depression, free verse, independent, politics, Uncategorized, underground, writing

Trump is the Embodiment of the Establishment & Everything Wrong With It

I am getting really sick of Facebook politics. I spent four years studying journalism, especially ethics as well as history, statistics and political science as well as how to detect bias and dissect an article, check sources, check facts and look for bias. I covered political rallies in news stories and interviewed the mayor of Oakville. Myself and my fellow students spent months learning to apply these skills. Fake news and poorly sourced stories are obvious to me. I am not trying to brag but to suggest that possibly if people learned and applied those skills we would not be in the situation we are today.

I just have to make this abundantly clear: Trump does not represent the working people and he is not anti establishment. Antifa is anti establishment. Rich old white men have been running America for centuries. This is just a more senile Ron Raegan. The Black Panthers and Yippies were anti establishment. The US president is the very embodiment of classic American capitalism. I don’t see how you could be more a part of the establishment than Trump. Owns a country club. Owns a Tower full of fake gold. Instead of serving it Vietnam when his draft card was pulled he claimed to have bone spurs, three times. Coward. His family run major capitalist corporations and he is the PRESIDENT of the US.

There is nothing anti establishment in running the establishment and he and his rich family are at the top of the pyramid flying around in private jets on the taxpayer’s dime. His daddy gave him 1 million dollars to start. You’re not rebelling by following him, you’re just falling in line like a good little soldier. I especially don’t understand foreigners who support him. You have no vote and he has no say in your nation. Make your own path, don’t blindly follow anyone, especially foreign politicians who create unnecessary international incidents and mutually detrimental economic warfare. I’m aware that this will probably piss people off. I don’t care about your feelings  and I don’t have to read poorly constructed arguments that barely last a paragraph from people that haven’t even bothered to study how this all works.

Breitbart, Infowars, Drudge report; its propaganda. Make America Great Again was the American Nazi Party slogan in the 1930’s. He could be flying swaztikas at his rallies and people would still argue his freedom of speech, which isn’t even coherent. Its been two years. I don’t see a wall. I see that the US is now isolated from Canada, Britain and the EU. I see them pulling out of treaties on human rights and mutual defence. The New North Korea-America partnership should do wonders for the coal industry. They aren’t stupid enough to do what Saddam and Ghadafi did. Kim will never disarm, he saw what happened to the last guys that did. Which side of history do you want to be on? Do you want to be remembered like the fascists? Confederacy? Apartheid? Then step in line with Trump. If you have friends that are disabled, latino, muslim or black they will start to resent you. Be careful who you speak to about what.

My patience for being insulted to my face has run out. Time will tell.

Jack Blare, 2018

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addiction, free verse, independent, literature, Uncategorized

Dystopia 2018

Jack London warned us, then Huxley & Orwell, Ginsberg, Kurt Vonnegut, Anthony Burgess, Phillip K. Dick, Hunter S. Thompson, Lydia Lunch and Warren Ellis to name just a few. Even I warned about it, for the past eleven years. Born into the last generation that will remember what things were like before everything changed, before the world went digital, before cellphones were popular, right before the internet, years before social media and just prior to the collapse of the Soviet Union. Despite all the warnings progress for profit pushed on & now we’re all hooked up like IV lines to our phones & internet. Most people don’t notice, some don’t care & some see it, hate it but can’t pull the plug. We are living in A Brave New world, its 13 o’clock, year of Our Ford 1984, computers & phones can listen to us, pretend to be off while recording. We have pain rays and devices that can map out the interior of a house from the street. Facial recognition, biometric data. Our internet history is logged, locations pinpointed, advertisements targeted. Cameras film nearly every street, bystanders film everything else. Cars can be hacked into and controlled remotely. There are reports of technology that can transfer thought into sound. I wish these were just conspiracy theories but it looks as though true privacy is going to become a relic of the past unless you choose to entirely disconnect yourself from society. If you want to see a dystopian society most of us just need to walk out our doors. Designer drugs, fluorescent fashion, widespread addiction to drugs, porn and technology, constant surveillance, wilfully provided private information shared with multiple parties, increasing violent attacks by disaffected youths. A police service that protects their own interests at society’s expensive & serve as a kind of corporate paramilitary. They protect windows from being smashed and pepper spray unarmed protesters. Property uber alles. We’re in the shadow of the Iron Heel, spiralling into ignorance & indifference. The iron fist is closing around the Western world, though we can still escape its grasp now, each day the grip gets stronger.

