Art Died Gasping For Air

Art Died Gasping For Air

 

 

 

 

 

Breathing throat’s softened, marred with blades’ razors replacing the honesty of nature

spitting faith into a jar built to hold the viscous little outcomes of the wicked, wistful labor

caught inside an act of love as it’s written before you exhale the words from your tongue

as if it was a sappy love note’s burning paper.

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.

.

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.

.

There is, oh, so, so much to learn and do and ride and think and fly and drink?

.

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.

.

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.

.

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.

.

There is only an obedience observance of our souls in unity,

let this poem do for you, baby, what it just did for me.

“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.

Strawberry Heart Shaped Love

strawberry-turtles

Strawberry Heart Shaped Love
Alexander Michael Ziperovich

And the love came flying back into my cardio like a rabid raven,
something I cognitively was sure I knew I missed but there were those ..

Cravings,

Now, my eyes – the dust disintegrated so that I might see,
all I see is me loving her loving me because I’m ..

Free

Supple like hanging fruit from the vine of my mind,
don’t let me intellectualize something that can’t be for me that way,
let me just know it’s real, in the flesh so to speak,
no more biding my our time,

Yes, like a lime there was something bittersweet fleeting floating in the air,
I hear her singing “Cry Me A River” and I’m no longer scared,

No more fists to men that have jaws too big,
no more steel in my waistband, it feels too much like a trick,
this isn’t even that sophisticated, too martini too scotch,

Scoff, Scoff

Her love is a strawberry inside my heart,
I’m learning to find out that it’s much more smart to feel the juice dripping from my
valves instead of Mexican dark,

Harken back to a time you knew I wasn’t,

Look how I write Sophia love now,

Isn’t that something?

I know so.

No one has to spend their time hoping so, not anymore,
unlike Bradley, I never lost the war – I’m twenty seven,
I guess that makes this the one time that summer prevails over the season of winter in my soul.

I won’t ask you to trust me,

I just know.

Cloudstring

Cloudstring
Alexander Ziperovich

The nose of a 747 into my forehead for beauty, the heavens, high up above all of this, high up above my culpabilities, above everything and nothing. I see mostly black with some shadows; I go up at night, laying in my golden sarcophagus during daylight, grinding my bones, chiseling out my skin.

The string doesn’t have a color, not one that I can recollect, just a feeling, a touch softer than the petals of tulips, harder than granite and mortar fire. The threads around my neck to hold me in place and my shallow breath.

A noose hanging from clouds, a view of eventual throes of pain, insanity and doubt.
But the taste of the air, it’s like levitating over the cauldron of a smokestack that tastes like raspberries, the pleasure and the pain you can and must have up there.

Yes a noose from the clouds, soaked in frigid rain yet I remain to feel the alleviation of one microgram of my pain.

The rope hanging down like the umbilical cord of the mother of war and I am the son, the prodigal child caged and tattooed, sharp blood ink emblazoned on everything I’ve ever tried to do. No, the string hangs forever like an immortal balloon waiting still, coiled just for me and you.

I’ve been here before, my throat raw, my legs broken and mangled, screaming the star spangled at anyone who would take it away.

The string must be given away and the clouds must float away, be given away like candy to children by men in dark vans.

I turned away and looked and what I saw made my eyes drip and my muscles shake, this is the end of the line if you believe in fate.

Painting Hearts Instead of Scoring Coke

heart

My blood is hot scotch desirous, animalistic unpredictability coursing and I can feel my pupils pounding, black holes swallowing the whites of my eyes. I’m right between euphoria and murder, the golden moment right before you rise into heaven or fall into hell.

I want need some cocaine. 

It’s always the same thing, the sweet burn of the luminous golden scotch mingling with my tongue, tickling the very depths of me with every swallow, the tinkling crystal tumbler raised and tilted at a glib angle as the scotch ripples through me like a stone thrown into a pond. I’m one smiling, laughing witticism after another two or three doubles deep. This is civilized, radiance pushing the dread from my center, a glowing amber ocean in a glass literally scorching the earth of my anxiety, every gulp like a whispering friend encouraging me to live, to be alive, giving me life, new life and new needs, new ways to fulfill those new needs for my new life writing these words, hell, I need a drink. 

