addiction, alternative, free verse, independent, literature, poetry, Uncategorized, underground, writing


They used to say that the dead spoke to us in our dreams.

So drag me down into dark, silent slumber.

Let me rest a while with the peaceful dead

Before I awake alone,

Cold, scared, scarred,

Starved of spirit in the painfully bright and

Bitter waking dawn.

Jack Blare, 2016

addiction, free verse, independent, literature, poetry, Uncategorized


You don’t look too good kid.

How long you been up?

24, 48, sixty hours & not one single chance to bite

That golden hook hanging above like static lightning.

No, not even a single glimpse of the fleeing heel of god,

Just omnipresent Shadow People

& Little ashy textured spirits

Flitting around the tiny doorframe of human perception.

Why are you so shaky kid?

Never had to kill your own meat before?

We all get nervous our first time

But it’s easy as paddling a canoe.

Just slip your blade

Into that thick flowing red river.

Split the surface to let out the demons

& Drown them in blood.

Jack Blare, Impersonating Emotion (2015)

addiction, alternative, free verse, improvisation, independent, literature, poetry, Uncategorized


Turncoat deserters fly their true colours

White for surrender, capitulation, cowardice

Consuming their “radical” literature

Playing at coffee shop artistry

I thought this band was playing Mudhoney,

Not pop punk covers of Pearl Jam.


You love your Hunter S. Thompson

You love your William S. Burroughs

Your Requiems for A Dream

Your Trainspotting and Scanners Darkly.

Your legal pot and acid vacations are a far cry

From my dope sickness and fresh track marks.


You swallow craft beer the way you drink the lies you feed yourself.

Your punk rock songs are full of stories of junkies and death

But when it comes time to practice what you preach you cast stones

And become silent walls or secret negotiators.

You spit on the ones who needed you most,

Kicked to the gutter like the trash for not being what you want.

You wear the uniform but turned the coat

And left me here bleeding, freezing alone with my worst memories repeating like a locked groove or tape loop in a fevered mind,

At the mercy of a restless anguish they cannot begin to fathom.


Only the real junkies know.

The hooked up, shot up, doped up emaciated scum of the earth.

They say death is the great equalizer but so is junk.

Junk don’t care if you’re rich or poor.

Junk brings all the races together in ecstasy and agony.

Junk don’t care if you’re the great dictator

Or a fourteen year old girl.

It will take you just the same.


For years you lied and like a coward I still begged for company.

You spat in my face and I was ungrateful for all you’ve done.

Yet here I am alone again, kicking the devil out of gooseflesh.

Burning and freezing and puking alone, alone, alone.

I broke my own golden rule: trust no one.


Perhaps I will forgive but never forget

The pain and the bayonet in my back.

The deep razor cuts that clothe my bare arms express the fear that

I have no name for.

There is no method, I took the blade to myself as I would an enemy.

I am the enemy.


Once again in living hell.


Dragging myself from this pit,

Clawing the soil until my fingernails are bloody,

Reaching for a helping hand and finding no one.


Slowly I will ascend in fury towards the light.


And sever the false connections.

I will break free,


As it always has been.





Jack Blare, 2016

addiction, alternative, free verse, improvisation, independent, literature, poetry, Uncategorized

The Perception of Time

All I have left is time

And time has stopped.

There’s an evil spirit in my veins

Chilling the blood, freezing the bone

Flesh like one of those frozen turkeys

Straight from the factory farm to the mega store.

Frozen and ugly like it was never even alive.

Never even alive.

There are mercenaries in my restless legs,

Pirates that ache and itch for plunder.

What does it all mean?


I inscribe runic symbols on my skin with the blade from a lady’s razor.

The scrimshaw of a misspent decade in vibrant red or ropey white

Like a twelve stitch-scarred mountain range on a bone-thin arm.

Its pagan magic, primal right of passage, I swear I’m not insane (liar)


When one is living in an unnatural, unforgiving society that demands obedient normalcy and punishes any deviation indirectly with social ostracism and public ridicule for the rich or the barrel of a gun for the rest. The Oligarch’s of Jack London’s Iron Heel is the Ministry of Truth circa 1984 of the late Eric Arthur Blair or the equally deceased Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World.


I take my Klonopin,

My Zoloft,

My Wellbutrin,

Smoke free cigarettes,

Take Tylenol with codeine

And smoke pot.

In this place memory is the enemy.

This is my Soma.

My vacation from the purgatory of reality.

Now my tiny solace in the living, frozen hell of dope sickness

Where all there is left is time

And time has stopped.

Jack Blare, 2016

free verse, improvisation, literature, poetry, Uncategorized

The Withering

You’re the Lady Madonna’s most recent abortion.

You like the way the gutter tastes

But you won’t spend the night there.

Your poetry is lipstick and bare breasts

Your charity is a pair of high heels.

You revel in abuse and abuse your rebellion.

Teenage dream that woke up screaming

In the manacles of the modern cycle,

Smelling of booze, cum and regrets.

You should never have any regrets.

So much less sexy than the toys, props and safety of your fantasies.

Reality sours like that glass of cheap red wine in your shivering hand.

The dream is over, youth slips away like the dregs of your tea

Leaving no leaves or ten-cent prophecies to stake the future on,

Just death at the bottom of a cup,

Cold, bitter and withered.

Jack Blare, 2016