Verse 4, Stall 3

&, On the third day boredom set in

& Lo the things he had once found entertaining

Were now about as interesting

As reality TV,

As public education,

As reality TV,

As public masturbation,

& All of a sudden,

All at once,

He realized,

There are no actors.

There is no stage.

Just people

& Concrete.

There are no actors.

There is no stage.

Just people

& Concrete.

-Jack Blare, 2013


Erotic Beethoven 

Erotic Beethoven plays

Constant calls for fleshy therapy.

A ringing in the ear.

Constant waking sleep.

 A once familiar face in a passing car.

Familiar face in a funeral photograph,

Absent camera

Groping blindly for bloodshot eyeballs.

Write, the words go blank.

Bad habits (those bastards!) burn the money,

All gone into wasted wasteland futures,

Dumps in concrete desolation, no girls or easy arm fixes, just scars.

I fingered the hole where my conscience had been.

I made myself vomit, bad blood & bright yellow bile.

I poured in the past, tasted tears & opium fortified wine.

Old thoughts pass on to new

Light show freak shows & orgies of erotic Beethoven,

Sky high on symphonies, taking in breakneck joy of being.

Protected by suits of situated conversation,

I lay my senses down at hungry altars

Of greedy drug company monsters.

Does nostalgia conquer dreaming?

Old staircases are crumbling, we’re all starting to walk flat.

The Great Forum has become a cellar, cold cave

For deluded monks to carpet with silence,

Sacrificing time to understand

The meaning of time.

Among social rings of smoke & hidden strings no one dares speak.

“Screwing up” is the deadliest sin,

Worse than matricide for those revealed as less than their projections,

Vulgar remarks awake old crater stomach aches,

Anatomically atomic erect urge for potential wet lips,

Wandering fog hunting vague blurs of doctored souls.

You have nature’s greatest sympathies,

As if it means any damn thing.

The thrill of warm forest symphonies

Lure canoes across glass seeking wisdom,

Shattering comfortable borders

With thunderclaps, sirens, and freezing rain.

-Jack Blare, 2010

How To Break Into Your Head

I love this country,

But hate this nation.

22 years mental incarceration.

No cash, sex or framed degrees.

Bored comp… addict solitude, all you will see.

I am not quite a liar, just

Clever inventor of more convenient truths.

At least I’ve managed to find the time to fit in

About twelve stiff years of shadow-stalked youth.

-Jack Blare, 2012


Mostly you live on the run from the monstrosity

Hating it but tethered to it by a long, invisible chord that can’t be cut

The tentacle of the beast that created & shaped us,

It was that which I grew to hate, the parasite within, the world outside.

The Leviathan, the contract coerced & forced into signing

Years of indoctrination, persecution, taxation, prostitution and prostration

Designed to make you buy into a rigged game

School, work, marriage, retirement, death.

They have it down to a science now.

So-called formal education, sinking ship going in just one direction

They call me crazy, yet believe in causes, gods and governments blindly.

Doped and drugged up young to ensure compliance and profit

Forced into addictions to drugs with no highs but terrible withdrawal

Biochemical suggestion, the madness of birth in the sanitized satanized

West 0.2 where the sheriff is a paranoid failing superpower

Whose weapons and wars live for money, jobs and oil.

I was 11 when the towers fell, 13 when Baghdad burned.

Directionless, discontented and desiring adventure

But stuck in a nowhere town, where the last wild frontier lies in the mind,

My companions & I decided to open the Doors of Perception

To see how deep down the Rabbit Hole I could get,

Sweating, puking, floating in three places at once

Becoming orgasmic patterns of peacock liquids within the ceiling,

Walking drunk back from a party in the snow with one sneaker 

Breaking things for the sheer joy of destruction, for anger and pain & thrill.

Hunted by the cops, hopped up on coke hiding in the tiny habitat garden Created when I was a student there, now tall trees and bushes.

Breaking out, taking out rage & confusion

When I saw through the illusion, when the high wore off

When I crashed, alone broke and sober undergoing

SSRI withdrawal and depersonalization, cocaine, 

Weed and constant paranoia.

When once I used to feel new and free,

To push the borders of my sanity and understand the point

Then I realized there is no point or purpose but what we create.

I started to use whatever made me numb, lost in a sea of opioid dreams

Broke free from pain and worry and chained myself to a 

Dark God in a dirty deal.

Morpheus saved me from the Beast, 

In return I supply him with money, semi-synthetic poppies & blood sacrifices, 

Dripping from my nose & arms.

If I leave his service the vengeful torments will be

Almost unbearable. The red flag means go. Push in the plunger.

He asks for more and gives back less every time. 

Balances must be sustained.

I bent my back for the Beast and broke one pact in exchange for another.

I tried to cut it out of me with a blade so the machinery of the state 

Detained and drugged me, named me crazy with a red wristband.

But what drove me over the line?

Have I always been like this? It seems to be getting worse.

Anxiety, depression, panic attacks.

The feeling that something terrible is about to happen.

The sensation of a malevolent curse.

