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Poetry Killed the Video Star

By Israfel Sivad

They killed Cobain
when they made him a god.
He was a god,
but not because they said so.
He knew.
He had to die to be real.

Fugazi was the true
voice for a generation.
“Everything’s Fucked!”
they shouted, they screamed.
“Do it yourself,”
they told me while I watched MTV.

And the radio
was blabbering for years.
Elvis Costello
managed to tune in its light.
Lou Reed’s rock n roll
is long gone. Nothing is all right.

A rock star is
a pantheistic god.
I’m a monotheist
fighting dualists
who shoot at me
and the ideals we make.

In order to love God,
have sympathy for the devil.
They killed our idols.
Now, we have to fight
for our right to die
when we feel it’s right for us to die.

I feel like I’m sixteen again
because I died at fifteen.
I’m a teenage lobotomy.
Joey Ramone told me that.
He disappeared on me, too,
but he did it naturally.

Poem written and spoken by Israfel Sivad from his collection “Andrew’s Songs, Vol. V: The Tree Outside My Window” available at:

Music written, performed and produced by Weylin’ Rose @the-aquwa-boys

Thumbnail: “Lacuna” by Alex Barry:

The Periphery

By Israfel Sivad

“Who starts dying… And when?”
I asked, screaming – Whoopy!
“Why didn’t Rocky have breasts?”
my mother begged of me.

Her hip bones liquefied –
giving birth to our son.
He was a beautiful, bright star,
and his momma went down real slow.

Jason would be the real name for Saint Nick,
delivering all his presents on Friday the 13th.
My name is simple. It’s plain – Michael.
I’m waiting to trick and treat on Halloween.

God would make for a great mother,
if He would let me suckle off His breasts.
I would drain all His milk for Him
if He couldn’t take care of Himself.

I can smell death in your cigarettes.
Do you think mine taste like cloves?
I love the way scent sounds.
I love the way taste talks.

Please, tell me, who is in Zen –
Is it the pig or the goat?
I’ll tell you what – The lamb,
the sheep look like mutton to me.

Poem written and spoken by Israfel Sivad from his collection “Andrew’s Songs, Vol. V: The Tree Outside My Window” available at:

Original music written, performed and produced by Weylin’ Rose @the-aquwa-boys

Thumbnail: “Untitled (Snowman I)” by Alex Barry:


By Israfel Sivad

My face is
so pale it’s white, like
a whale, as bright as

the underbelly
I saw last night.

Ahab ain’t got nothin’
on this motherfucker.

I’ll tear through
every wave, deeper
than that peg-leg bastard
was ever willing to go.

I’ll take everything on:
Death, hate, fear, the loves of
lives repressed by straight white lines,
lives depressed by little white lies.

I’ll smack that shit upside
the head, send it running,
screaming, like the screams
from a dream of paper

and fright, of real lines of
white, of demons and night.
Take it again. I’ll bear it again.
The bright white light of life

breathing right here, so strong, like
sex and drugs and mythology,
is the source of what I rolled for you
since I was a child so wild,

baby child, little child,
running wild like a firefly
through the glare of hell’s headlights
lighting our lives through the songs

we wanted to sing. Those songs are
gone. We’ll remake them tomorrow.

You were all waiting for me,
waiting for me at the crossroads,

wanting, needing to tell me
we’re all going to die.
I told one of you a story about
your hometown. She smiled,

shook my hand, wandered
into the black night, vanished in
the haze of our minds. There were
two more things I wanted to say,

but there were three more of you
that day. I couldn’t tell you all
rats sang when I came home,
scuttled in the bed frame

when I laid down alone,
when I rolled my pen,
burnt it on the altar of love.
Ranting, raving, lying

on my bed, my funeral pyre,
flames of white fire, Lord, is what
I eat. Rats run across my feet.
I wandered down the street,

left you all, left the whorehouse
behind my left, but the rats still
ran across my feet. The rats
still made up my myth for me.

Beady red eyes, bodies
like milk, so white. Like
milk this drug gets old.

Aging, we die. We talk about the color
white. We say something that says

nothing, nothing at all, but
that’s everything, right?

