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


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