By Jack Blare

American dream builds up lives of lies

Etched into the worn down sketch pad

Of cracked and broken Suburbia.

Achy virgins hallucinate heaven and earth fumes

In a bullet train garage

Headed straight for the heart of the sun.

Manhood is still hiding somewhere,

Ducking between chopped vegetables, hours of TV static,

And mountains of psychiatric mEduCATion

Gathered high to keep the demons at bay.

Like loaded handguns in glass houses

Ancient children swing rusty hammers at the walls with anger.

Their dusty lungs rasp, thick with tar and sticky fear,

Idiots invested in a fool’s gold fortune of tears.



By Jack Blare


The girls go home to fuck their boyfriends

And I stay behind long after

To dig myself a grave upon the ridge,

And watch the glowing coals they left behind

Ignite the forest in flames.

Far below

In the tiny lights of a Dexedrine anthill

Signs waste their meanings

Pointing out arguments and ugly clothes

At stumbling costume parties,

Where rebellions of nonsense fester and grow.

Drunken and fevered,

Alone, heavy, high on night.

My crimes whispered in voices with the solemn authority of hurricanes.

I murdered gemstone ladies in mud assaults,

Dulled them with digital device,

Left them behind in the dirt.

This ridge is insanity liquor store glass attacks,

Forests crawling with fat spiders dressed in shiny suits of keys.

Tequila is precious don’t let it slip.

Coherence is precious don’t let it slip

Away into the trees,

Where vengeful nature spirits wait with drawn knives like sickle moons.

We are born into brothels and paradises,

Blind if you see only a brothel,

Blinder still if only a paradise.

Stained glass is everywhere, pierced by firefly beams of intuition.

Untouchable forms move mysteriously beyond the divide,

Shades of undreamt colours that touch on random moments in time.

Wild music explodes like gunpowder,

Black patterns set against the multitude of white noise.

Expression angers crumbling walls.

Liberty fidgets in tight-lipped formation,

Assaulted by guitar the rambling Drunk Prophet,

Tripped up by cold truth at the crossroads of pain and pleasure.

Gutted by bass

At the heart of raw thrill and emotion,

Independent unwavering partygoers

Follow the constant heartbeat drumbeat

Of their treading feet,

And wander adventurously through twenty-dollar visions.

Love is like a candle,

Everything goes black when you get too far away.

Depression reigns with carbon monoxide blues.

Hope is a cup of cold coffee

Tossed out the car window.

So different, but so much the same.

Only the gravedigger

Can climb back out of his creations

But Hollywood’s orgasm is a plastic contraction.

Media chains are the hands that sculpt modern mass murderers,

And Treasure Island

Was only ever just a story.

Humanity’s greatest flaw

Is the idiotic urge to improve on nature.

Slick robotics, designer flesh.

Independence floods down the drain

As glorious titanium obelisks of techno society

Lord over a sick world, coughing up blood and tar choked phlegm.

I pray that we don’t forget the sound of music, value of creation.

I pray that knowledge isn’t confined to eclipses before it can run to the sun.

I pray our lessons aren’t forgotten.

As we forget our crippled, imprisoned and starving.

As we turn our glazed eyes towards Internet and wireless release

I pray we don’t forget our humanity.


The girls go home to fuck their boyfriends,

But memories linger up here forever.

I dug myself a grave up on that ridge,

While I waited for the world to pass by,

Having sex with the starlight, regretting the sun.



Lisa Russell

I must be one of the devils that come around my soul

I must be the one who hurts like the witches do

Like the witches of old

Yet my flesh doesn’t burn

I cower in their presence

Silence is my sin

But my eyes sting

And my throat full of smoke

Crows fly from my head

And owls perch on my doorstep

You break my heart

Pretty girls

As the moon rises

And the sun falls

Out of the sky

I wait for the wolves.


And I’ll call back in the night.

You can’t see the forest for the trees,

But I am guided by moonlight.

Call to me, and I will come,

I’ll crash through branch and leaf,

Lonely wolf, I’ll greet you soon,

And console you in your grief.

I heard your heartbeat in your cry,

Courage, I am on my way,

Don’t let your rhythm get too slow,

Don’t let your love decay.



Shards & Shadows

There is a pane of frosted glass between us

I can’t hear or see or feel you,

Only shapeless shadows shift maliciously beyond.

Its cold and I wish you would warm me, but you don’t,

You can’t, its always cold behind the glass,

Inside the glass like a coffin.

We cannot touch, you cannot hear me.

It gets darker and then there is nothing,

Only shards and shadows.

Jack Blare


Sunlight on Strike

Every day breathes coal ash November dusk.

Faltering rays limping through grey smoke.


Dripping bright red down a black, secondhand suit jacket,

Ranting in pools on the disdainful linoleum floor.

Only splash of real colour

In hospital wastelands of fuzzy screens

& Blurry prison schoolyards.

Beautiful crimson hues

Paint grim portraits of human pain

Hidden twenty layers of concrete, asphalt, & psychiatric medication down,

Under ugly masks of swelling cityscapes & receipts.

I became an industrial smokestack

Strangling bright blue jays,

Choking sad & lovely Robins,

Felling them from the sky

With dark, drug poisoned danger & fear that

My cruel throat spews with random shifts of destructive mood.

I told you of the toxic

Thoughts they pumped in.

Now is it any surprise

That I’m a killer disguised

With a soul of stained steel & tin?

Called me a flower,

I sprouted a jungle of weeds.

Creepers coating shopping carts,

Vines shattering windows,

Sneaking into houses through thin veils & vents,

Wrapping their tight green fingers

Around the fat throats of bankers, cops, judges,

Those well dressed thieves,

& Squeeze, squeeze, squeezing,

Until they admit they lie the same way they believe.

The thin flesh I won back

Has been burned off in the breeze.

The singeing signals, scorching ideas,

& Sad attempts seared off strip by bloody strip.

I am the Sertraline Skeleton again

With war songs to sing.

Jack Blare