Jack Blare, 2018

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alternative, depression, free verse, independent, literature, Uncategorized

Life’s What You Make It

Rowland S. Howard said that on the last album he released before he died of liver cancer in 2013. Then Bowie and my father, 2016, cancer. I’ve seen a healthy life wither into nothing in a matter of days. I’ve looked into somebody’s eyes the moment their consciousness left their body permanently. These things change a person’s perspective on life. You could spend a decade looking for perfection but you won’t ever find it. It doesn’t exist. Perfection is perception. Experiences & creations are all we have. Everything else is borrowed. Its bad luck to strike a hand outstretched in genuine apology. Pretty soon people will be scared to open their hands to you, as well as their hearts. My heart was a red ball of yarn being batted around by kittens who suddenly became alley cats and sunk their claws into the flesh of the hand that had loved them and would be stroked no more. Sometimes I think of. her, my friend and sometimes lover, but differently than she thinks of me. Now she’d rather not answer and we haven’t talked since the 31st of January. What a sad end to a long semi-relationship. I knew it was bad news. Knew it would end badly for one of us (probably me) but my heart wanted her even as I knew she didn’t love me. In the end. I guess I lost another friend or two this week. One of ‘em I loved but doesn’t love me, its okay because I have Lunch as much as anyone can be loved by a force of nature with a cigarette and glass of white wine. She teases my dreams, Siamese Queen keeping me alive. I made two peace offerings at personal temples & lit incense. Neither goddess deigned to answer me. A profound sadness stole my mind and threatened to direct it towards destruction. I fought my demons the Western way, with sedatives, hypnotics, minor tranquilizers and weed. I know what you’re thinking: it’ll catch you someday and you’ll pay the price for the peace of mind most people don’t need to buy. Well it hasn’t caught me yet and I’m gonna push it  until the whole world feels my fire. Or feels like fire, like living withdrawal hell. Not like I haven’t been there before anyway, and I’d have to dig deep to beat my own record. Who cares about the future? Tomorrow we might die. Tonight I want to feel fine. A couple of drops of ETZ, a couple of Klonopin and life looks way better from this angle. So what if people who once told me to call them for help turn their backs & stay silent? In the end everybody does & maybe I had it coming anyway. Who knows? Who cares? What good is a memory anyway when the days are all sad and exactly the same?

-Jack Blare

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free verse, independent, literature, Uncategorized

Facts, Opinions, Rights & Self Entitlement

Fact: You’re entitled to your own opinion and to voice said opinion.

Fact: An opinion not supported by these is either subjective or incorrect, meaning its worthless. Subjective: I like vanilla ice cream. Objective: North Africa,specificallythe Barbary Coast was the centre of the African and European save trades, long after it was banned by the British Empire or the United States.

Fact: Being righteously offended, whether the insult was perceived to be or directed at you is not a human rights violation. Being offended is a privilege enjoyed by those lucky few of us who live in nations that tolerate their citizens talking back.

Example A) Dreadlocks are cultural appropriation from the “black” culture.

A quick search of history proves that dreadlocks were worn by ancient Celts, Greeks, Hindus and people with long hair. Furthermore claiming a hairstyle as a part of “black” (in this case African American) culture is a gross oversimplification. Dreadlocks are only symbolic to Rastafari culture in the West. Not all black people are Rastafarian. It is a religion almost unique to Jamaican expats and Jamaicans themselves. Emperor Haile Selassie of Ethiopia was a firm member of the Eastern Orthodox Church. Haiti was the first black republic, dreadlocks are not symbolic there anymore than wearing a cross is here and most ancient African cultures seem to have cut their hair in response to the heat . Most glaringly excluded and overlooked is Africa’s huge black Muslim population, who again have nothing to do with dreadlocks yet are black and thus African Americans presume to speak for them. Its comparable to saying that eating sushi is only for asian cultures, ignoring landlocked nations like Cambodia or Laos, or that the Irish are known for their bullfighting skills and olive groves because Spain is also part of Europe and they do that there. So before you claim anything as belonging solely to white or black people, ask yourself if you are accurately portraying the feelings of all Rastafarian, African American, African or Caribbean people, or all Europeans, half-euorpeans and expats.

