alternative, Erotic, free verse, improvisation, independent, literature, man, Uncategorized

Unburdened

I gave up on true love a long time ago.

Like I gave up the idea that schooling & intelligence were related.

That what goes around comes around,

That bad people suffer for their sins.

That good people hold out their hands for nothing.

Now I am free to love who I please.

That its always now or never &

If it isn’t worse than cotton fever or handcuffs from real cops,

Than watching your grandparents, father, family & pets die

Right before your eyes.

Than the looks of disgust I get from strange girls at parties

When they see my tracks & scars.

When your first kiss never wants to speak to you again.

You never do & never know why.

Like when they find the dope, or hear you making love.

When these things happen enough times you find out how silly it was

That they mattered at all.

To be shy to walk around barefoot, to dive into a kiss.

To tell people your fantasies without fear.

To toss aside the baggage of being young, mentally ill & addicted,

Peel off the label & spend the day in bed with a beautiful girl.

Because the pleasure of a single touch can outweigh the finest heroin

When its from finger of a lover, the lips, the tongue.

The bed, the floor, the grass & dirt become altars to Aphrodite.

I want to anoint you in oil & listen to Sonic Youth records.

You can smoke a joint while I kiss the arches of your feet, the ankle, the heel.

Working my way inch by inch to where fire & water meet.

Until you tremble, only my breath warm and near you,

Opening a delicate flower, I inhale the fragrance of fertility,

So slowly I lick. You say “Mhm!” and push your hips into the air.

A teasing brushstroke, hot, wet, fingers exploring heaven.

Taking me out, all ready, even clear liquid drips from the tip

So warm in your hand. Like a tear of lust, tear of jewelled desire

You kiss it so gently my breath is slow motion

I have a humming of angels inside as you lavish me with attention,

I can’t go back, there is no one like you in the past

Your yellow shift, short hair & peeking nipples.

Bare legs & feet, unpolished toenails.

I want all of you at once.

What kind of beautiful madness is this?

Jack Blare, 2017

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

Severance

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.

Alone.

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.

Alone.

And sever the false connections.

I will break free,

Alone.

As it always has been.

Alone.

Alone.

Alone.

Alone.

Jack Blare, 2016

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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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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

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

Easy To Win

Losing touch with a reality.

Losing touch with all the “people”

Sitting through life immobile stones.

 

SHHH!

Distant, quiet voices

One a woman’s, distant & illegible.

Close, clear, coarse voices

Speaking the same name with derision

Over & over & over again.

 

Oh god. A name. It’s my name.

My ghostly good friends

I think I’ve finally cracked

Like we all knew I would,

One way or another.

 

Define sanity. Define the opposite.

In the end you can’t.

Sanity is measured by the views of the majority.

 

Fuck it, definitions don’t matter.

Sane, insane, what do I care anyway?

 

I’ll put on a mask for you

The one I used to wear so well

Every single day.

I’ll be a placeholder person for you baby.

 

He remembers every psychiatrist’s appointment

With a pristine, yet agonizing clarity.

 

I’ll eat a waffle over the sink

Pour cheap corn syrup until it’s saturated,

Just a soft pill to kill the clever pain

For a few more hours.

Then I’ll go rummaging

Through my friends & family’s stuff,

Searching for a hit of anything,

Or a sharp razor, clean preferably, but I’m not picky.

Sorry, what was I saying?

Jack Blare

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