starving hysterical naked

i don't do anything with my life except romanticize and decay with indecision.

[rocktunes]

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[lucienchevalier]

did she make you cry make you break down shatter your illusions of love and is it over now do you know how pick up the pieces and go home.

[brooklynstorm-deactivated201702]

The dark liquid dripping from his hand is leaving a little trail of blood droplets as he tries hurriedly to make his way to the nearest bathroom. His hands are covered in scars,  mostly from when he was first learning his trade, but fresh ones too from nights he went on stage with too much to drink and too little to loose.  It’s the alcohol that’s numbing the pain he should be in right now, has him laughing over the wound instead of hurrying to stop the bleeding. Running it under the water to get a better look, he sees it really isn’t so bad there are just so many veins in the hand. 

He tears some paper towels from the dispenser and presses them against the cut, watching red consume their brownish color.  Isn’t the best method, but he keeps bundling them over the cut. “Hey, have any… like, um, I don’t know some fucking duct tape or somethin’?”

[lucienchevalier]

His eyes look tired, worn. He meets his reflection’s gaze, staring at those tired, tired eyes. So dark they may as well be black, sunk deep in his face from years of self-mistreatment. He washes his hands; lightly, delicately. It’s just an excuse, to slip away, to think, to breathe, to light a fresh cigarette.

The paper sticks to his lightly-dampened hand as he pulls it from his pack and places it between his lips. Lucien can’t help but watch himself as he lights it. He pushes hair from his eyes, back behind his ear. It doesn’t stay, it never does, but he pushes it back again. (A futile fight is the only fight he’s ever known.)

Someone comes in and looks to him through the mirror. He watches the other man’s reflection, then his eyes bounce to his hand. It’s bleeding and bleeding and bleeding. Hands always bleed more than one thinks, same with heads.

“Duct tape?” he quips. “Peut-être a bandage might do better, non? Though, I have neither on me.”

He turns, leans against the wall, removes the cigarette from his mouth. He exhales.

“How did you do that? Looks like fun.”

[pestilcnts]

– ** CIRQUE ASK MEME

THEO: If you could change one thing about your past, what would it be?

ORLA: Do you believe in life after death?

FIERA: What does family mean to you?

LILY: If you could be anyone else for a whole week, who would you be and why?

BRETT: Do you think it’s better to be feared or loved?

KRISTOF: If you could instantly learn one skill, without needing any practice, what would it be?

ZARA: What would you like to be most well known for?

ELLA: Are you happy with where you are in life right at this moment?

ARIES: Would you rather stand alone in an immovable spotlight, or share the spotlight with people you could call family?

ADINA: If life were a fairy tale, would you be the damsel or the monster?

GEMMA: How do you feel about your family?

CRYSTAL: If you could start over in a new city, with a new identity, and a completely clean slate, would you?

BELLA: If you could bring any one of your dreams to life, which would it be?

CALEB: How would you, if given the chance, satiate your appetite for adventure?

THOMAS: How easy is it for you to say ‘I love you’? Have you ever said it without meaning it?

LILING: What would you consider to be your worst memory?

SOLEDAD: Do you believe in the idea that behind every great man is an even greater woman?

BROOKLYN: How do you normally deal with confrontation?

THANE: What are your vices?

ROLF: Do you believe that pleasure and pain go hand in hand?

PRIYA: What does ‘beauty’ mean to you?

CLARA: What would you say to your parents, should they appear before you now? Would you speak to them at all?

ROSE: How far would you go to get whatever your heart desires?

PRISCILLA: Do you think that love is worth dying for?

ARIA: What’s the worst lie you’ve ever told?

MILLY: Do you consider yourself an idealist, or a cynic?

LUCIEN: Do you believe in predestination? Or do you believe we create our own fates?

AANYA: What would you consider to be the most pivotal moment in your life?

BRIE: If you could relive any period of your life, forever or only once, which date would you return to?

AMBER: How d you think you are regarded by your peers?

GORDON: What is your proudest memory?

HADES: Do you believe, in theory, that you belong in Heaven or Hell? Why?

ALICE: If you could become a character in any piece of literature, who would you choose, and why?

CASSIUS: If you were made to wear a mask every day, what would it look like? Or, who would it look like?

BRADLEY: What’s the worst, or best, secret you’ve ever kept?

ISABELLA: What do you think makes you great? Were you born this way?

[andreii-tarkovsky]

[lifeinpoetry]

Look to your kingdoms— I am coming for them all.

