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The Jungle

More muscular and aggressive,

this is the time of our lives.

Our bones are thicker, our feet –

larger.  Our necks won’t keep us

from the front line any longer.

Our eyes are armored.  Our manes

are black and mature.  Your music

has grown flat; we’re blind to the

birth of your Lord.  Move to provoke

us again, you who slaughtered our children.

In Sumer, we reached maturity.  Prehistoric

peoples merged themselves with us, turned

us to the steeds for 18 of your gods.  We

despise your superior attitudes.  Equanimity

lies in our souls, which is why we beg

your mother for forgiveness, offer

her first-born our most prized possessions.

Not even the serpent’s poison could

destroy us.  We are your kings after

death, alive inside their hearts and minds.

The sun itself shines from our music,

the wings of our third eyes, our tongues.

Once upon a time, we led you

through the desert to be abandoned.

But we are jealous gods, punishing

gods who will visit the sins of the

Fathers upon their sons in the jungle.

I Was Wondering…

By Israfel Sivad

He was hanging out inside some bum,
driving the poor guy insane.

When he fell the first time,
he met his blessed mother.
Veronica wiped his face.
Simon helped him carry his cross.
He spoke to the women of Jerusalem
when he fell the second time.

I stepped out of the church.
The sun shined on my notepad.
I couldn’t believe I was still alive.
I was certain God would strike me dead.
English is written backwards.
Hebrew is written forwards.

Do you think this would all make sense
if you read it in reverse order,
do you think this would all make sense?

Hebrew is written forwards.
English is written backwards.
I was certain God would strike me dead.
I couldn’t believe I was still alive.
The sun shined on my notepad.
I stepped out of the church.

When he fell the second time,
he spoke to the women of Jerusalem.
Simon helped him carry his cross.
Veronica wiped his face.
He met his blessed mother
when he fell the first time.

Driving the poor guy insane,
he was hanging out inside some bum.

I was wondering…

Poem written and spoken by Israfel Sivad from his collection “Andrew’s Songs, Vol. V: The Tree Outside My Window” available at: http://amazon/author/israfel-sivad
Music composed, arranged and produced by @gn0m0n
Thumbnail: “Christ’s Crucifixion” by Rogelio Ronco:

Another Drunken Night

By Israfel Sivad

Me, I’m not a hero,
not a god and not a saint.

I’m a drunk,
sitting at a bar,
writing on a napkin,
dreaming about the girl
I could have met today.

Once upon a time,
in a land far, far away,
was a hero
I dreamed myself to be.

But behind me,
beside me are the women, the men,
the people who live, who love,
who fear, who hate, who build,
who work, who suffer, who shit,
who sit, who stand, who pray,
who wish, who want, who give,
who play, who scream, who shout,
who cry, who laugh, who sleep,
who feel, who hug, who kiss,
who fuck, who die alone and together,
together and apart, for better,
for worse, in sickness,
in health till death they do part.

Me, I only think.
Thought never dies.

I dream me up
like I dream you up
like I dream up
everything else.

Once upon a time,
farther and farther away,
I had a life. I had a love.
I had a job I could not take.
I had a dog. I had a mom…
So many things I would not taste.
I lived with hate. I lived with fear.
I lived with people whom I loathed.
I lived with God. I lived with sin.
To myself I was betrothed.

Now, I sit here all alone,
drinking my beer, wondering,
Is anybody staring at me?
Do they think it’s strange
that a man as young as me
would choose not to talk
to the woman beside him?

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

Music composed, recorded and performed by @the-atmospheric-science

Thumbnail: Digital drawing by Rogelio Ronco:

The Hallowed Halls of Academia

By Israfel Sivad

What did you say,
you hallowed halls of academia?
That our questions were mere

Is that what you would say to us,

teach to us, your servants,
faithful and true, respecting
you and the order
you would teach?

Our reply is to challenge.

And if you reject us
yet again, we will move
our operation

Listen to me. All of you listen:

There are two people
who write for me,
but I can’t tell
you their names.

They are my secret yin and yang.

There are two people
who sleep with me.
They are my Lilith
and my Eve,

to me, Adam, the serpent, the man, Satan.

I thought I was alone,
but there is a harem,
a lion’s den of
men and women

reclining against my breast.

We are cultural aberrations,
hermaphrodites if
we chose to be.

We have not yet begun to blaspheme.

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

Music composed by Reify

Thumbnail: “Let Them Eat Cake” by Alex Barry:

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.

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