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.



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

alternative, haiku, independent, literature, Uncategorized

Arthur et Patti

Such beautiful noise

We rest like white winter winds



Bad Moon Rising love

Sounds tranquilize fear and ego

Afloat in music.


Get famous for free

Naked before lust filled mobs

Digital time speeds.


Insanity is

Doing this at four AM

Times are not a changin’.


Sleeping couch, not I.

Bug eyes see shadows dancing.

Joke poem not funny.


Doors, infinite keys.

No love for numb hearted snow.

Music. Free. Sacred.


Jack Blare, Intentional Insanity (2016)

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


A stranger stranded in the mist.

Figures blur unintelligible words,

Ghosts in the shadow of my hometown.

The form of a beautiful naked woman,

Glowing like moonlight reflected off a still northern lake.

The more I walk, the longer the road stretches on like a river of midnight oil.


Distant voices call my name in the night, awake, alone.

Seeing through the disguise adopted to keep from sliding down the slippery slope, of lonesome, drugs, depression and death.

Disguise of society, the selling of the soul

Long before the en…end? Is that what I meant?

Long before the legal age of consent.


One more product, semi-efficient,

Ignorant, stupid and loyal to the system.

Or maladjusted young adult trying to find meaning in an unforgiving world, scars, SSRIs12 step programs, graduate high school,

College diploma and regular Jesus doses.

Financially fettered, fed lies by the system then fed truths into their shredder.



Maybe there is no difference. Chemically enslaved.

At least with pain pills there’s a satisfying high.

These sertraline capsules just keep the prescriptions filling

To keep the insanity, true insanity, of SSRI withdrawal, at bay a little longer. We all have our vices, why this too?

Too much too young, chemical changes in the brain.

Anxiety, panic disorder, knives, flagged vein, walls drip with my own blood.


Desire something enough

And it’s worth the pain of attempting it,

Even worth the pain of failure.


-Jack Blare, Silver Chain (2016)

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


You used to gift my heart with butterflies

But a harsh Northern wind swept in,

Froze them all to death.

Corridors of my life

Solid with ice, snow, numb

Unnatural Luciferian euphoria.

Sniffling Stalin.

Who gives a shit?

All talk and no action.

Useless, wasted product lives.

Hollow relationships and half-grams of cocaine hope

Are all that is left to rely on.

Jack Blare, Silver Chain (2016)


Limit of Eleven

Limit of ten to begin again

Pitched and pursued in persistent pilgrimage

Silenced synopsis of serotonin syndrome

Failed the figure of future’s forces

Tolerated torture triggers timeless temptation

Relentlessly resolving rediscovered restrictions

Estimate eventualities to exact extremes

Aimlessly appropriated and angrily allocated

By business big shots binding and bound between

Direct distinctions developed to distract.

Josh W. Frederick


More Distortion

This is Grunge.

This is Gehenna.

This is downtown at 2:45am investigating every ashtray.

Lost explosive, too many bad ideas and too much cheap whisky to drink.

Fragile white nose sniffs my naked cards,

Nods out to Lou Reed in the gutter and makes crude toasts to the stars.

The great divide gets greater, ink washes off,

The roadmap is ignited for a few seconds of warmth.

Piles of pictures burn holes in iron clad pill cases.

Psychoanalysis forces out visions of involuntary voices,

Breaks the barriers of memory,

When black was born and colour hid away.

This is life in its most pleasing form,

Dancing barefoot in the grass, amongst jagged shards of the One Love.

Circuits switch and snap with talk of flying and running away.

Prisms reflect the sun and give the moon secrets of divine inspiration.

Perfection is the beauty of no more buildings to burn down,

Walking in half remembered fields and exploring elusive ice caverns.

Spring is banished underground.

Can you still hear it screaming?

Now they teach to bow and fear,

To sacrifice the thoughts we think to the monsters in the mirror.

Ice blue pinprick pupils, tiny portholes into the abyss.

This Morphine Angel is the, river, the bedroom, the road.

He snorts away his ennui and cries “Hail Eve!” to his empty glass phial.

Solid, captured, horny as hell and never been touched by love.

Coming down but it won’t be the last stop.

Forgetting the bottom and rejecting the top.

Locked doors and white washed windows stretch the dream until it snaps.

This is Gehenna.

This is Grunge.

This is a goddamn good time.

Jack Blare


Dark Intentions

Wandering freely among voiceless trees,

Luminescent possible adulthoods blur and fade along edges of altered vision.

Dim factories conjure pale shapes from thick railway fog.

Icy rivers spring up from the shadows.

Frosted glass and fallen logs hide murky faces behind the mask of winter.

Now hunted.

Now trapped.

Walls close in and doors lock shut with stolen keys,

Withdrawal futures foretold, nightmare shaking in hypothermic rooms.

Reading poetry by cold avenue light for the parking lot assembly,

We are birds fallen from trees high up in the past.

Our true forms cloaked in drunken beards and designer politics.

Our grandparents built monuments to obscure flowers,

Ran tanks down winding country roads, stole millions from the bank of reason.

Now black trucks drag our jittery minds to parties dreamt in other starlight.

Holiness is light reflected.

Being is the earth, being is the air.

Everything is bound with links of feeling.

Born into warm cages with shuttered eyes,

Each day is a struggle for change.

Our blacktop paintings live to be seen,

They are unfulfilled vision women chiseled naked from glass,

Now free to stand, unexamined by callous, impotent experts.

The search for lazy paradise is an orchestra of empty glasses.

Sour notes wringing out discordant symphonies of dry tears.

Our adolescence comes upon the serene poem at last,

Naked truth wet and erect with its petals open to the sun.

Years go by, evenings grow warmer.

We are nothing but puppets of the night’s dark intentions.

Jack Blare