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

One Night Stands

Simply aren’t worth it to me. I get the attraction. Easy, no strings attached sexual pleasure from a total stranger you hope not to see again. I understand it completely but it is not my cup of tea. When you don’t like drinking & you go to parties the brutish & peacock-like advances of your inebriated peers become painfully obvious. I get second hand embarrassment from it and it happens between men, women, trans people, gays, lesbians, anything with a libido & a liquor bottle. Now I don’t mean to say that I’m sober at these events, but a coke head, a junkie or a tweaker tends to stay a bit more aware of their surroundings, as crazy as that sounds to most of you. I’ve had to deal with some drunk girl’s emotional breakdown right after injecting a bunch of morphine & coke only for her to pass out & forget all about it the day after.

Even when you’re both sober its awkward. You don’t know each other’s turn ons, you don’t know what will send them into the throes of orgasm or walk out the door. Thus it tends to be boring & lacks intimacy. I would want to at least like someone before being inside of them, once a girl I was chilling with left to get laid with a total stranger then came back to hang out for a few more hours. Like I’m 27 and on a ton of meds, we’re gonna need at least an hour to pop that cork. Also I love giving oral, no one wants to use dental dams, lets be honest. I’d like to be reasonably certain that this is not going to result in a venereal disease.

I don’t think I’d fuck someone I didn’t trust to some degree & I don’t trust strangers at all. I’m not looking for a romantic attachment either but there has to be some kind of intimacy there or it isn’t worth it to me. Why act like a drunken fool trying to pick up girls in a bar? No good relationship I heard of ever started out in a bar. Instead of buying drinks for myself & some physically attractive woman who prefers Beyonce’s to Aretha’s I might as well stay home jerk off because even if we somehow ended up screwing it probably wouldn’t get me off. At least stay the night & spoon or something.

In the end if there isn’t some sort of spark there won’t be no fire. I’m content to watch the hookups & the breakups from my lovely little bubble of apathy & thank god that I don’t have to please anyone but myself.

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alternative, free verse, improvisation, independent, literature, mortal, Uncategorized

Neo-English AKA Newspeak

Orwell’s 1984 arrived a bit later than expected, Huxley’s a Brave New World got here early. Developed nations now have the technology & capability to take ideas from both novels & smash them into a Dystopia with a shot of Phillip K. Dick to round it off. There may be future dystopia’s but writing a dystopian novel now is like writing a newspaper. A robot has become a full citizen of Saudi Arabia, with all the rights and privileges that entails, which aint that many in Saudi Arabia. They should have just stuck a dildo to her last minute and dressed her in a flak dress.

Japan has pill dispensing machines on the campuses of its universities. They stock mainly psychiatric drugs, I’m guessing SSRI’s, Adderall, Ritalin, Vyvanse, Seroquel and Wellbutrin. Adderall Ritalin, Zopiclone & Vyvanse to enhance performance, Benzos to kill the jitters & Zopiclone or Seroquel to knock you out. Leave your brain a foggy mess but you’ll come down like a stone from an airplane. Dubai has robotic “police officers” that mostly direct lost tourists. They also have a hover bike that can go fifty feet off the ground. All our social media is logged. Our favourite music, movies, books, food, relationship status, political convictions, sexuality, employment status. All freely given. Like the Stasi’s wet dream. The police have a device that can use a cellphone to create a 3D image of the room its in, and who and what is in that room. They log where you go, how often, note the regularity. They monitor your bank accounts for money you can’t explain getting. The illegal wiretapping and filming done in A Scanner Darkly, has already occurred multiple times. The Scanner sees everything we do, hears what we say, predicts how we’ll think. The predicted drug epidemic came true too. The police are just the military arm of the politicians & bankers now. They’ve made a business out of misery. They use military gear. Like S.S. men or Gestapo.

