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The Confederate Flag is a Racist Rag

blog racism confederate kkk

So go on and tell me that the confederate flag isn’t racist. Its not like the fucking  KKK fly it or anything. This flag should burn. The south is never going to “rise again” it never rose up to anything other than a failed, backward state in the first place. I have no patience for history-ignorant revisionists and apologists, wilfully ignorant assholes, or little nazi punks. You lost and will always be losers.

Jack Blare

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Music | Bliss Blood

From the intense hailstorm of noise and samples with her pioneering band Pain Teens to the nostalgic, honeyed blues vixen playing ukulele and singing for The Moonlighters to the wistful, seductive, and otherworldly songstress accompanied by the amazingly talented guitarist, Al Street, Bliss Blood is not an artist you want to miss out on. She can sing jazz, country, and blues, or call up a cacophony of noise that puts most other bands to shame. This is not an advertisement, its my personal opinion. So help support talented artists and treat yourself to something from her extensive back catalogue via Music | Bliss Blood.

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literature, poetry, writing

UNDONE

-Jack Blare

 Blizzard in early April

Coating forests & signs with

Icy daggers brutally occupying spring.

Even barefoot Mother Nature

Doesn’t know where to step in this 21st century minefield.

I think she might be sick of us.

Sick because of us. Damned by the clock.

Sick, doomed, fake. Swallowed by a fat red sun.

Long after I’m only the dust of bones.

How can you argue with the bible? Right?

Dust lies thick & heavy in big grey piles,’

Settling on the hunched shoulders of the balding West.

First they trade rounds of phallic insults,

Then intercontinental nuclear warheads mounted on long-range missiles.

Civilization gilded in digitally perfect royal roman purple.

The old lie in synthetic leather, polyester fibres, whisky, & blush.

Corroded caged creatures vivisected & studied.

As hard as it is to admit, it’s always been the same;

Bloody, brutal, blind, blundering monstrosity

Secreting trails of thick black oil

All over consumer suburbia, veins full of industrial coolant

Freezing & cracking along mental fault lines,

Tiny crevices where I hide my love,

Alive, still slowly beating, fragile as fire in an ice age.

I am angry.

Beyond angry. Livid, destructive, St. Helens

Raging fire reflected in my collected blades.

Powerless to save you all, too weak to help. Jealous, petty, rude.

Wrong man in a wrong place. Baby, child, boy, poet, addict.

I’d offer up my punished organs one by one.

Torn in two paths, no anesthetic if it would help you be happy!

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