Tom Bianchi, Fire Island Pines polaroids

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Colin Brite at Click Model Management


Sean O’Pry for Details Magazine by Tetsu Kubota


Jourdan Copeland by Philip Trengove | Backstage at Ashish SS 14

@onedirection: #YouandIFragranceShoot

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Confession #328

I am a monster. I claw out whole hearts. I tear them out to pierce them till they spill blood in spurts. I am filled with a naivety, spread on so thick it scrapes out a distinct vengeance.

He came to my cave with timid vulnerability, his hopes like fresh lilac, and I struck a match and burned out all the elegance in the room till it smelled like smoke and sulfur, again - a king’s perfect quarters.

I regard beauty as an inexpensive accessory, material for me to weave into fabric, and shred again to threads. I recycle as soon as I’m through with them.

I did practically nothing at all and yet, I pulled apart all the painful strings. Cats cradle in my hands, the delicacies of a dreamy oral fixation enwrapped on my fingers.

Flipping fond memories into night terrors, I fill their bedrooms, once again, with a sense of regret, of sheepish embarrassment, and lingering self-doubt. I never have to sleep there and so I never think twice.

I was what I witnessed from a handful of boys. I tarnished my own reputation and preyed upon a striking list of names that stretched from  elbow to forearm in length.

I want to be whole inside. Whole from the satisifcation of not being the abuser of souls. Whole from knowing I’ve found a way to prune the weeds of my heart rather than the flowering promise of another. But I am the one who takes from the suckers who feared nothing more than a loveless life. I am a curious fire starter, an explorer of simple hedonistic pleasure, and I’ve burned the forests down.

Toss me to the wolves. Throw me to the open bar. There’s nothing good of me but the fermentation stirring in my body’s open passageways, and even that is fading fast.

help (not) wanted

wake up in a ring of blue
that follows me down the street
and shoots the breeze with my thoughts
and the early autumn air.

few have followed, but they’re after me again.
waiting to harp on my colors and strip off
all my joy so they can staple it all
to their miserable bodies.

i am not your source.
i am not your inspiration.

i have shut myself in, to find
a goddamn peace/piece of my own mind.

let me live in my dreams, and die
in a yuppified, gentrified neighborhood
on the lower west side of manhattan.

I came here for me,
and not a goddamn person
on this goddamn earth can stop me.

#writing  #poetry  


Jordan Matheson by Eva K. Salvi | Fucking Young!


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Zachariah Picotte by Geoff Barrenger

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Elzein Elzein at Q Management


Salieu Jalloh by Cliff Watts