This brings us to Neo-English which I will now refer to as Newspeak. The era of text and instant messaging has led to a severe degradation of the English language, to the point where it should be considered a sort of pidgin creole type of English. This isn’t mere slang, its a paradigm shift in linguistics. It is newspeak come alive.

“get woke”

“gtfo”

“terf”

“Bae”

“Bad Bitch”

“lol” as punctuation.

It goes on and on. What actual words they know they misspell and none of them read. I’m fucking 27 and I see that. Idiocracy was right when they said that “the English language would devolve into a hybrid of hillbilly, inner city slang, valley girl, and various grunts. Joe spoke to them logically and passionately, in plain English but to them he sounded pompous and faggy. He only drew big gales of stupid laughter.”

The idiots are reproducing at an alarming rate. “Earth aint the kind of place to raise your kids, in fact its cold and dark.” -Elton John

Neil Postman rolls in his grave. Amused to Death indeed.

Jack Blare, 2018

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alternative, free verse, improvisation, literature, mortal, Uncategorized

DSM IV

Just like one line or one shot was supposed to kill me? Had a better chance of outliving half of all smokers, & that was when I was mixing coke & smack. Of course coke and smack wouldn’t have rat poison in them if you knew your dealer but every drag you take is chock full of delicious arsenic & benzene. I mean I shot speedballs dozens of times a day hoping to end it al in a glorious sleep from which I never wakel & half you lazy, hazy buggers get a slow, horrible way out, impotent, holes in the throat the type of cough that never shuts off. The warning is on every box but still I am the one who’s going to be stealing your meds while you struggle to swallow them. Don’t worry, I’ll never teach a friend to shoot. I really don’t care either way, I just can’t stand the gas-nosed, coke sniffing, self-methylating & speedballing with the one downer you never ever mix health trip. Ten years, half on the needle. Even the shittiest hard drugs are better than the best mass-manufactured bottle of beer & box of smokes. Like stats? Half of all smokers will die because they smoke. Combined between IV smack heads & speedballers I still got an extra 12%, more pleasure than you could handle without puking & dram keys to new dimensions and I don’t even want to be here tomorrow. I’ve had cigarettes, smack, ice, blow, nitrous & weed. What’ve you got? A 30 second head rush & a tiny dopamine trigger gives you a chemical pat on the head? No real rush, no right red blooming from the veins, no 5 4 3 2 1 7 the subway train hits the station. Jesus son? More like Jesus’ daddy. Not young no more. Poor cousin 18 years my senior left behind two kids after a few days against cancer. Odds are that old age is a thing of the past.

We’re all beautiful and immortal when we’re dead!

I’m Johnson! I’m Jones! I’m Hank the First, Hendrix, Janis & Jim.

I’m Kurt’s used spoon. Death makes us immortal.

What? I thought you liked danger. I always fell for the ones that dressed bad all in black, ripped jeans booze & anything you’d do I would JoanJett’s, Brody Dalle’s Patti Smiths… Lydia Lunch’s

Punk Rock Virgin Mary Magdalene’s & I was just a virgin carpenter.

Teens like the idea of rebellion. I was a stay at home loser who found

Themselves used to a dull personality in lines of white,

In coloured pills & needles.

No one else but Jake n’ Mikey had it in them.

If you’re going to do it go all the way, or stick to the plan.

9-5 pay taxes, drink to sleep all week, do blow to stay up all weekend.

Rinse & repeat.

Quiet & peace until you look like a joke out wasted with your single best friends & you chose it. Mix it up, take a girls, take a boy, pick a fight,

But every mainline is a round in Russian Roulette.

Hoping each shot will be the one to shut these people up.

If you’re might not die then you’re not living.

I see my cocaine & raise it 24mg of hydro.

My bird’s heart is flying north & fleeing south at the same time.

Flag, thick red vein blood push, too wired for tired to strung out to care.

One ends another gets prepped, I add an ampule of liquid midozolam,

Handful of beezo pills, old OC & some free Montreal speed.

