOT GOOD IT IS NOT EASY TO GET OFF OF IT IS A HELLISH, EVIL, HORRIFYING SUBSTITUTE ADDICTION THAT WILL EAT YOUR HEART AND LIVER AND SPLEEN AND MAKE A SALAD WITH IT AND SERVE IT TO YOU WITH A NICE VINEGARETTE SPRINKLED WITH THE PEPPERCORNS OF YOUR BROKEN SOUL] Where was I? Oh. Right. The waiting room, waiting, waiting for my ativan brainwashing therapy injection conference. The short little ignoble goblin bastard walks in and pulls my ass into the back dungeon area where he performs his Dachau experiments and he brings me to a totally different room I’ve never been privy to before and he lays me in this bizarre Hannibal Lecter leather chair contraption and begins to explain to me, and this is after a particularly massive dose of IM ativan (I believe he had his nurse adminster 4 fucking milligrams so I was on drool-mode) that my addiction wasn’t actually addiction but rather it was physical PAIN! Yes yes, physical pain emanating from my neck, yes he could tell by examining the way I walked and spoke and stood and that was my problem, yes, yes, there would be no more fuss over some so-called “heroin addiction” no, no I deserved to be treated humanely didn’t I? Of course I did and my neck, it was my neck, he knew that it was just because he knew and he was a maniacal but loving sociopathic genius and he would repair my life this moment and-

He begins to place his hard stubby fingers into the nerves in my neck so hard I begin twitching and shaking and he begets me so much pain that I am screaming now, screaming at the top of my lungs and of course he hollers for a nurse and orders me up some dopiates, I think he gave me two Lortabs that first time (equivelent to four regular Vicodin) and one 10 mg Opana and I am dizzy with pain but at the same time he’s giving me the drug I love so I am bound to him in our chemical romance and as I stagger away from his torture center he walks up behind me all cool and casual and does his neck pinch again, just once, a few nurses and patients around and DROPS ME TO MY MOTHERFUCKING KNEES with a pinch, I mean I gotta give this piece of shit fuck credit, he knew how to hit nerves god damn he did, I mean literally I am barely walking away, trying to run away after I took my pills to go smoke a cigarette and ponder all this insanity in the sun outside and he literally has the ability to walk up behind me and drop me like a fucking person falling off a building WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS MAN MADE OF?  I believe he is a concoction of one part demon, one part sugar, one part black tar heroin, one part DEA, one part penitentiary rape, one part love for hatred, one part Nazi, one part Jew, one part Stalin, one part Mao, and the rest of him was basically the Khmer Rouge with Pol Pot on his left shoulder and a headless child victim of the regime on his right shoulder all singing Symphonies of brutality and damnation to him. In other words, he is a fucking MAD MAN from hell itself on steroids with his confidante being Dante’s guide. What the fuck?

My neck is fucked. He hurt me bad. I am in serious fucking pain and I am so fucking terrified that this insane doctor has injured me for life that I start calling non-stop back home to Seattle, back to headquarters of rehab placement to get me the FUCK out of THERE NOW I am being decimated by a Doctor Evil Please Help MOMMY, SERIOUSLY, this is no joke. None of that matters to them but the second I mention he gave me opiates, my dad the doctor and my mom the caretaker of a long time opiate addict switch gears quick as lightning and reverse their stance completely- apparently there is a one doctor to another conversation that takes place where there is an explanation for giving an opiate addict opiates and he tells my dad the same fucking thing, that I injured my neck playing football and THAT is the reason I keep getting high, not cause I’m an addict or anything even though I’ll snort smoke or shoot anything you have anytime you have it. My parents are not convinced of this doctors methods but they don’t immediately pull me but I don’t give this cocksucker another chance to shatter my spine any more I just won’t let him touch me, he can talk his brainwash shit, which is still in full effect AND working but no, no, he CANNOT touch my fucking, god damned neck, yeah I’m in pain and I want some painkillers dumbfuck doctor fuck face a million but you CAN’T do what you did I’m already fucked up from the one time you did touch me. His explanation is that he simply brought out the pain that was already there and I was somehow psychologically repressing, ummm yeah dude, right, just give me my pills asshole and you can tell me Hitler had me raped at God’s request I don’ fucking care.

Finally, finally, finally, in all its grand finality, I am released from the iron grip of this medical dictator torturer magician and I am moved to a new, very comfortable rehab in Malibu, California which is extremely plush and chill but which I fuck up anyway but fucking around every chance I get even though I have a king bed and gourmet food. Whatever. Got kicked out of there too, oops. I had beef with this beak-nosed counselor who I would always out-smart in group and make look like a foolish crow. Ha. Like I’m not used to being sent around to different places, psych wards, etc? Come come, this is me we’re talking about, my rehab count at this point is already in its late teens. The bitch that got me kicked out of plushville rehab was named Helen I believe and she truly needed to get fucking FUCKED out of her mind. Sorry, but she really did, dumb cunt probably couldn’t get a guy to get within ten feet of her on consideration of her nose might fly out of her face like a bald eagle and attack.

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