-Jack Blare 2018

But Not Forgotten

Silence echoes across the cracked asphalt streets,

Well kept lawns wither in July heat.

Everything has become alien, distant, unimportant.

A fatigue born of frustration, unrelieved by caffeine & speed.

A lethargy of the soul, incapacitating apathy.

Going through the motions, mechanical responses,

Dull edge of a blade trying to cut through steel.

Is this the price for a decade of overindulgence?

Watching as one by one people trickle away

Or curl up in a bottle & drown themselves in their own addictions.

Spent cartridges of creativity litter the once-familiar ground.

Instruments gather dust, stacked in the dark underground.

Living free became living fiscally responsibly,

There is a catch to every deal.

Weddings & children juxtaposed with meth pipes & coke binges.

Used to be looking for something more than minimum wage.

Working to exhaustion to pay bills, 

Own a house, spawn a child, become respectable.

Time off spent sleeping to prepare for more work to get more money,

Trading the remains of youth for reality TV, cigarettes & beer.

Decade of self-destruction in pursuit of something

Intangible, like a quicksilver gas. Xenon hallucinations.

Little glass bottles on the shelves, evidence of self-suppression.

Plastic pill bottles on the table, in drawers, scattered on the floor,

Ashtray piled high with dead roaches, casualties in the war of senses.

-Jack Blare, 2018

Saharan Suburbs

Born in the sanitized desert of suburbia

Where creativity goes to die.

Either leave to get a fancy degree

Or spend half your life in the same factory.

Getting drunk all day.

Purgatorial, neither heaven or hell

Everything is streamlined, modern technology meets old ideals.

I remember the scent of earth and clean air

Innocent child running through forests, playing in streams.

They cut down the forest & shit upriver

Silver Creek sullied, feeding into the Credit River

Where a raft could take you into the untouched woods

And fields of ferns as if it was in the Cretaceous period

And humanity was just some rodent’s multi-million year dream.

Behind the veneer of mowed lawns and well-kept gardens

Are the alcoholics, pill fiends, cocaine rackets,

Rednecks driving around piss drunk, smoking meth

While their terminal children gestate, born to an unlucky hand.

KKK rallies & crackheads peering between the curtains for signs of police.

Users, abusers, pervert doctors, priests and Jehovah’s Witnesses, 

Grow op’s and Flop houses, kids huffing varnish,

Drinking cough syrup & smoking crack.

Assholes meeting at the nearest parking lot to show off the expensive 

Cars they bought and upgraded on their parent’s dime.

Drinking favoured vodka coolers & popping bad Molly.

Nowhere to put on shows and no decent bands left in town to play them.

The odd acoustic gig or poetry reading draws more attention than

I would expect. If it happened more than once a year I wouldn’t mind.

I don’t write for everyone. I don’t write for anyone save for my love. 

I don’t want to fit in to anything but girls.

I am not part of some loose collective, I don’t belong to a “scene”

I speak with the freaks like me, the losers who got kicked down & spat on

Yet rose up again and again bloody & defiant, with not for.

The junkies, coke heads, schizophrenic priests & psychotic monks, 

Bipolar professors, borderline personality poets, suicide risks with sad stories,

Dirty boys and girls who like to get off without any shame or regret,

I got no shame but nobody else out here does either.

Shame is a useless emotion for those who merely follow.

-Jack Blare, 2016

They Knew It Would Ruin Us

Are we in alternate planes

Fast in faraway places?

Drugged down and distracted,

As they know, as they predicted

And as they wanted.

Hooked and wired to the system, yes.

Fed and bred and forcibly addicted

To the false sense of security within the system.

They take our privacy.

Sometimes they take our lives.

Yeah you got us hooked up

But we aint locked in yet.

Will this fragile will withstand withdrawals

It must eventually face.

Scared like Napoleon, Like, Hitler, like Gollum

To fuck up at the crucial moment

And watch it all crash down around you.

Standing around popping amphetamine pills,

Watching friends slowly die,

Writing furious in the angry, ugly dawn

Where the light creeps into shadowy corners

To drive away the last cobwebs of the last free summer night

With harsh and brilliant beams burning the eyes of us,

Who hide from pain and sleep through sunlight.

-Jack Blare

Damage Radar

Why do I always connect with the wounded?

It’s like some unseen force that draws us together,

The weirdoes, freaks, tweakers, smack heads & schizophrenics,

The anorexic, autistic bipolar, ADHD, PTSD, suicidal, self harmers

Like moths fluttering into the burning candle

Of our dying adolescent years.

We die burning bright.

Why do we flock together like sheep?

Why do we follow this desperate course?

Is this too dramatic for you?

Too real?

-Jack Blare, 2012

Burning Straw Armies

People reading hatred into nothing

Only creates more hate.

It fuels the cycle of movement & backlash,

Violence, propaganda, inequality.

Holding on to resentment only tears us apart.

The era of the popular movement is over.

Society is splintered into factions

Fighting over scraps of meaningless ideology

While that boot Orwell warned about,

Jack London’s Iron Heel, comes down


-Jack Blare