Alex Reading “Relapse”

This is Alexander Ziperovich reading a heartrending piece at Wordplay 2014 in Seattle and is a written piece that was excerpted from his upcoming memoir, The Beautifullest, for the occasion.

All Work No Play

All Work No Play

All Work No Play

The Heart Guy Effect

The Heart Guy Effect

The Heart Guy Effect

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

Where’d You Come From?

She's a pearl.

She’s a pearl.

by Alexander Z.

You act like we’re all not going to some cave to wither away,

Sure, I’ll keep pretending to pray but lord almighty what seemed so far away now seems so far from delay and it’s not a relay like hi hats in drums, whatever, it must be

heart beat percussion, with or without me all up in your discussion?

You thought you could just take me there

make things fair

make me feel

like I was

more

than

air

Fine, light up my life’s files, bring out my history, blistery, often wounded but you read my writing and you said you liked it so I presumed this: you’re the bliss of a nice kiss,

Not hard, but this thing you are, that I might be, we both know how I love stars,

Giving me worlds, brilliantine escaping the darkness a million times!

Pearl’s are fine, from the deep blue ocean – you keep this going I’ll

Just fuck off everything and we might go somewhere that

Requires sun tan lotion, a pen and some paper to write

more poems for each other, friends and lovers plus…

We love each other? Don’t make me stutter,

I said it before on the first manuscript and

I’ll be damned if this is not my random

Gifted trip, see the heavens and I’m all

Broken but you look handy,

Yeah, I’m good with

Weapons but you

Look like you’re

Good at fixing

Things like

Broken

Bones

That

Need

Settting and Mending

My Manifesto: Near The Entrance Of My Tomb

Solitude is for a writer what rain is to the trees

Inside my tomb, alone, I will write and write and write and write and write and write and write…

Alexander Michael Ziperovich

The mob symphony discordant and quiet,
They want me to sing

…my voice, my breathless cry for you to know what it’s like
inside these hallowed chambers, here there is nothing but everything,
intoned like the first beating of the wings of a baby sparrow…

I’m as bad as they say I am good, passing around splinters instead of firewood,
kindling for light, our solemn nod to the great splinter-less logs,
burning into the sky of the night

Imagine how the stars do whisper amongst themselves, a great tragic laughter, their tears dripping down the face of the night, fireflies hum capturing and holding drops of sobbing stars, until the sun assumes its throne and dries our weeping scars

Alone in solitude naked toting bags of words in the jowls of my cheeks, fingers to papers, release myself from this cell in this prison of my own ill-intentioned creation, self-disdain raping my mind with a wealth of pain salacious, I’ll rip it out and escape and write on all that remains

Soon, I disappear to confront my shackles ripping off their masks finding that beneath those masks of my guards is my face, trapped and hard, seeing beauty blind suffocation, no more, no more, I will take what I shall take and I will rename it and replace it and light it ablaze, there is no more time for me to waste

The stars have shed enough tears on my behalf and I have lived enough fear and all that hell that is left, is to be procured, packaged, and burned at the stake, tip toe back to collect the ashes and gather them in my arms walking backwards so that I might put it all back together into a beautiful tapestry of a man’s last grasp

This man’s last gasp

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

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

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

Take Me Away With You Where The Flowers Are Still Pretty

Alex Ziperovich

There’s a famine inside me, sanctions, blockades, they keep me starving, my hunger growing like days spent marching. Everything growling, my bodies contractions, emaciated in my tent in the desert laughing at the scrap metal raining through my mind like scattered assassins.

There’s a war in here and limbs are flying through my smoke and my pollution, burying me alive, already lost without absolution, venomous children collecting man-eating flowers walking at twilight to eat the smoke the funeral pyre is producing.

My head full of gruesome sadness and I can’t shut it off, a shot of heroin coupled with a neat glass of scotch but they do not suffice for my arrogant pain outweighs whatever you know about Christ’s suffering on the cross. Come kill me and make me pay, you’ve already taken the last of my dignity away, I’m slipping away into a void dark as death, marked by three red burning hot splashes of solvent to soften my flesh.

I won’t drink your mother’s milk, it’s tainted, I’ll drink in my own insanity like a mirage waterfall falling into my throat, bloating me until I no longer taste it and when I’m done and the torture is over and I told no secrets to the enemy go ahead and tell everyone I knew in this life I was a weak, pathetic, traitorous soldier, subversive – embracing the enemy, use my image for propaganda – ravish my memory, I shall be fighting a new war against heavenly serenity.

A coward, a sloth, a junkie, a drunk, my self-loathing I carry with me in a thousand pound trunk, dragging along the burning cinders, scraping the streets, my sense of who I am and who I should be slowly evaporating in the heat. Everyone smiling like they know anything, I keep my head down and my brain keeps on boiling.

I can’t run away from myself because whenever I try to go they stop me and tell me to go away, kept back to my four cornered room, I beg and I plead that It’s full of cobwebs and doom that scare me so they put me in a pink room and they lock the metal door and they forget about me because I’m not worth remembering, a beer you drank with a whore or an orphan playing in a mine underneath an abandoned town no one looked for.

Come find me God, please God come find me now and take me away with you somewhere where the flowers are still pretty, I want to see the heavens and the clouds, from your vantage point if it means I have to sever and feed you my kidneys, when I was a kid I was fooled into happiness, Disneyland and trees and animals, enraptured, my eyes glassy enamored, but now those things lay in a tomb that my mind cannot unfasten no matter how hard I pry until I break off my arms and an old woman walks by and whispers a little song and sends me far away- these ugly thoughts are not going away – not with a plethora of various medications, inpatient impatient psychiatric evaluation, not even with electro-schock treatment under a doctor’s observation.

Splash me with acid and rebuild me ground up.

Splash me with my own blood and forgive me. Slash me with me own bayonet and kill me. Flash lightening into my eyes and bill me for the nicest glasses you can buy.

A failure aging into oblivion, a poet blind to his own magnificence, a sailor caught in a storm fucking his woman ignoring the sea and his boat keeps tilting, thrashing until he climaxes and the captain uses his biblical sapling becoming its massive tree to calm the savage sea and the power of a woman ingesting some forbidden fruit one more time for this man in one more eternity.

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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