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


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