Set in semen and the sun set through the gates of hell.
The last wind rustling.
The dead tree bows.
Bare chested bastard in the scene and looking on his glories like a medicine show when he knows this is, at heart and holy, who the fuck he is to himself. to the world. the woebegone. the folks who know him better, he says. the finds who befriended him for the reference and scuttled callous undertow.
So fucking fine, the queenstown romeo, at his scattering and fettered debris that no one notices the light's on. no one minds the once great suffering of the puppet piled on top of grey hair and the hopes he's bringing back to task for mistaking him for someone righteous enough to master the stunt.
The calling card.
Matter of men meant to thunder in the night against indifference. injustice made of erstwhile epithets written on the back of tortured jackets taken when daddy didn't mind the till enough to know his boy was missing. his little girl had hit the shitter.
Head first. soft mouth wide open. pink nipples out of frame (just barely, begging future interest in her artfully cum pocked areole).
But he just might.