Poem written and spoken by Israfel Sivad from his collection “The Tree Outside My Window” available at:

Music remix of “See God’s Ark” by DJ Super Squirrel

Thumbnail: “Beauty by the Night” by Rogelio Ronco:

Where The Wild Things Grow

There’s a garden in the middle of the city
where we planted a tree outside my window.
I had poetry boiling in my soul,
I needed a shot of rock n roll:

A vampiric lover who ain’t afraid of the cross…
Honey, I’m the living dead. What’s suffering to be afraid of?
I think I’ll take you to where the wild things grow.

Come here, sweet thing.
I want to suck your blood.
I need a belly full of loving.
I’m gonna feast on you.

Why don’t you slip on inside
by that door there by the side.
Invite me back into your life.
Pretend like you’re Janis Joplin,
and let me get down on you.

I was speaking to your daddy.
He told me a secret I shouldn’t tell.
He told me how much you like to fuck.
I never knew that he ever knew.
I figured he was too drunk to care,
but then, he said he lost his virginity to you.

I want to tell you a secret now:
I’m a battered lover.
My face is all black n blue,
but if you ever ask me,
I’ll tell you I fell down the stairs.

Nobody ever molested me.
Maybe, they were all too scared.
I had to destroy myself.
Now, I’m bringing my disease back home to you.

These people need help.
I can hear them cry: 
“Save us! Save us, please!
We forgot how to sing the blues.”
And I whisper that they need to save themselves.

Before you can learn to sing the blues,
you have to learn how to fall in love.
Now sing: Baby, baby, help me please!
I’m crying down here on my knees.
Just one touch would heal me.
I’ll wait, though, if that’s what you need.

I saw God. He didn’t exist.
The devil is real, though. He ain’t no myth.
Did I introduce you to my dad?
I just cooked him up.
Would you like to eat his body?
Would you like to drink his blood?
Go ahead, everybody else does.

But maybe, if you’re real sweet,
instead, I’ll let you feast on me:
A walking STD, but you still want to love me.
Let me hook you up with my HIV.
I’ll condemn you to eternal life.
I lie, but the myths are what life’s all about.

And I’ve been lying this way for forever.
It keeps me all twisted up inside.
If you would just pay attention to truth,
I could speak it to you.
This here is my blues:

Did I tell you I’m schizophrenic?
The jackals want my soul.
They’re not content to eat my body.
They want to dine upon my soul.

I’m always in prison.
I can never be free,
not until she marries me.

Smash out all the windows.
There’s nothing outside to see.

Come here, watch the wild things grow with me.

Poem written and spoken by Israfel Sivad from his collection “Andrew’s Songs, Vol. V: The Tree Outside My Window” available at:

Music written, recorded and produced by @gn0m0n

Thumbnail: “First One to Go” by Rogelio Ronco:


A poem —

Soundtrack for the New Millennium: 

A lyrical concept album for the teenagers of this world.

How can a man ever recreate the sensations of his youth?  By returning to the lyrics he wrote for the punk rock bands he played in throughout high school, Israfel Sivad reawakens the sensations of rebellion latent in all of us.  He weaves the words he wrote for four different bands together into one poetic tapestry that displays the politics and emotions of teenage vigor.  Today, the phrasing itself must convey the violence and the passion of the dancing and stage dives that once upon a time accompanied these lines.  Without music behind them, the words themselves stand alone, outside by themselves…  The same as the young man who wrote them felt he did.

A Novel —

"The Adversary’s Good News"

A divine comedy – inverted.

Christian Michael Anderson hasn’t been doing so well lately.  He’s out of work, out of money, and out of alcohol.  But what’s most important to him right now is he appears to have misplaced his last little dime bag of cheap weed.  But when he loops a stolen rope through the exposed rafters in his ceiling, steps up on a chair, and places that noose around his neck: his adventure has only begun.

Coming Soon…

For more of Israfel Sivad’s writing, go to:

Short Stories —


A dissertation performed in the style of “mythological realism”.

The 11 stories and 2 essays of “Psychedelicizations” enter the mind of the writer in an attempt to meld themselves with the mind of their readers.  Using a wide array of techniques (ranging everywhere from the academic essay to an email format), Israfel Sivad is finally trying to communicate as simply and succinctly as he can.  It’s just that… what he has to say is neither simple nor succinct.  By playing upon the range of meanings (from etymological to pop-cultural) in the collection’s title, the author is asking you: Is it time for your soul to be “psychedelicized”?