Elisabeth Hewer, from “Love Letters from Helen of Troy,” Wishing for Birds (via lifeinpoetry)

[folkstellar]

two men in love // the irrepressibles

[stillsuffers]

They’ve spent the majority of their night dancing. They’ve spent the whole of their night dancing, with brief interludes of social interaction, but where they are really in their element is the dance floor. Their body moves like magic and each time they venture into the pleasure room to show their moves they draw a crowd, only to watch it disband so they can draw them all together again in awe of the wolf in human’s skin. It is not quite an act, nothing is being asked of the Venetian Troupe on this, a celebration in their honor (or partially), but it’s their first chance to show off to performers and patrons alike, draw gasps and applause like they’ve been waiting to do again since they got to America.

The way that they now grasp the pole has been the only constant in their life, and their tattoos and their piercings ( that’s why they’ve got them ). The dance in flight, test of gravity, it is all that they have any they are good at it. they spin from the pole falling drunkenly on the couches among patrons and performers alike. “Did you enjoy the show?”

[lucienchevalier]

The pleasure room draws him in the most. Pleasure, one of his base urges, the one he follows like a dog on a leash. Pleasure from sex, from learning, from watching someone blush as he brings up how many ways he could kill them with just his hands. So he lingers in its wings, watching as the beautiful, beautiful crows moves around him. A living, breathing thing with living, breathing wants; from him, from everyone else. (They want him to look, to touch, to reach out and take everything they are.)

Every now and then he sees Aries, dancing with the rest. Every time he sees them, they’re dancing, moving about the room like it’s theirs to take. Eventually, they end up on a pole and Lucien, as always, is a part of their audience. (It takes him back, to where they were. How the pretty boys would dance for him, how he’d watch them, how they’d see his hunger.)

“I’ve seen better,” he says. “Show me your soul, then, maybe.”

[priyaduchovny-blog]

It always happens this way — - Priya arrives all grass-stained freedom and star-light height, and they want to tie her down. It’s a condition of her countenance, a side-effect of her self. She comes in on the arm of the devil with champagne fizzle in her voice and money under her tongue (snatched from Daisy Buchanan, who can be spotted watching with envy from the corner).

So, here she is. In diamonds and pearls and feathers, and a knot of three gentleman’s ties binding her wrists behind her back. The men around her watch on with some kind of lascivious love, the pretty thing tied up by their honour in their shadow, but Priya only smiles – a ghost of a thing, but it’s there nonetheless. Her gaze rebounds to the one watching her hands curiously.

“Go on, tighten it. Add more, if you like.” She encourages, turning to make a gift of her back. “Approche-toi - make sure it’s knotted.”

“Then raise your glass - I’ve made a bet that I can escape before your lips take the last drop.”

[lucienchevalier]

From person to person, he drifts, seeking something with that certain spark. No one captures his attention, no one holds his gaze; they’re all too ugly, or boring, or downright stupid. So he continues to move from room to room, from place to place, from person to person. It shouldn’t be this hard, he thinks, to find someone interesting at a party like this. (Interest oozes from every corner, from every sparkling decoration; yet everyone he talks to is a black hole of it, a void of it.)

Then he spies a gaggle of men surrounding a woman. She’s got her arms behind her back, her shoulders awkwardly bent. Lucien, intrigued, joins the gaggle around her. While the men are all agog over her back, when she turns to gift it, Lucien watches the men. They are nasty little things, their eyes dark and lecherous.

He watches them, but the object of their attention speaks. So he looks to her, her back, her bound hands. All wrapped up like a pretty pretty present, she stood there. He stands, placing his cigarette between his lips as he walks over to her. With a tug, he tightens one of the ties. Then he adds his own, slipping it off his neck and wrapping it around her wrists. It’s expensive, silky, the kind of thing a decent man could use to hang himself.

“Alors, que gagnez-vous?” he asks, fingers still working the knot on his tie, words slightly muffled around his cigarette. “Si vous échappez.”

[lavncelot1-deactivated20170507]

a savage a n t i n o u s

[clwnprinceofcrime-deactivated20]

[metvmorqhoses]

There's just too much flesh and so little teeth to bite it with, too much love and not enough time/ close your eyes, please, try to taste infinity/ Try to make it with all this wild, tainted love, with our bare hands and bare souls and with our beating hearts/ I've got a gap on my left side only eternity could fill. ↨↨ XVII

. the dead anon poets society . 

[pridegrown-blog]

         Adina, Adina, Adina. Despite the myriad of festivities adorning the rooms, the brokenhearted girl could only focus on the empty glass set in front of her. But in the truth of the matter, she was not so brokenhearted - at least, not more so than usual. No, the copious amounts of alcohol was the main culprit for the downturn of those ruby red lips, the creasing of the forehead. The several glasses she had consumed prior had left blurs around the edges of the vision, and an odd tinge to the world around her. 

         She would descend onto the dance floor later, she decided. Once the alcohol stopped dulling her senses and focused on brightening them instead. For now, however, she remained reclined on a couch, the - now empty - glass balancing precariously on her lap, a half smoked cigarette perched between scarlet fingernails. 