I wonder if death will be the only cure for this dull night.

Getting buzzed, stoned, intoxicated was boring by the time I was legal.

Each hit should be enough to kill yourself, each failure is just another chemical in the chamber, fentanyl & ice.

Death walks by three times daily.

I feel pity for the ones invested in TV & pop music who want more than

Just rehashed resin.

I used to think Bob Was crazy for quitting Sonic Youth.

Found out he quit, & yes Lydia is a far better kisser according to B.B.

Who’s been in NYC since the factory days.

When I found Dylan the Velvets & Patti were the next to blow my mind.

Then Sonic Youth Death Valley’69 Lydia’s demented orgasmic blood curdling shrieks.

Sonic Youth went indie-grunge trying to get their favour back for taking Nirvana on tour in ‘91.

The Year Punk Broke, directed by a teenaged Dave Markey, an acquaintance now.

It broke because SY had the talent, Nirvana had the soul.

Meanwhile in the dirty downtown NYC clubs where this music is at home

Pussy Galore, Boss Hog, Jon Spencer’s Blues Explosion, Chrome Cranks, 8-Eyed Spy, Lydia & Rowland. These Immortal Souls.The Contortions, Suicide, Richard Hell, Robert Quine, Swans. SY went major label & Pussy Galore choose a name that ensured they never would. Murray Street or Orange? The Cramps, Chrome Cranks, Royal Trux & The Gun Club make post Bert SY’ look like Pink Floyd sans Syd. Good, but almost too good, too polished & polite. SY is with Hole, Lydia’s with R.S.H. I can’t listen to Goo anymore other than Lee’s songs.

Lydia interviewed Thurston one of man times & opened with “So, whats it like to be a pop star?” he just laughed. He knew better than to engage. They left their VU/Stooges roots behind to Croon Karen Carpenter covers with Sgt. Moore in complete command of every overproduced note. He shoulda stuck with Bisi. Most sampled producer of all time and most people don’t even know he exists and still works for reasonable fees, if the work is worthy of the man who did Bad Moon Rising, Evol & Shotgun Wedding.

Change your opinion if you want but at least have the guts to admit you were wrong.If I get charged ten bucks to see a concert I am gonna go anywhere on the floor I fucking please. I waded through pits malnourished & 90 lbs. If she wanted all the guys to the back then she should’ve charged them $5 each. When Grazhdanskya Oborona had to rotate members because they were being executed or sentenced to ten years in the Soviet Gulag their shows were about standing together against real oppression. Often they were just PWYC. They recorded on the run from the KGB on old x-ray prints. Kathleen Hanna grew into her fame at the height of western economic global power and the insinuation that girls all too small or not tough enough to be in the front of the pit is sexist in and of itself. Some of the roughest bruises I’ve got have been from passionate punk girls in the pit. They didn’t need the singer to tell them where they could go. Its a punk show, anyone gives orders you tell em to fuck off. And come on, marries a Beastie Boy after losing Kurt to Courtney? Courtney wrote better songs. ‘Suck my left one’ is tough and catchy in a fuck you kind of way but Asking For It? Cake? Jennifer’s Body? Violet? Pretty on the Inside? “They say I’m plump, but I throw up all the time!” Donita Sparks wasn’t perpetually pissed off so I could listen to her points (Points Patti, Excene & Lydia had been making since 76′ When Lydia had to turn tricks to stinking old cab drivers just to get home from a gig.

