You’re No Better (probably)

The Victor, a lion resting in my chest,
waiting to breed, to breathe,
waiting to feast on meat.

Bloodborne antonyms, can’t spell no no mo,
I got my little empty trinkets,
early onset, trying to forget,
all the things I remember, from so long ago.

Yes, the platinum in my eyes has dulled,
the dew on the web of the spider,
I sip into a lull, foregone conclusions,
doing things wrong, catching spiritual contusions.

Lord forgive me, all I am is the thinking thoughtless, a human being.

Claws for teeth and bullets for fingers,
gingerly testing for taste,
letting the brew simmer.

This road is long and filled with potholes that break axles,
taxidermies for friends, leaving no doubt,
about who is really the asshole,
unassailable vassal of things other than nice,
break myself off a crucible and go around pretending I’m Christ.

Rats into mice,
huge vicious bubonic rats from cute little, white mice.

I know nothing except the truth of pain,
spare me or sacrifice me, lacerate me,
just make up your fucking mind,
and have at me.

Happily Rabid

Happily Rabid

Alexander Ziperovich

*

There’s a sign on my forehead, enter bullet, preferably a .357 caliber. There’s a signature needed for all of you people, I’m passing around the bulletin board and your needles are just getting sharper and sharper.

*

There are clouds above the sun, yet the sun is burning through; I’ve been told once, twice, three, and four times what not to do.

*

There is somewhere for me to go, a vacant lot. I’ve been told truth and I have been told lies. I lie somewhere in the middle, smoking something hot.

*

Guns, diamonds, cocaine, and God. Capitalize things when thing’s are hard.

*

Fuck life. Fuck death. Permanent purgatory for a man with absolution solution’s left.

*

Killing’s and I just want to be at peace. Someone offered me an olive branch and I spit at their feet. They offered me syringes filled with cut dope, I offered my bulletin board before I realized it was all tore up and broke.

*

Coke. I turned away.

*

Specialty pharmaceuticals, do the tango down to the bay and sit on the dock and watch all the ghosts sway like the waves from a cave.

*

Hunger. Grave starvation, bullet’s in my bulletin board for me to suffer today.

*

Today, today, today and tomorrow I’ve borrowed and followed and eaten things that tasted like maggots dipped in the sorrow of someone else’s grief.

*

This place is eating me.

Consumption is my function & I grow tall like a hunchback jumping.

Now, to the luncheon.

What gumption!

A happier death.

Alexander Ziperovich

The somnolence of a cathedral encircled in coal-blackened doves and the howling of the wind above could be the only thing that persisted in a man’s being. The only thing a man could hear beyond the retched tune of the infallibility of a diseased world. There will be no deliverance, the golden scrolls and pythagorus and his minions all dancing hysterically, missing second red buttons on the collars of their tunics, stained with blood and grime. The odor of the ground and the heartily giggling sky mingling like inbred felines. There is a danger in this place, walking like this on this city like Thor. There is a fever in all of this that will produce no more than a storm that would devour the earth and hawk out its lungs histrionically.

To live one must die and to die one must sacrifice; the ancients and the gods and the devils and the angels all in one massive orgy of sweet surrender to the soaring winds of never.

Nevermore. Pickled souls and unwritten golden saffron inscription-less scrolls.

Let us die so that we may live again.

Unchained by the hubris of our emotional dilemma.

A dagger, four fingers in the heart.

Buried with roses and rocks.

DIE ON TIME.

DIE ON TIME.

ALEXANDER Z.

The empress prison sentence(s), lascivious black eyelashes, your face lacks the pretension that belies fatuous compassion, all this mentionless ambulance driver-patient confidentiality sung from wound pond to wound national park:

THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS A BROKEN HEART.

If there was, I would have found out how to be both brave and fast, I would have reached into my chest through my ass and removed the piece of refuse and I’d have thrown it into the trash – where all bad, slimy, smelly things ultimately go.

Everyone’s got a number and the skies are not flowering down on Algiers. 

My shoulder blade hurts as it slices down, deep down into my back.

I have an itch.

Light a match.

