Up Behind The Clouds

Up behind the clouds,
me down beneath the ground,
eyes of stilted slits,
finding starry eyed stars,
just to stare down,
just to get even with

My big blind telescope in a world,
that’s a vandal’s braille,
i hear the clinks of glasses,
in my head i hear the wails,
siren songs, singing spelling wrong,
as always, the petty flesh will fail

Potted palm fronds, flitting about in gusts,
for all we’ve done that isn’t wrong,
a song written in dust

Add weight to my shoulders, break back and repeat,
release nothing until depletion, mixing iron into meat,
drink wine with dead soldiers’ clamors, pleading for the ink,
one pen left to write with and so we write until we’re weak

Leave the rest to the weary,
i’ll write so the half of me that thinks,
doesn’t have to think so scary,
for blessed is the one,
the one that surrenders nothing,
except the right to breathe until he decides he’s

done

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.

5:28 explicit cigarette drift slits

by Alexander Michael Ziperovich

This screen, this screen, I want to stab it with a smallpox dipped pencil until it’s black with the mumps.

The only pen I can reasonably attempt to use without immediately waking up to orderlies feeding me sedatives in tiny white round cups prior to examining the underside of my tongue is a dagger; little bastard cuts up the pages like cancer and in some macabre, Machiavellian, merry way it’s like heroin injections into journals and verbs. You couldn’t know about my sharpest pen, my .38 fine tip black was the best I could find.

Give me a .1 and I bet you I’d end up gouging out my eyes with it beautifully like a conductor conducting a fucking conduction or an orchestral in a fever smiling like he just licked the best little beaver.

Things get darker. I haven’t gotten to see the goddamn cops chase the pedophilia since last night and it was only seconds and the goddamn motherfucking idiot operator bitch must have told the cop the wrong block cuz’ the dark green late model mini van was in his hand, speeding, behind the cop but lagging just enough to be the demon. “Fuck. He’s behind the trees.”

I craned my neck.

Nothing.

How the hell can a man stand this ball of fire and water and rock? I want to shoot the goddamned planet up like a dying vet, with ketamine instead of morphine so we can just avoid him the trouble of delusions of god. Satan has been running sprints in my mind, training for years everywhere and I don’t complain. Fuckin’ dying soldiers shouldn’t complain either then, jealous bastards. And no one gets irony. Ever. Seriously.

And also fuck those cops they would’ve taken that green van psychopath and fed him coffee to get him to talk when just as easily they could’ve Alexander Dumased his sick face right into the dungeon and had him spend six years and six days and six hours scratching a tunnel.

Him and this learned Italian. Right here, I mean. Behind the godamned motherfucking computer screen. Pardon while I go copy the romantic era from “The Best Of 1245,” onto the last sheet of toilet paper I got left while I take a shit.

And I’m still furious no one understands the GODDAMNED irony I keep pitching. CATCH you fucking alley cat worm feast fuck!

Pardon me, pardon me… I get like this with too much sleep and valium.

Writing

wrinkdpaper21.jpg

When I write I bleed onto the page, the pen like a syringe drawing up my soul and the paper like some kind of breathing, animate test tube being smothered with lives and pain and the angst of humanity; I am just some kind of medium for all these great, purging exhalations, this emancipation of lustration that I must give to whatever impetus that is screaming, calling for these words I scrawl and I scrawl and I scrawl and I scrawl.

i am not enough.

i am not enough.

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