I am a musician & poet and if you pay for the ticket you take the ride. No pricing. How did she check anyway? Strip searches? Thats not punk its reactionist headline fishing & she knew it. Then acted like the mistres of the scene. Joan Jett? Blondie? Teenage Jesus, 8-eyed Spy, Shotgun Wedding all came first as well as most of Smith’s musical catalog.  Ironically Sublime’s Date Rape helped many women come forward because before that song they didn’t even know it was ok to say no. Overplayed, no Suck My Left One, but it helped girls sleep easier at night. I aint saying girls aren’t still oppressed, but money & oppression go hand in hand. The old blues singers used to hang with kids like Lou Reed & Sterling Morrison, shooting smack & getting into knife fights in orchestra recording studios. (my grandma went on a date with the dinner, His Grace, Duke Ellington in the late forties. She could also hit a bird from a moving convertible with a revolver so people kept their whispers down. Hanna was white straight and married to a member of the highest selling rap group of the entire 1980′s, she’s living off of Fight for Your Right to Party while her still-living forerunners struggle to make a buck to fix their equipment for another show. No shoutout to Weny O. Williams who did it 25 years earlier as a non-white girl. How about Poison Ivy from The Cramps? Janet Weiss of Quasi & Sleater Kinney? Distillers were a bit later but they were punk & feminist as fuck. Every singer wants a gimmick and hers was shirtless shows (also.. plasmatics late70′s…) with simple slogans & girls to the front because I aint tall or big, most I weighed was maybe 125 and the 25 is gone. I’m not gonna give away money to not see or hear a show that the band doesn’t want me at. L7 used to party with Mudhoney. That sounds way better than paying to hear the conversations at the bar. ‘cause we aint all big and tough, you’re doin to me what you didn’t like them doing to you then go on to sing on feminist classics like American Idiot.

Love em or hate ‘em NOFX  had a great way to sun things up with only a few words. “Kill the rockstars? How ironic, Kathleen. You’ve been crowned the newest queen.” –Thanks so much & thanks for all the shoes.

There’s a new golden rule to the old scene, don’t be an asshole & don’t act like you’re any better than whoever is using the mic. At least three of my favourite musicians are trans. If someone doesn’t mean to offend you if you let it go you’d be surprised what you learn. You like feminism & punk? Grunge? No Wave? Alexisovacidland, Christine IX, ECSTATICS, The Simple Pleasure, Cellular Chaos, Admiral Grey, Skinny Girl Diet, Chicken Snake, Family in Mourning, Featherz Brutal Measures, Melt Banana, D.N.A. Mars, Ikue Mori, Boss Hog, Blacksquares, Girls Rituals,  even Wolf Lane has 3 regular female members. All released good recordings within three years If it their genitals not their art you care about though, just watch porn with the sound off & a single bikini kill CD, or start your own band and put weight behind your words if this don’t satisfy. I’m not trying to be an asshole but I will anyway. Last week I found out my cousin had leukaemia, same thing that killed my dad. They were both gone before I could register how bad things were. Mike Hudson of the Pagans, a musical and life mentor left facebook for two days. Died within hours of diagnosis. Imagine that. You get an hour to live & you feel too sick to care. A lot of dogs will die without homes now that Mike isn’t there for them anymore. A giant post bitching that life is too short to bitch over petty disagreements & too long when it needs to end. Sick sad tired xmas eve. No sleepy black cat to see when I awake. I remember each happy young Christmas like I’m being forced by a burning brand, my own seal of guilt. Christmas is when innocence dies. Two people just seems so empty and hollow. I miss my forest nymph poetess, naked deep in the heart of nature, dipping her bare toes in the warm water of a nearby spring, breasts ripe and delicious as exotic fruits. Her presences glows & grows & her smile is epidemic.

Will I ever be anything more to her

Than a friend?

Not just a friend… it goes deeper literally and metaphorically.

We love each other, but is my hard heart valued the same in her eyes

I love to make love, the women everywhere are beautiful, but they can’t see anything but their own reflections. ( have no eyes for anyone in this dull town.) not that I think I have much of a reflection with reflections of reflections.

But I lay awake wondering, tossing turning, fantasizing.

the memory of you tying beads around my naked throat

We’re both writers, loners, odd. I love it about you.

In a real relationship you can sit in silence, wrapped together in a blanket

And not talk for hours & it feels fine.

I can’t help myself around her, I get tender & romantic

Or rough & dirty, go to bed “early” and

Eight hours later we can barely stop ourselves,

Drifting in and out of dreams & sleepy seductions.

We like the same books, poems, records, positions.

I tried to novocaine my heart but six years & I still feel.

I spend hours writing about it, the poems carry me away

Down past the dying light of day.

Jack Blare, 2018

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