I’ve been repressed. Sinking down my torso, the bosom of human frailty and I’m close to understanding how hell works. I can hear my organs discussing how best to ruin themselves as slowly as possible so they can feel that I can feel every single cell hurt.

Ran away with a pair of gnarled scissors and came back with a leery eye and a small twitch at the right corner of my mouth. My arms how they flail, fingers stretched out into the sky which are broken off into crusts for the birds to eat ending at my forehead.

Keep receipts and follow advice.

Die on time.

For The Thrill Of It All

Alexander Michael Ziperovich

Dangling from a blood-moistened, rusty silver string from the top of the heavens with three broken legs dipped deep into the swamp with my heart in my right hand, my left hand empty and sharp.

That’s where you find yourself, where you know that you can decide what kind of man you are, where that can be decided for you.

Ambulatory coordination after a fist fight I can’t win; the fat kid with the shitty homemade purple wine and my girlfriend in the very far peripheral. “Fucking fuck! Ahhh! I’m in pain, I’m in pain.”

Screaming for a liberal nurse without a grudge to bring some clear, synthetic fudge.

Three shots of hydromorphone and twelve specks of glitter to take home and run with.

I can’t take the way my head feels when it’s empty because it’s so full.

I can’t take the way my bones feel when it’s raining inside me.

I can’t take the way people look at me when there isn’t anything to see.

This place, these places, all these shining, crumbling towers; there isn’t another city in this world I want to see that isn’t in high definition. The corners are buzzing like fruit flies on shit and my ears are tingling and my neck and the little hairs on my arms raise up like rifles to greet the news: you’re not going nowhere.

Look into my eyes if you want to know.

If they’re big then I’m angry and sad. If they’re small then I’m satiated, angry and sad.

Ambulatory uncoordinated dance-steps for fruit fly mingling; mosquitoes in the dead of winter and I sing so loud they come to me and drink dying of thirst.

The plastic-metal Glock flitting through my head like dream sequences.

They say a bullet never lies. How do you calibrate the caliber of the way you fall on your excalibur?

I went to the big ball and spilled red wine on the vest on my chest and the rest of the rest of this mess has ever since been something to try to cry about, something to think about unthinkingly stupid while I never rest. See, it dries up your face, your mucous membranes when you learn that you don’t belong in this place.

God bless, God bless, God bless.

The weak shall inherit the mirth and be blown away by fucking tsunamis made from steel pricks and invisible plagues.

NEAT.

Neat.

by Alexander Michael Ziperovich

A Short Story

—-

“…the old man would ever have.” Almost arching his prepubescent back up toward the ceilinged sky, the child breathed in Hemingway’s finale. “Get back to the Abacus. Now, Charles.” He glanced sidelong at the horrid teal wall with the crooked spines of the books. “I’m just putting away my ultimate division scenario arithmetic, Ms. Apple.” He had adjusted the room so that he might read a short story, here Hemingway, over by String Theory, Ezekiel, by addition/substraction he kept the Koran.

The Abacus was a wretched teal bubble stick with which Charlie never would have been exposed despite his extreme calculative abilities, which he could perform in his heart, if not for his father and his mother’s docility toward his father’s hatred for art. “The only art you’ll ever have boy, is the art of selling paint for cash.” It was a wretched time to be alive. It always was. He imagined himself languishing in the desert outside Cairo building pyramids and tombs with massive rock and—. “Back to work.” The Abacus slid into his hand like a snake and he gazed at it lovingly for the sake of Ms. Apple.

He took the Abacus to his corner of the nearly shrill room full of the pain of children being forced out of art into death. As was customary for him and Abacus Hour he turned inward and faced the corner that was his that day at the Academy for the Righteous Arts and Splendors. “Georgina, I need your string theory proposal in two and a half minutes, you’ve had three days by golly!”

