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Poem- Gentrification by Jade Blackmore January 5, 2018

Posted by vscorpiozine in Jade Blackmore, poems, poetry, Veteran Poets.
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Gentrification

 Livable but slippery
Once red brick villains,
Now a horde of liars.
Vinegar tears from the old guard.
A concrete asp left over
from maladaptive days.

Protests fall on deaf ears,
A broken, lingering fear.
The mundane tapestry of day-to-day life
Shocked into submission by
The din of construction cranes
Perfecting
a permanently vacant building
Only the rats and spiders see their paper-thin but sustainable walls.

Laws were broken, then changed with the customary sleight-of-hand.
The lights go out
At the gymnasium where a one-eyed millionaire from the Valley
Tells bartenders and store clerks
How another luxury building will benefit them.
Homeless men raid the snack table
Then go down the street to sleep in front of the
Picture window
Framing a brand new, cobwebbed lobby.

 

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Poem – Shinier Objects by Jade Blackmore December 7, 2017

Posted by vscorpiozine in Jade Blackmore, poems, poetry, Veteran Poets.
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Shinier Objects

Cool and hip.
Trendy,
sexy,
flashy,
outspoken,
loud and obnoxious.
Decadent,
obscure, snarky and intellectual.
Academic and narcissistic.
Luxurious,
violent,
And lacking in all protocol.
Edgy and underground,
Art fuck-y and self-absorbed.
Mix and match the adjectives with
Decades of faces and nothingness.
A parade of sculptures
With no discernible filling.

But tucked away in the corner
Someone,
or maybe a few someones
forged a steady presence,
now neglected
for the wrong reasons,
for shinier objects
with nothing to offer except
eventual crash
and splatter.

They’re gone,
because like
Sylvia,
they were too
pure for
you or
the barren, angry blur
the world has become.

They still exist somewhere
in a sliver of time and comfort
Back inside a cocoon
untranslatable,
and unable
to defeat the
patina of lies.

 

Poem by Jade Blackmore – The Same October 22, 2017

Posted by vscorpiozine in Jade Blackmore, Los Angeles, poems, poetry, Veteran Poets.
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the same

the wreckage of a generation.
the good ones die early,
the evil ones fall like a house of cards,
the mediocre simmer and fade
to leave room
for the next generation
to perform
their version
of the same.

Megalomaniac – Poem by Jade Blackmore July 30, 2017

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Megalomaniac

Everyone else is a laughingstock,
Buoyed by the clutter of a premiere page.
Caffeine boost, internet drone.
A human statue, so cryptic and cold-blooded
More exalted than
A dead comrade
Or new girls and their selfies.
So untouchable
In her salty square corner of the world.

Raising the Bar – Poem by Jade Blackmore July 29, 2017

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Raising the Bar

The ruins of a never-ending last call.
65 going on 19,
a frat-boy with too-thick eyebrows,
a woman with a shattered glass meth voice
Everything is free and easy
Or it’s not worth the effort.

The survivor realizes too late,
but drives away
from the long black expanse
of wasted years
toward reinvention.

Poem – Down the Rabbit Hole by Jade Blackmore February 17, 2016

Posted by vscorpiozine in city poems, Jade Blackmore, Uncategorized.
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She walks through the hippest cemetery in America at midnight.
(More beer bottles, fewer bouquets)
“Your boyfriend must be hard to live with,” her heroin addict companion observes,before arguing with the burly security guard at the front gate.
There’s no time to wonder how she got here,
And even less time to get out.

Poem- The Last Xmas Party before Everybody Got Old by Jade Blackmore September 29, 2015

Posted by vscorpiozine in Jade Blackmore, love poems, romantic poems, Veteran Poets.
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The Last Xmas Party before Everybody Got Old

They stand in the kitchen
drinking eggnog.
She grabs and arranges
sprigs of his hair
til they stand up like
Alfalfa from the Little Rascals.
He talks about his trip to Paris
(animated, rapid-fire memories),
eyes round and brimming like a little kid with a new toy.

BIO:

Jade Blackmore is a poet, pop culture blogger and occasional novelist. Visit her website at Jadeblackmore.com

Poem- Cinderella’s Time in These Parts is Limited by Jade Blackmore September 14, 2015

Posted by vscorpiozine in Jade Blackmore, Los Angeles, poems, poetry, Veteran Poets.
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Cinderella’s Time in These Parts is Limited

Two homeless guys deal drugs
out of an abandoned station wagon
while the girl watches from the Silverlake Boulevard overpass,
eating a cookie in the dark.
Shopkeepers roll down their gates,
one by one til the streets are deserted.

She walks toward the only open door on the block.
Some old rock dude asks her if she has any heroin.
She gives him the rest of her chocolate macadamia cookie
And walks inside.

The Hollow Year – Jade Blackmore August 4, 2015

Posted by vscorpiozine in 1980s, Jade Blackmore, poetry, romantic poems.
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The Hollow Year

He wears a black T-shirt,
Auburn hair swept back against his perfect cheekbones.
A hot trickle of tears scorches me
As I watch him fulfill her hissing request.
When I look at him even now,
Even when he is with her,
I can feel every breath I have ever taken.
There are memories in his every sinew,
In his every rounded muscle there are
Days and weeks of my life.
I waived my final chance to love him so I could hear poets bicker.
Now I beg just to have the privilege of seeing his face again.
A conceited geologist’s advances took the place of his icy, exact voice.
Three girls played pinochle in sub-zero temperatures as I locked myself
in the next room and thought of him.
My heart,
My vessels,
Were drained, empty for an entire year.
I deserted him because a short girl in overalls said, “The man is vulgar. He’s grown up wrong.”

It is good to be subtle.
It shows strength. Talent. Maturity.
It shows that I have forsaken my love for him to
Work 9 to 5 coding yesterday’s treason,
To ride aimlessly on the subway weekends,
And watch shoe stores liquidate
Just to pass the time.

Copyright 1981 Revised 2015

Jade Blackmore – The Baby Boomers Go Home June 12, 2015

Posted by vscorpiozine in 1960s, baby boomers, Jade Blackmore, poems, poetry, suburbia.
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The Baby Boomers Go Home

The cadence of summer.
Transistor radios sprinkled with sand.
Blueberry sundaes from the Mr. Softee truck every night at seven-thirty,
walls smothered with black light posters,
Roman candles on the lawn
popping
sparks.
My best friend on the front porch
frugging to Monkees’ records.
The calendar’s too heavy,
too long til we spurn
this suburbuan womb.

Forty years later,
the mothball smell of Mary Beth’s house still lingers in my memory.
The walls are naked,
thin ice
on which to hang dreams.
Now it’s graffiti on bus benches,
Daddy’s driver’s license in a sealed safety deposit box,
a tear that never ends.

Copyright 1999, 2015 Jade Blackmore