Poems —

"Recipe for a Future Theogeny"

Poems to resonate with and awaken the gods of the future.

Originally conceived as poems to include in his collection “Indigo Glow”, Israfel Sivad’s “Recipe for a Future Theogeny” soon took on a life all its own.  Realizing (upon his return to New York City from Santa Fe, NM) that his outlook on existence and art was morphing yet again, the artist eventually separated this collection from the poems in his earlier collection.  Maturing still more as an artist and a thinker, these poems convey precisely what the collection’s title suggests: the morphology for a world of future divinities.

Poems —

"Indigo Glow"

A poetic manifesto for the new world’s next generation.

Based upon the new age myth of the “indigo” aura and the stories of those who bear that aura being newly incarnated in this world – from an unknown realm – with the sole purpose of illuminating this plane of existence, “Indigo Glow” shines through with the sensations of its namesake.  Skirting the borders of reality in an attempt to illustrate the poet’s exotic feelings, it is a wealth of mythological symbolism and a beautiful vision of unknown existences.  Perhaps, by its end, the indigo auras will have completed their task here and will be prepared to leave this world to their mythological counterparts: “the crystal children”.

Short Stories —

"The American Apocalypse"

Telling the tale of the end of an American dream.

Written during the height of the wars and conspiracy theories of the first decade of the 21st century, “The American Apocalypse” is Israfel Sivad’s attempt to reconcile our experiences with our beliefs.  A collection of short stories, many of which interweave with one another through character and plot, “The American Apocalypse” defies classification.  It is an attempt to break the subjective bonds of reality and, by means of schizo-analysis, to liberate you from the tyranny of yourself.

A Novel —

"Crossroads Blues"

A dark blue love story coloring the crossroads of the world.

Andrew, Charlie, and Michelle have known each other since high school.  And it’s no secret, at least to Charlie, that Andrew’s love for Michelle is the main reason his friend wound up in New York City.  But on September  11, 2001, as the Twin Towers collapse rattles the entire City’s very foundations… everything changes.

Live inside the life and mind of 24 year old writer Andrew Christian for six months and six days – from 09/07/2001 until 03/13/2002.  Come down to the crossroads, fall down upon your knees, ask the Lord above, “have mercy, save me, if you please…”

Poems —

"The Tree Outside My Window"

A poetic journey through the rings of good and evil in order to rediscover the tree of life.

During the months following 9/11/2001, while strolling the streets of Manhattan and living on unemployment in Brooklyn, Israfel Sivad completed these poems.  They were his attempt to try to make sense out of what was happening to his beloved city, and they were his attempt to quell the emotions that he felt ripping himself apart inside.  Immersing himself in Ginsberg, Bob Dylan, and the Wu-Tang Clan, in those days, Israfel Sivad completely redefined himself as an artist.  He used the world around him for inspiration… even basing his line breaks off of the way he saw language used in ads on the subway.  Having been written upon the theory that poetry was primarily a spoken (rather than a written) art form, ten years later, this same collection became the jumping off point for Ursprung Collective, a spoken word/music project founded by Israfel Sivad and the composer: gn0m0n.

Short Stories —

"The Cars Behind, Beside Us"

A full-immersion baptism in the waters of the freeways of life.

In an attempt to shatter the placid façade that artists so often seem to feel they must present, Israfel Sivad delves into the nooks and crannies of human psychology to create these stories.  These tales are told at the breakneck speed of classic punk rock.  Here, Israfel Sivad writes with ferocity and compassion about the darker sagas of the human soul.  This is the world we have inherited and this is the world that we will, unfortunately, pass on to others.

Short Stories —

"Welcome to the Modern World, Charlie"

Symbolic tales set to the tune of American youth.

These 12 stories of American children and teenagers interweave symbolically to form a vision of artistic realities that the characters would never imagine they were living.  Amid this origin of what the author calls “mythological realism”, a minimalist writing style emerges to subtly convey concepts of mythological import.  The question is: Do you have the keys to untangle Israfel Sivad’s riddles?

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