Venice based poet. Mining BoyThe minging boy is not phased His mouth yawns, Showcasing the neglect An omnipresent sting reverberates, Around his mouth, Like soft chords on an organ Getting louder, With every pull of his drink And every pat from his pipe, “There will be great repentance”, She cried, “when He can’t chew”. The RoseThe burning pages curled up, Like a white rose An ash, falling Turned to water And the rose grew yet Oh flame! Heat come, bring new relaxation I burn books for you! Their pages are vile, Inked by piss and wine, A blackmarket deal for nothing and no one. Others, Whom liquidate themselves into a shot glass, Beg to feel your lips, And loiter in your throat, like a cough When it’s late, And everyone dreams, But I need to breath! My god, cut me open Let my lungs by satisfied Like a junky, All dressed up in her tourniquet I move her on her side And watch her thick junky drool, Drip, Stupid, Like a cow let off in a field But never in her life bearing less freedom
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