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.

Facilitate the won.

Facilitate the won.

Facilitate the won.

Alexander Michael Ziperovich

.

.

.

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.

.

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.

.

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.

.

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.

.

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.

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

.

Suite raindrops on my side,

the place before the place before the place where you hide,

crying inside.

.

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?

.

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.

.

I fly and I’m no longer scared of life albeit it is promiscuous.

.

I fix you this wish with ten thousand gifts wrapped in the silk of my love until you feel just like this.

“that was sweet that you loved me kinda haha”

“that was sweet that you loved me kinda haha”

by Alexander Michael Marasca Ziperovich

Dedicated to a dear friend.


There are these things that mean rings,

planets our eyes rotating inside and things we don’t mean or we don’t mean to mean,

backdraft from the banality of love and we chase the fire with more fire to feel it’s strength,

our heart taken back a length.


There are these people that choose us,

hair that we like and sometimes when they feel like it they just chew us to dust,

and we fuss and we scream things and we sing and we breathe and we choke and we must hope that we won’t give in to the soap and cleanse our hearts with nooses and ropes.


There are these feelings,

living beings, betrayal with no meaning and ecstasy without seeing and we believe them,

until they leave us and we are left without and we don’t shout but rather we put our mouth

to a spout that sings better for worse and we cannot go on but we continue to work and work.


There are our hearts,

our hearts, our hearts, our hearts like art but the end without existentialism or big words,

just our love and desires and dreams and joyous burning passionate fires, we must light them,

candles standing tall in the cavernous wall that mesmerizes us and we think that it separates us,


But it does not,

hearts that cannot be eloping,

chain-gains that won’t stop hoping,

addicts that do in fact stop holding (hi),

and we thought to ourselves that everything was so broken.


And then there was a poem.

ASTROPROJECTILITY AND CUTLERY

I awoke from a dream at 7:19 AM. Ordinarily, I’d just be passing out, pills melting into my mouth.

I got sober two weeks ago, however. Ain’t it seem unseemly for me?

Indeed.

But back to the bed; I woke up and remembered the dream I had just had. I was in LA and NYC back and forth doing whatever it was, writing I presume, and I found myself driving through a neighborhood in what looked like Bel Air or Westwood in my stupid BMW.

Some asshole parked like shit and I left-side clipped his scotch colored lincoln.

Furious biblical anger.

I break into the first house I see, incidentally the same damn color as the car, Macallan 12 single malt to be exact.

I went in angry as a pit bull with untreated rabies; threw off my shirt and tried to find someone to blame with knuckles. Pitched my keys at a wall, screamed shit down the hall at two faces, walked downstairs to confront an older Asian (Cambodian or Vietnamese). Turns out they’re all Canadian and finally they ask me, “What’s wrong, bro?”

Dumbstruck. I thought this was earth.

“My car got scraped up. Fuck.

Uhm. Sorry or something.”

Now, here is the point of the story I’m relaying; I have of course remembered dreams, (very occasionally) but never bothered to speak them. This cold morning my mouth came out of sleep like a gaping tunnel producing a torrential downpour of words relating the dream, detail by detail by detail in exact exactitude to my Sophia. It was strange.

————

Last night on the roof there was a dark green late model van with dark tints with a dark-spirited looking man driving fast behind a cop with sirens. Clearly connected. I said, “He’s behind the trees.” I took a big swallow of my cigarette and watched for more action. None to be had. Now that I think about it, it makes me miss the fucking casinos. Action, I require action. At least if I don’t want to feel a corpse, cold as a fridge.

Crime interests me; not the punitive shit I’ve been dealt, my fucking red-headed lawyer fucking me at my arraignment on three and a half turn coated misdemeanors not objecting to raising the bail 249,000 dollars in cash from nothing but change. The arraignment took roughly 13 seconds and I was back in the bullpen with the rest of the boys. “Wow,” they all said, dumbfounded. Turns out my mother had the bitch raise bail to keep my ass from getting busted out by my succubus. I don’t know if any of that meets the definitive definition of irony but god damnit, it felt blasphemous. I was not amused.

I was in there during Christmas, New Years, Thanksgiving & the motherfucking playoffs the season my team finally was winning; thank god they didn’t win the bowl or I would have needed high dose lithium and ECT therapy. The guards wearing santa hats with my teams color configuration laughing and smiling and being pigs. Cunts.

The county jail; about as humorous as syphilitic insanity in my mother’s uterus.

Action, moves and scenes; at hollywood park I saw an Israeli and a skinny white man at the hold em’ table exchange a few words and the skinny was wearing a beanie that he removed which then revealed a swastika tattooed prison-style on his forehead. He leaped across the middle of the red velvet imitation with a razor blade at the Israeli and missed. No one got kicked out. They didn’t even revolve tables. This life feeds me impulses and urges that are hard to purge. I like that action, I like seeing that shit, ya know? The whole, ‘break your neck looking at car accidents’ thing they talk about. I try not to every single time but I always do – I still have yet to see a real juicy gruesome good one. I guess there is no prophylactic for degenerated behavior patterns – I called my neighbor’s woman guest a cunt when she entitled herself to humor by telling her friends and me that she smelled cigarettes and “wondered where that came from,” – “I smell cunt. I wonder who’s smelling like that.” Some poor bastard’s wife, too, hand her some humility and a tissue.

I lack the empathy, no, the decency to give two shits. I had diarrhea that day you fucking cunt. Don’t you dare attempt your pitiful wit on me or I will cunt you out. That’s how I stay out of the bullpen now.