I love that phrase, it’s the only honest protest we have left, “I need a drink,” implies isolation and frustration and a reprieve from it all into sexy danger and abundant power, the righteous murder of the maiming our minds do unto us, something everyone can understand. S/he needs a drink. X happened and now Y is Z. S/he deserves a drink.

Tara’s driving my car flying above the purring German engine, the power of it intoxicating, her eyes burning embers ready to catch flame and I see myself inside her eyes, little ellipses containing my deepest reflections. She says we’re siblings. I see it.  

I have her take me south to the lake near the place I got evicted from and I just missed my girl. I walk across the street to this shitty bar PIZZA, the other letters sizzling and popping on and off until the shuddering, crackling A finally explodes popping into the darkness shooting slivers of sparkles that shower down from it like a sparkler, leaving a single blinking Z. Everyone briefly looks outside at the little explosion and I look through the faces for someone familiar. Nothing. I light a Parliament with my head buried in my phone texting the people you text on nights like these nights. I look around like I’m lost, that’s how I feel, and my eyes lay upon a kid with a mad shine in his eyes sitting on a stump of green gun metal, the Seattle Weekly box, his legs dangling over the side. He starts talking to me in rapid fire and I notice his face has meth all over it, and he’s speeding through something about how it’s his first night in Seattle, “My fuckin’ girl got pregnant, maaan, so I hopped on this greyhound with no ticket dude and without saying shit and just got the fuck outta there but she has this uncle and—” Lovely. I think he thought we were friends because we both witnessed the A explode. I nod and return to Tara, letting him tell his stories to the wind. She’s sitting parked in my car waiting me out and anyone else would have infuriated me just for existing; I’m flustered and frustrated and hating drugs, hating the lack of drugs, hating that I hate the lack of drugs but Tara is like valium with a heartbeat and no matter what and no matter how badly I want coke I want Tara to be okay more. This is the first friendship I’ve ever had, I think. I don’t know if I’ve ever had a friend my whole life.

My wise voice, as Tara might say, is murmuring maybe screaming something about how this is actually serendipity, not loss and that’s true, cocaine turns me inside out into a hungry carnivorous violence I never even let myself believe could exist in me and without fail I end up at some ugly hour of the morning in my shower sobbing, blowing burning chunks of ammonia and ephedrine out of my scorched face hating everything most especially myself trying to wash the fury and hopelessness off of me, shoveling sedatives and beta blockers down my throat knowing they won’t fucking work because nothing fucking works because I’m on coke and coke doesn’t work.

Now we’re in the middle of Capitol Hill, 12th and Pike, one block from the succubus-girl and the condo we lived in where she almost murdered me and everyone is screaming and everything is drugs and pounding bass and kids in middle school and college running around like insane insects in a hive; the people are all game tonight the air electrified with cheap cologne and perfume, hormones and pheromones and the shit-coke I know is down in the grottos along the avenue waiting for me like that evil girl used to, sitting so gently on her bed looking bashful even timid when I would finally crawl back right until she leaped off my cock into the bathroom to vomit and scream, yes, the things I came here for are here. I watch some kid piss on a garbage can. I watch another kid piss on a street corner. This is a carnival of piss, colorfully terrifying, everything pressing into me from all sides like walls of skin crushing me from all directions and this place is a shining blood-red apple staring at me daring my teeth to sink into it like a vampire staring into a throbbing jugular, sticky blood and apple juice flowing down from my jaws onto my chin dribbling down impossible to stop until my hands are sticky and my fingers snap when I pull my hands apart from themselves because I am going to eat this city.

