Strawberry Heart Shaped Love


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 ..


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


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.

And How We Are Slaves

Our Heart

O, things that sparkle
O, things that glitter
O, things that shine like glass bottles of liquor

How they flit, angels beneath our eyelids
Dead, false prophets singing in silence
Phantom spirit songs, selling what I wish
Plastic apparitions, razors at our fluttering mindlessness –

Eyes so sensitive, certain metallic euphoriant,
bejeweled, dazzling handcuffs for the souls, the souls we are at war within

Trade a lost Rolex for a lost love
The glamorous glimmering things, the things we lock onto ourselves,
Affectionate diseases of affect bequeathed us like molten sewage to feed from,
And we need some!

O, how we need some and all of it all to stall the gnawing in our jaws,
These glinting knife prizes to pry open our non-resolve as our resolution,
Our solution to avoid the poison of becoming involved in the hearts of us,
These fucking hideous beautiful things and how they mock us into inanimate sawdust

O, how they torment our feeble eyes
O, how they slake our hearts’ thirsts
O, how they lie, how we let them lie

Exchange a hunk of metal content,
Slaves overtaken and overpowered by twinkling nonsense,
Satan will be waiting in a cavern, laughing hysterically, vomiting diamond encrusted non-men…

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


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God & Satan Discussing Evil


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


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


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


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

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
a page like butterflies in clear empty jars

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…

A Garden Filled With Perfect Red Roses

By Alexander Michael Ziperovich

Her form beguiling, plush cashmere & my hands want to speak to her body when I’m near

Touching her feels like swimming through the sun, snatching stars from the sky

She pulls me in like the tide, deep into her ocean until I’m on my back, floating.

Sigh, she’s cute but she hates that compliment, she requires hot but prefers beautiful

She might not know everything there is to know about her, I’m ruthlessly truthful

She might read all the books on her shelves but know it’s a sin to hide beautiful.

I know she doesn’t know entirely what she’s made of but she flies like a smiling dove

You can tell because she tries hard to prove she won’t succumb to all of the love

She’s that one girl I saw once in a dream, the holy trinity in a human being.

She smells, feels naturale & her curly hair is alive & proud, tinted dark & quietly loud

I love teaching her to kiss & she has seemed not to have had a man before

Some children to play with, whatever lays in her dreams until she slams the door.

Flower eyes, blooming at me all sparkling sentiment, eyes so pure they’re mentionless,

Her innocence as aphrodisiac, I want to steal it for me & let love unfurl relentless,

Raw beauty here competing with idiosyncratic fears of unveiling her soul to bare that are senseless.

She’ll look at the sun until she goes blind & she’ll move her body in unison with mine

She’ll look at sky on her back in grass with me after she realizes how little time

she has with me.

I’ll break through her neuroses & make her bloom as she flows with me, a river

running fast past rocks & cold water that quivers, much like her exterior, she’s got so much inside her yet she

can’t figure out how to decisively deliver.

There is no manual in being you & she’s plenty of beauty & art, words & heart all true

Let go, darling & I’ll lead you by the hand, you won’t know where we’re going but it won’t be anywhere bad

That’s part of the plan, excited, scared, crushing mountains & you breathe sweet aromatic air from the garden that is your new land.

Astonished & astonishing & I love how she moves on top of me, she’s got that thing

I’d like to teach her about life & let her emerge from summer into her spring

She might dance away from the insanity, the reality of it all, after all it’s hard to

take the first step knowing you’ll fall but the wind will catch you & you’ll float down to a new place,

you’ve dreamt of a call to break down your walls & you might feel just a bit faint but I’m there too

so just hang on to me, saint, & remember it’s just a marvelous, disparate fate that awaits you

& refuse to be scared & refuse to be anything but Allina & write your delicious, brilliant Sestina & let it fly out into the air

like a gust of wind carrying a naked poem written on paper, drifting toward the sky in flight for paradise sacred.

I don’t shy away from something cut from such exquisite cloth thus I write so as to provoke

your thoughts, you are a bottle brimming so full its glow is a fire burning hot & unassailable,

there is no cruelty in your eyes & I hope the world can experience her miracles on

which rest the fate of the beauty of our lives and the beauty of men,

feel the shamelessness of you because being unafraid yourself, babycakes, breaks down

prison walls that might otherwise leave you stranded on the other side instead of coming with

me to levitate & fly through the streets at night as we work on finding the origins of

that beautiful mysterious shiny effervescence within

your lovely eyes…

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