         Adina looked up only when a shadow fell upon her figure, lips pulling into a small smile as she recognised the familiar face. ( She had always been good with names. ) She allowed her cigarette to fall away from her mouth, smoke exhaling with it “I do hope you’ve brought me a refill,” she said, nodding to her empty glass. “I’m positively drowning in sobriety.”

[lucienchevalier]

Thirty-four minutes, twenty-odd seconds; that’s how long it takes before he begins searching for Adina. He could never be strong about her; not him, not his heart. His soul yearns for her, wants her always. Lucien wonders where she might be, why she hasn’t sought him out yet. Perhaps there’s a reason, perhaps she’s simple settled down somewhere, waiting for him.

Adina, Adina, the only one he’s ever loved. A few come close, but none quite hold a candle to the depth he feels for her. He loves her enough that he knows he does; his heart and his mind speak about her, agree about her. He scans the crowd, looking, searching. He doesn’t find her. (He’s not surprised.)

So he grabs a couple flutes of champagne and goes on the prowl, hunting for his beloved prey. From room to room, he wanders, eyes only for her. From room to room, he finds nothing worth his attention. He sighs, pauses, turns on his heel, and starts in another direction.

Eventually, he finds her, sprawled out on a couch, a cigarette in her mouth and an empty glass in her lap. He walks over to her, pausing before her.

“Bien sûr,” he says, with a delighted little chuckle. “I couldn’t dare leave you lucid, now could I? I’d never be so cruel to you.”

[nickyhammond]

★ ♢ ♣ – { o p e n  }

      Crystal was something akin to a viper, a girl you’d not want to see the fangs of and just as the tale of a mouse caught in the nasty tricks that the snake played, the men flocked to her, trying their hand at getting under her skirt, but usually she’d draw them in only to draw blood from their veins and show them who was really at the top of the food chain. She’d sauntered across the champagne room already, her dress swaying in the humid air. Whiskey was the drink of choice for Crystal, usually, and she’d find herself with that vice later, but the idea of sipping bubbly at a speakeasy, a special luxury even among the abundance of alcohol that littered the circus. 

         Soon, she was sure she’d find her way into the pleasure rooms, content to just watch and wait for the opportunity to do what she does best: show off her skills. When she’s buzzed (which is very, very often), her head flying above the clouds and the world below seeming more and more fake by the moment. Maybe then she’ll find a man she’s satisfied with, a man concerned with pleasuring her, and making her way up to those pleasure rooms. 

         Someone reaches for the same flute of champagne, and Crystal smacks the offending wrist, not thinking twice. “Apologies,” she states, “I always assume that those attempting to steal alcohol from me are my sister.” 

[lucienchevalier]

Around him, people talk, people drink, people dance. Lucien watches them, eyes dark and eternally hungry. He recognizes almost no one amidst the chaos. Gaze flicks from person to person, face to face; idly, he might be seeking someone out, but he thinks not. Instead, he’s looking for someone new. (He’s always looking for new new new, seeking something different.

In his hand rests a glass of champagne, half drunk. It’s his second of the bubbly, his fourth of anything with bite. He’s beginning to feel it now, the drink. It starts in his fingers and a lazy smile stretches his lips. Now, he’s no longer satisfied to simply watch the people around him. No, no, his mind chastises, where’s your revelry? Bacchus is so hungry for you.

So he downs the rest of his drink and he wanders, seeking out anyone, anything. A dance partner, perhaps. Or someone (anyone) to drink with. It’s no fun to drink alone, not really. All his philosophizing, his booze-filled greatness, is lost on empty air. Oh, if only the stars could whisper back, then maybe he would be happy.

But he spies a blonde woman; statuesque, pretty like a sunset. Lucien looks for a moment then saunters over, reaching for a glass of champagne from the tray in front of her. The woman hits his wrist, like he’s a petulant child trying to pilfer cookies from the jar.

“Who’s to say I’m not?” he asks, his smile fading to an almost, a was-once. “My father was not known for his monogamy.”

[sickfake]

yeah i’m beautiful but where is my mental stability???

[thepoetryshecannotwrite]

“I walked about naked and barefoot stepping onto shards of glass sometimes feeling it sometimes not.”

Charles Bukowski, from War All The Time (Poems 1981-1984).

[lovefulls]

Dead Poets Society (1989)

[nottmock]

            the killer awoke before dawn, he put his boots on             he took a face from the ancient gallery             and he walked on down the hall             he went into the room where his sister lived, and then             he walked on down the hall,              and he came to a door and he looked inside                               father,                                       yes son,                                              i want to kill you 

FEED YOUR HEAD // a lucien chevalier playlist