Poetry Tends To Be About Love


Birds that can’t fly…

Tear at a man’s soul, 
Turkeys flapping breathlessly, endlessly
Until Satan’s exhalations crystallize into confetti 
And Hell freezes and Chanel requires their models to have late stage leprosy and
Facially visible infections contracted sexually during the commission of a felony whilst
Meth cooks return to being lauded as men and women of impeccable integrity,
Celebrated for their unending, boundless, inexhaustible
empathy!

In The Garden Of Good Looking Evil

gutterguy

Me and Maximus Moonpenny performing “In The Garden Of Good Looking Evil”, her on the guitar/vocals and me (Alex) reading.

God & Satan Discussing Evil

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Alexander Michael Ziperovich

“How about this,” god and the devil had already signed a treaty some time prior as god was simply too brutal and calculating an opponent, a master in the conduct of war; satan really had no choice but to accept his plush exile and his secondary status in hell (which he felt resembled Vegas in the summer in any case). They were broaching the question of the image and subsequent creation of man again, bickering like children over plastic toys. “How about for every sixty or seventy kilos of meat in every man you create in your image, you let me throw in an ounce or so of my pure, unadulterated evil?” He paused grinning. “I mean you can’t totally handicap me here and make me completely reliant on some unwieldy army of bureaucrat demons to possess people! The overhead alone on that kind of operation would bankrup-” God interrupts, stroking his cottony white beard, “You want me to let you be a part of the image of man?” The reverberations from his soft chuckles creates most of Asia and reality television. “Listen. I have already decided that my being the sole entity from which the image of man should be derived is already going to be an important part of the book I’m going to ghostwrite so that man is righteous and divine and my PR people all completely agree on this.”

Satan sat patiently listening and replied when the rumbling of god’s voice began to dissipate, “Yeah, I know you’re going to create the religion thing and have some book confusing, self-contradictory narrative written so you can see who truly has ‘faith’ and find out who the ‘true believers’ are, despite my thought that it would seem much simpler and far kinder to just show yourself indisputably every once in awhile to prove your existence for the sake of not only man’s sanity but his eternal salvation. Look, I think it’s confusing enough with the whole race joke-” God clears his voice to be heard and the minivan comes into being. “Yes, that should prove delightful entertainment insight into man.” The devil slowly continued, “God, you see, you have all the advantages! Throw me a bone here!” He timed this plea perfectly so that it was uttered at the very moment god was being draped in his brand new custom-tailored 20% cashmere 80% angel tongue robe and he was off guard. “Fine, satan, you can have the smallest bone in every man created to do with it what you will and it will be infinitesimal in size,” God lit up the heavens with a sly smile. “And I know you think big things come in small packages,” The devil sits in his rocking chair, one leg crossed over the other. A smug sophisticate. God continues. “But I said you could have that small part of man for yourself and my word is, well, it is the word of fucking god so the deal is done.” The devil sat dispassionately. “Now. Dear satan, do pass that mirror with that white stuff on it you plan on growing in South America with that rolled up dollar bill please.” 

I Will Now Expunge

Alexander Michael Ziperovich

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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

Alex Reading Prose @ The In on January 26

Alex Ziperovich reads an excerpt from his memoir, titled “Junkie Goes To Hospital”. Enjoy.

And More Art!

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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

Once A True Love

Ziperovich

Saltwater, she tasted like everything so I sang and she sang,  we sang to each other like so many saints until we died on the cross, true love shed true blood tis true love as could an artist paint if he had any cruel lust and a canvas with a few bruises, a few cuts

Tainted bed, listen close, the only girl I ever met, poisonous lead, a porcelain face,  enough beauty to break necks, shuttered, dying in a forest with enough God to be seen on the horizon, the sunset disguised as a fool smiling and smiling, dying and dying

I love you, yes I do, I made you grow, I meant to tell you sooner, I meant to slit my wrists in the afternoon before you knew, we all of us here meant to watch the blood sink into the sink like glue, but more like water, so soon we’ll know if it’s no son, no daughter, yes love a slaughter because we all, I mean, I just love(d) you, cauterize the wounds, nevermind, don’t bother it’ll probably cut you

I held on to the tightest ropes on Himalayan slopes until there was no more, just screaming and good dope and increasing suicidal ideations and us both seeking some way to cope with your violations but there isn’t a way and we found that out quick, both fucked in our heads like freed slaves diving, holding hands, from a slave ship

Hate it or love it, my biblical covenant, a way to adhere to, before I said, NO, FUCK THIS, gave it all up for random sex with cute things, what a way to take the shotgun out and shoot things, make sure they’re dead before you begin to cook things with the hot barrel of the rifle pressed against you as you try to sing new feelings

Always the housekeeper, the loud screamer, always the girl without meaning, the non-believer, just danced around ourselves like we always did, one or two grams of this to make us happy kids, to make Alex’s heart skip, that’s just how we sinned and that’s how you’ll do forever like superglue, who are you but a pretty grim face I fell in love with before I said loyalty is something I can’t fuck with, before I said no, she’s insane, how does this work in my favor, does it, does the pain in the rain snorting caine even belabor the kind of crying eyes that we savor, the kind of dying wine that we favor, the silent, mindless time I saved for her?

There once was a perfect girl in a perfect world giving me tissues to wipe the tears from my worthless pearls and then I found out that humanity ran afoul and she looked upon me with every single perfection laid like sun upon me and I rejected my own torture but I despised my own forfeiture and I just wanted it to be like it was when I had random sex with whores that didn’t eat my coursing blue blood until it exploded into the air like dirty, rotten, lovely, beautiful, make-shift true love coming from oil rigs instead it’s blue blood psychotic stomp stomp on psychotic floors with broken psychotic chores, a poet soaking in a bath until I drown like Jim from the Doors

Let this page catch fire, a common theme I know you’ll admire, you might find this destitute lest you’re of true fire, you’ve mired a sobbing poet into a frothing hoe-get and a slothful more-pig but I admire it all, the way you caught me ecstasy, made me believe it all wasn’t a dream instead the MDMA made us just believe, no matter we looked senseless, we were there in your bed looking at each other breathless in love with our fake mutual serotonergic death wish – let’s kiss

I never died I just multiply with girls that would make you sick and defiant and violent if you looked into their eyes, zero shame, but I’m allowed Saudi princess’ that aren’t insane and aren’t afraid you’re now a past mistress, nothing more, I let you live this and then your death is something poor, in your world it’s shit, I got a new way of seeing me past this, just finished fucking the last chick and I just wanted nothing but to tell you what’s on my mind, for laughs bitch, so it’s really nothing, unless you suddenly figure out emotions and feelings and human beings, which you’re incapable of, so I escaped from your dusty rust to bathe in hugs and taste other tongues soft like Persian rugs not hard, worthless love

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

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