He gingerly worked the Abacus with his small, nimble fingers and pried it in half so that a small Papyrus scroll rolled tight fell into his torso. He unrolled the ten foot document about seven inches and his fingers hurt and he knew what arthritis was and he glanced at that horrible wall covering the heavens and asked why, again. “The Beauty and Solace of Man Lie in The Struggle to Achieve the Freedom of Paranoia from The Reality of The Beasts of Servitude…”

Ms. Apple was staring into his physical cave where he was reading his scroll that he had created based on the diseased ideas the Academy suggested he was experiencing due to a strong and difficult to pry open codependency with his mother and the world above the teal. They suggested aversion therapy based on Pavlovian and B.F. Skinner models.

“No.” He knew he would be forced to burn it himself. He had worked on the transcription from only his mind in the fashion of Dumas forever.

“Bring in the slavery bucket!”

All the children immediately turned inward, angst, pain, and humorous sadness on their faces apparent as the color of their scorched eyes. Charlie moved to the middle of the chamber.

“THE SLAVERY BUCKET!” The children chanted once, twice, thrice.

A black crockpot filled with gasoline that supported a single, tiny, white candle appeared.

Charlie fell face first into the drum of gasoline right before the commencement of the Slavery and the entire Academy was burnt from the very innermost sanctum.

Charles incinerated the split Abacus and smiled, burning in flames.

Art or nothing.

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.

December

Alexander Ziperovich

The bubbles rise up to greet you at the surface when you drink,

meeting your lips like flowers meeting your nose,

and the smell is mellifluous, the sweet nectar melting into you like spring snow.

 

Breaking your teeth on rocks.

 

Falling constantly like reckless Tetris blocks into messy spots,

walking home from Harborview alone in my socks,

and they still flushed everything in the box –

and even though the box had just killed me I wanted to climb back inside to feel free,

ironically.

 

Breaking all of your teeth on rocks.

 

I didn’t believe the ER doctor about the CPR this time,

last time they left my chest and ribs bruised,

I believe in pain – everything else is a ruse.

 

No regards for petals of pretty roses ripped by knives to nothing,

no hiding from cities hopeless, defined by the dying,

no smiling, no smiling, no smiling, no smiling.

 

Days later I’m pulling EKG leads off of my torso, attaching them to paintings,

having conversations that sound like prerecorded daydreams,

and my brain swells and sings and screams,

and my heart continues to beat.

 

LOST

LOST

..we are lost..

Xanax Calculus

Alexander Michael Ziperovich

“Who the fuck took my bars?!”
We all just watched him devour a handful a few moments ago. “You popped em all, man.” Static, head lolling about like an untethered balloon. “Fuck, how’d they just disappear, did I set em down somewhere…” Eyes dewy, wet and perplexed, wandering, he’s lost his pills somewhere inside himself; the operative phrase being “he’s lost.” His entire being appears as a blur. “Who took em!?” Words from the frothing mouth of the angry benzo-orphan/gorilla that has replaced our friend.

He’s lurching about like an injured bird, trying to make sense of nonsense, ostensibly searching for the pills he just ate, for they might fall from the sky – sadly, horribly, he truly believes, no, he knows, that the xanax is not inside his stomach inside his abdomen, for that is an impossible conclusion.

Enough anterograde amnesia and fact is throttled hard by the frictional fictions of the sinister, too sick to puke, slipping into the fissures of the missives of addiction issues stemming from short-acting benzodiazepines that try to trick you as they switch you into believing they didn’t get you.

Dogs chasing tails, I suppose, foggy travails of a bellowing firehose extinguishing floods in the snow not knowing damn well the floods aren’t fires and that these kind of fires aren’t diminished by a broken pharmaceutical firehose in a denial pose.

“I swear on (insert his most precious) I just fuckin’ had em’, where’d they go?”

Like arguing with a schizophrenic in her visions, like screaming at Mt. Everest for being too tall, like water asking a river to indemnify it for forcing it go down a waterfall, like a raindrop falling, angry that it fell hard, creating a dangerously cruel pathology in the plant that grows from that drop of water, leaving cellular scars, created in hell’s heart, kept in bell jars crystalline-metallic wells that eat cars.

“Dude, will you just please shut up if I give you another fucking xanax?”

Sure.

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.

Published

Painting Prozac!

Painting Prozac brought to you by myaudiouniverse.com

http://www.myaudiouniverse.com/2013/03/24/painting-prozac/

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