Jack Slade

Venice based poet.

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Mining Boy

The 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”. 

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The Rose

The 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