©

i want 2 post more underwear pics but u all will unfollow me :-)

Louise Bourgeois & Tracey Emin - Do Not Abandon Me, 2009-2010

Do Not Abandon Me is a collaboration between Louise Bourgeois and Tracey Emin consisting of sixteen intimate works made over the past two years. These drawings articulate physical drives and feelings, candidly confronting themes of identity, sexuality and the fear of loss and abandonment through joint expression.

This series originated with Bourgeois, who began the works by painting male and female torsos in profile on paper, mixing red, blue and black gouache pigments with water to create delicate and fluid silhouettes. Bourgeois then passed the images on to Emin, who later confessed: ‘I carried the images around the world with me from Australia to France, but I was too scared to touch them’. Emin overlaid Bourgeois’s forms with fantasy, drawing smaller figures that engaged with the torsos like Lilliputian lovers, enacting the body’s desires and anxieties. In one, a woman kisses an erect phallus; in another, a small fetus-like form protrudes from a swollen belly. In many, Emin’s handwriting inscribes the images with a narrative, putting into words the emotions expressed in Bourgeois’s vibrant gouaches.

This suite of prints was one of the last projects Louise Bourgeois completed before her death. They were then printed at Dye-namix studio in New York with archival dyes on cloth in an edition of 18 sets with 6 artist proofs. The exhibition travels to Hauser & Wirth from Carolina Nitsch Project Room, New York, and is accompanied by a fully illustrated catalogue.

(Source: arpeggia, via euo)

My mother used to say to me, ‘You can’t eat beauty, it doesn’t feed you.’ And these words played and bothered me, I didn’t really understand them until finally I realized that beauty was not a thing that I could acquire or consume. It was something that I just had to be. And what my mother meant by saying that you can’t eat beauty is that you can’t rely on beauty to sustain you. What actually sustains us, what is fundamentally beautiful is compassion for yourself and those around you. That kind of beauty inflames the heart and enchants the soul.
by Lupita Nyong’o (via cestlavieparis)

(Source: voguememoirs, via cybergirlfriend)

thedarlingchild:

photographs of american teenagers taken by joseph szabo, 1969-1988.

(via kittylicker666)

wmagazine:

Kirsten, the ultimate California girl. 
Photograph by Juergen Teller; styled by Felicia Garcia-Rivera; written by Sofia Coppola; W magazine May 2014. 
take a writer away from his typewriter
and all you have left
is
the sickness
which started him
typing
in the
beginning
by Charles Bukowski (via perfect)

(via hittings)

You will be out with friends
when the news of her existence
will be accidentally spilled all over
your bar stool. Respond calmly
as if it was only a change in weather,
a punch line you saw coming.
After your fourth shot of cheap liquor,
leave the image of him kissing another woman
in the toilet.


In the morning, her name will be
in every headline: car crash, robbery, flood.
When he calls you, ignore the hundreds of ropes
untangling themselves in your stomach:
You are the best friend again. He invites
you over for dinner, say yes
too easily. Remind yourself this isn’t special,
it’s only dinner; everyone has to eat.
When he greets you at the door, do not think
for one second you are the reason
he wore cologne tonight.


Someone told you once, a soul mate is not the person
who makes you the happiest, but the one
who makes you feel the most. Who conducts your heart
to bang the loudest, who can drag you giggling
with forgiveness from the cellar they locked you in.
It has always been him.


In his kitchen, he will hand-feed you
a piece of red pepper. His laugh
will be low and warm and it will make you
feel like candlelight. Do not think this is special.
Do not count on your fingers the number
of freckles you could kiss too easily.
Try to think of pilot lights or olive oil,
not everything you have ever loved about him,
or it will suddenly feel boiling and possible
and so close. You will find her bobby pins
lying innocently on his bathroom sink.
Her bobby pins. They look like the wiry legs
of spiders, splinters of her undressing
in his bed. Do not say anything.
Think of stealing them, wearing them
home in your hair. When he hugs you goodbye,
let him kiss you on the forehead.
Settle for target practice.


At home, you will picture her across town
pressing her fingers into his back
like wet cement. You will wonder
if she looks like you, if you are two bedrooms
in the same house. Did he fall for her features
like rearranged furniture? When he kisses her,
does she taste like new paint?


You will want to call him.
You will go as far as holding the phone
in your hand, imagine telling him
unimaginable things like you are always
ticking inside of me and I dream of you
more often than I don’t.
My body is a dead language
and you pronounce
each word perfectly.


Do not call him.
Fall asleep to the hum of the VCR.
She must make him happy.
She must be,
She must be his favorite place in Minneapolis.
You are a souvenir shop, where he goes
to remember how much people miss him
when he is gone.


by Sierra DeMulder, Unrequited Love Poem (via perfect)

(Source: ine-vest, via hittings)

How often it is that we turn each other
into metaphors, months into men, this summer a summer
that belongs to us and us alone.

