given winter

given winter

you were out hustling all the older men given winter, and your dreams/ i have devoured your dream journal and its secrets where your thoughts go as grim as an immortal’s sleep resembles them/ ash and flesh has kept us sane/ so well inside your warm, the trinkets they give you dazzle all your second selves because you’ve never played down here in the deep end with its legendary beaches which we walk before you go out again to earn your sacred islands as bonewhite tough as the father who filled you with him bled like pigs and other spare parts that night in sadness you slit his throat, and you won’t find him with any of the other, new daddies i cannot save you from there is no saving anyone there is only two people attempting to get through yet another one of these reverberant, sacrosanct sun-dogs the daddies, the sugars, and the querulous men who buy you and another night inside your ass given any winter with their blue remittance and cobalt knives/

One clap, two clap, three clap, forty?

By clapping more or less, you can signal to us which stories really stand out.