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


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