And you, had we not been somewhat in love that May,
all those years ago, would the post office still equate a
secret, would a yellow taxi still mean leaving, and would
a train platform still make me cry when dusk hits in Manhattan?

Mark Doty’s partner died after AIDS and everything he has seen since
has looked like loss. Sylvia Plath killed herself and afterwards, people
could only approach ovens with apologies and remorse.

The flowers in our common room keep dying. The
fruit in the bowl is always barely there.

How many times do we say goodbye before we leave? How
many times do we pretend that absence makes the heart grow
fonder?

Once, I believed in you like a poem, turned your heart
into a metaphor for my heart, turned our months into honey and
caramel lozenges,

But metaphors come, and metaphors go, and
not even seasons have the courtesy to stay till dawn.


by “For Something I Know Too Well To Name,” Shinji Moon (via perfect)

(Source: commovente, via hittings)

Here’s what our parents never taught us:

You will stay up on your rooftop until sunlight peels away the husk of the moon,
chainsmoking cigarettes and reading Baudelaire, and
you will learn that you only ever want to fall in love with someone
who will stay up to watch the sun rise with you.

You will fall in love with train rides, and sooner or later you will
realize that nowhere seems like home anymore.

A woman will kiss you and you’ll think her lips are two petals
rubbing against your mouth.

You will not tell anyone that you liked it.
It’s okay.
It is beautiful to love humans in a world where love is a metaphor for lust.

You can leave if you want, with only your skin as a carry-on.

All you need is a twenty in your pocket and a bus ticket.
All you need is someone on the other end of the map, thinking about the supple
curves of your body, to guide you to a home that stretches out for miles
and miles on end.

You will lie to everyone you love.
They will love you anyways.

One day you’ll wake up and realize that you are too big for your own skin.

Molt.
Don’t be afraid.

Your body is a house where the shutters blow in and out
against the windowpane.

You are a hurricane-prone area.
The glass will break through often.

But it’s okay. I promise.

Remember,
a stranger once told you that the breeze
here is something worth writing poems about.


by “Here’s What Our Parents Never Taught Us,” Shinji Moon (via perfect)

(Source: commovente, via hittings)

Death is always on the way, but the fact that you don’t know when it will arrive seems to take away from the finiteness of life. It’s that terrible precision that we hate so much. But because we don’t know, we get to think of life as an inexhaustible well. Yet everything happens a certain number of times, and a very small number, really. How many more times will you remember a certain afternoon of your childhood, some afternoon that’s so deeply a part of your being that you can’t even conceive of your life without it? Perhaps four or five times more. Perhaps not even. How many more times will you watch the full moon rise? Perhaps twenty. And yet it all seems limitless.
by Paul Bowles, The Sheltering Sky (via larmoyante)

(via hittings)

slutstatus:

can you believe that there are people on this earth who have never seen this video before

(Source: kristenwiiggle, via turgle)

you were thunder and i was the sea,
i wrote poems about washing machines,
you said i tasted like blue soap and
electric fires, i keep asking the stars
to explode but they won’t leave without
the moon, it’s been six years since
you said i tasted like the universe -
wild, dark, and most importantly,
free
by my sister eats acid  (via irynka)

(via irynka)

My mother always said
Suicide is the most selfish act
A person can commit.
When Ned Vizzini killed himself
I wanted to resuscitate him
And shake him by the shoulders.
I wanted to scream
“Fuck you,
Fuck you for leaving us like this,”
In his face
Over
and over
and over.
I gave his book to my friends
When they said they wanted to jump
Off buildings so high
They wouldn’t even feel
Hitting the pavement.
And I bet he didn’t
When he decided
To climb to the roof of that building
And launch himself off the top.
I used to prescribe his words
Like modern medicine.
But how can I continue to offer someone
The paperbacked best selling
Penned words
Of a hypocrite?
“Fuck you.
We needed you,”
Rattles around my brain
Like an animal in a cage.
And then I realize
I never sent him a note,
A thank you.
I always meant to.
Maybe it wouldn’t have changed his mind,
But I still should have made the time to send
My appreciation
To someone
Who deserved it.
I realized then
I can’t be angry at a man
I’ve never met
For his sadness getting the best of him.
by

Ned Vizzini by Colleen Michele (thatstoomainstream)

RIP

(via thatstoomainstream)

(via vvhatmighthavebeenlost)

internetgf:

pugsies:

Scene Queens: Where Are They Now?

Episode One

i didn’t know just how badly i needed to see this

(via ctrlaltlsd)

littlealleybug:

sexrova:

The uncensored version of Diet Mtn Dew (in my opinion the best version of this song).

(…) Hit me my darling tonight
I don’t know why but I like it
Gotta get back to the wild
Give it up give it up
Live it up live it up (…)

(…) Hurt me and tell me you’re mine
I don’t know why but I like it
Scare me my God you’re divine
Gimme them gimme them
Dope and diamonds (…)

this is the fucking best thing I’ve ever heard I’m crying

(via waverto)