Words.

Oh, and I dropped my decade of dropping myself in a poppy field two weeks ago.

Funny how irony works, if it does at all… cunt.

Lov3

our candy!

our candy!

lift mountains up mountains
for you

drink rivers and create oceans by spitting on deserts
for you

initiate congress between heaven and earth
and find the sun and the moon in slumber,
wake them and announce their marriage
with stars and clouds carrying champagne around
for pluto jupiter mars and venus while saturns rings explode
in
to
sound
for you i would do this

tear the fabric of space and time, creating a new place,
destroy the old universe
for you

take jesus’ wine and make liquor and not drink it
for you

darling, i would do any and every thing for your
eternal happiness but first, can i, may i,
have a kiss?

I Will Now Expunge

Alexander Michael Ziperovich

Image

i light my eyes on fire after the completion of this

this soul i vomit out splattered onto this page

chunks of hate; love; loathing; desire; regret; pain,

so many carrots, peas undigested

a disgusting rectitude but colorful

the family of blasphemy

and all the world remains indifferent

and all the world remains indifferent to this tragedy

like an illegal mexican immigrant packaging rasberries

as prostate cancer remains indifferent to cranberries

the entire mess displayed like a picasso painting

whilst auntie 2, 3, & 4 do their best to console us,

non-sequiturs about her mother not being consistently complicit

in the love of my life’s tainting? bathtub screaming pedophiliac raping

as if it was a fucked up painting instead of a shattering of a beautiful girl

and the razors inside her were not making loud sounds scraping away her soul,

her soul being sold; sold for nothing, just taken

RAGE AWAKENS

little girls thrown into slavery

little girls turn into women with infected wounds,

and a life that impatiently needs replacing

or a life they give up to be taken by satan or death

THIS. this, you unfit m0th3r, is your disgusting

complacence, your skull vacant leaving good filled with hatred,

i love this girl you brought into this world only so you could ensure she’d be raped,

raped and forsaken

as you lay dying a ragged old tuberculosis tumor fake caring

amazing at tearing organism in some lonely hospice/orphanage,

perhaps then, just maybe all alone in that pit on your way to the next,

will you know what it feels like to be prey; swearing to yourself everyday

that what you did was not the same as laughing and setting traps,

setting traps for your daughter to fall into until her spiritual, emotional, physical

neck snapped and she collapsed because of something you might refer to as a

“momentary lapse” in judgement but we all know the facts

i hope your tears are of the same blood that came from your child

as you let old men, as you heard and watched and gleefully allowed her to be

F U C K E D

Bitter Little Bits Of Hope-Coated Noose-Lowered Rope

Alexander Ziperovich

I need to let off some steam, badly
I think I might do something shabby
shove something into a vein I don’t even have to feel happy,
disappear into the ether floating while slamming while passing water boiling so fancy stirred with a spoon so thin amongst my colleagues,
the faculty of sin, all moaning for happiness within as we grind our heads covered in shawls, my mind feeling like a third world bathroom stall with a gaseous mist seeping in choking on all the incessant judgment of Pluto the banks of Hades with his handsome boat as he casts me off to swim, beating my burnt angel wings just nubs in the current drowning in eternal subservience to a power no greater than the salivating that’s burning my throat as I swallow these grains of green, bitter little bits of hope coated noose lowered rope

so ugly it’s beautiful so hideous it will ruin you so horrid it’s true

as real and eternally infernal as children burned alive in an inferno made from candles and servitude

barbaric with an ax to grind metal sparks flying blinding men that are already blind burning their eyes until they can’t see even the black, all they can see is themselves dying over and over inside of their masks, I paint you a picture and you can fill in the lives and we can look at how disgusting our creation is, especially mine, and we can step back and have a smoke and watch the small embers crawling up into the sky, like a shadow in a gust of wind or a ghost that appears as a nun stuffed into a crib rising up out of it into the pitch as if you’re alive you’ll go up with the smoke away from us, our lungs expelling every single thing you ever wanted into a fine gray dust to be blown around the room of our god, this new soon to be exhumed funeral parlor where after we write brave men speak what they harbor and the thorns from roses are thrown at them until they bleed better spirits for the audience to experience in golden goblets they can really taste the pain in the faces of the poets drooling agony –

– one wrote his masterpiece for you and it was short beautiful truth but it burned and the flames that erupted out of the single page were small cruel and futile like the text never existed and the piece that made a master out of a man now made that man into sand with a stack of blank papers, a match and some gasoline in a can in a bathtub to lay in as he started to burn he began to remember verbatim the words of his poem as he sat like his poem he became ashes in his urn, he drowned in his fire and self-pity and genius but as he died he told the world his words but the earth didn’t hear him and the words he spit through the fire in his mouth were the words that made god so envious and evil and fiendish filled with so much doubt so he smiled in irony at such hostility given to him like wisdom – the things that poets conjure and die for to make you all feel pure and cried for – he died with a sneer on his face that was really a grin and he showed the sky his flaming face as he winked up at god’s ugly face and asked the earth to swallow him leaving no trace of his perfect works, leaving no face from which to know the man with the perfect words instead just a wisp of smoke from something that burned

it’s a dangerous autumn getting darker and the blackest crows line up to eat your eyes and I don’t even care if they start before or after I die as long as I can be the rain coming out of the sky flooding the streets in tides I want the rain to be the tears I cry the tears cascading out of my eyes so the world can feel my rage and pain as I scream lightening and fire in a ruthless hiss at humanity sitting atop Mt. Vesuvius

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