My face is a razor blade on a cokeless mirror, chopping at the clear glass, cutting at the sides— “Alex, you want to see the one that really fucked me up?” I’m in the car sweating venom and Tara will show more of her demons to me, she knows this shit so well. “This is Angela.” She shows me a video of Angela on my phone reading poetry written for Tara. I see a face made of old bone holding two small smoldering eye sockets and as Tara tells me about the Christmas they spent together where Angela pulled a knife on her in a fit of paranoid rage after smashing her boot through Tara’s fragile gifts I start to forget the coke. I don’t forget the coke. The craving becomes polluted with the better nature of my soul as I see Tara clutching at her face in pain as she watches this video and I see why Tara would love this girl made from bone metal— her face is devoid of love and Tara likes to let her heart get strangled. “I know!” I scream. We’ve watched two videos of this horrendous skeletal woman on a stage reading poetry about Tara and I’ve just come up with the best fucking idea.

“Let’s paint!” 

Now, some would say that doing graffiti in the middle of crowded streets full of people and cops is not the smartest thing, especially after having already pressed my luck and beaten a big graffiti charge a few years back. 

I disagree with those people. 

My trunk is stocked. For a moment I freak out, did all the caps go into the duffel bag that’s at the house? Nope, a big lime-green cap sits on top of a red can like a cherry on a sundae. I light it up and sure enough the cap is good (caps often jam with congealed paint and become unusable) tonight we’re having good fortune. Incidentally, we’re parked right in front of the place where I did one of my first pieces, a little monster guy that was up for some five years and has now disappeared. It’s this big sunken parking lot with this huge, huge wall covered entirely with graffiti and I am taking Tara for a ride. We stroll away, a red can and a black can clinking in her blue purse. We casually walk down some steps to a gangplank that leads down further to the lot and I survey it for cops and other undesirables. Nobody except a couple in the middle of either a break up or a make up, I can’t decide. We get down to the bottom and I look at the wall where my beautiful piece used to be. It’s covered in all new graffiti, much of it very, very good. This may sound fucked up, but I love to tag over good blaster-pieces. My rationale is two-fold: 1. Graffiti is all about fucking up other people’s walls and nobody owns shit no matter how pretty or how long they spent on it and 2. Painting over good art will force more good art onto the streets. 

I’m pretty certain there are a few people who disagree, would put a baseball bat to my head if they saw what I did. I don’t care. I ask Tara for the red can with the cap and she hands it to me and I see her in my periphery with her head on a swivel looking for oncoming cops as I just mangle these walls, red hearts everywhere in about two minutes the entire parking lot looks like Valentines day. We walk up the slanted drive past the couple who look and smile. Making up. Good. When we reach the street I notice that my trigger fingers are covered in red paint. Fuck. Oncoming sirens.

Go.

I start down the avenue the way it would make sense to go but quickly reverse course, Tara trailing a few yards and we go right back through the lot I just smothered with hearts because everything graffiti is counterintuitive, including getting busted— the cops rarely think to look at the spot that just got hit, why would the idiot taggers still be there, right? Right. We’re back on safety in my car. “Painting hearts with the cops after you is better than smack,” I tell her, my eyes virtually rolling back in my head. Both of us are huffing and puffing and grinning like idiots as we drive the fuck out of there. The craving for coke has not left me but the need for it has. Tara drives me back to her place and I bid her farewell before I drive myself home, by now sobered up from the scotch, where I sleep a most restful sleep, the clinking and spraying of paint cans and the tinkling of crystal tumblers an amalgamate of hissing and chiming softly in time like a strange lullaby keeping time with my cooling blood and my slowing heart all the way deep into my dreams.

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.

LOST

LOST

..we are lost..

The Ennui of Roses

Image

One thin rose danced in the dark,

Reaching for window panes during the nights like dying men reaching for God

 

Two stems – too sad to know better,

Breaking its back to reach the light that wasn’t there

 

Starved, full of the wisdom of pain,

Overcome with the sad idea that somewhere, someone loved him

 

The flower strained and grew,

Throwing its burden at the matte black glass sky

 

It broke through and bloomed.

PROPANE @ 1412

Alex Ziperovich reading for Move @ Gallery 1412

Word Man.

Word Man.

Word Man.

Pancakes & Spaghetti!

Pancakes & Spaghetti!

Pancakes & Spaghetti!

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