literature, poetry, writing


-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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