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…

At The Banquet

Alex Ziperovich

Crushed grapes and you try to feel what you need to feel but you’re left blind and feeling what you tried to escape, beg for mercy but there’s only hate, beg for mercy but there’s only fate

Syringes filled with ghosts filled with lies you are the host, become part of the collective, become part of something that sparks like a match when you scrape it on the hard part of you and the hard part is a hoax built for black balloons exploding in the atmosphere, how clear and how dear and how near you came before you were sent back in tears

Full of fear like all of us always are, the hope that one day we won’t be what we are, the tragedy of finding yourself in the proverbial mirror and all you see is fear and dinner, voracious eaters around a crystal ball, panting and praying and preying on Gods

Collapsing everywhere everything forest fire and napalm art galleries for no salary except pain and bondage and freedom from reality

Gravity fills us but it refuses to carry us like an insolent soldier, impotent mortars we fire with no orders just disorder and chaos within ourselves cracked broken skeletons and our personal heart shaped box of hell

We grasp onto anything we see because we’re lonely and nothing is easy and nothing is free and we know so much more than we’re given credit for, we’re given headaches that shoot pain into our eyes and all we have to show for our war is a credit score and judgment from the people that said they love us more than to judge us for the things we did that made us poor, the things that we did that made us whores

We climb and we fall to our death, we stand on mountains and scream our mortality at the wind and the wind reverberates with our sin, merciless with no end but we make sure we’re there to witness everything and then we take our heads and lay them low and we remember we’re nothing but the product of our vision being stolen from our eyes by hungry crows

But there’s hope in our knowledge of self and we might indulge in our solace, our lack of wealth, I’ll go to the jungle and find water and air and breathe in the health but I’ll die in that jungle not from hunger but from a lack of your eyes and in that circle I will find my slumber

And we become dumber
And number
And we drink the fruits of the crushed up angels in a crystal tumbler

To become angels and devils
Our paths beset by trembling and serration, we are facing our faces and weep in elation

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