verwirrt / crab and proud
verwirrt / crab and proud
ЩИТО!?!?!?
*ДОСТАЛА ЧЕМОДАН И КИДАЕТ ТУДА ЧУЛКИ И КАБЛУКИ*
ВИЗУ ПО ХОДУ ПОЛУЧУ! ВСЕМ ПОКА, Я НА БЛИЖАЙЩИЙ РЕЙС ДО ЛАНДАНА!
URL записи
лол, если серьезно, то грустно, канеш, бедняга детей хочет x)
*ДОСТАЛА ЧЕМОДАН И КИДАЕТ ТУДА ЧУЛКИ И КАБЛУКИ*
ВИЗУ ПО ХОДУ ПОЛУЧУ! ВСЕМ ПОКА, Я НА БЛИЖАЙЩИЙ РЕЙС ДО ЛАНДАНА!
17.03.2011 в 18:17
Пишет John Salander:URL записи
лол, если серьезно, то грустно, канеш, бедняга детей хочет x)
verwirrt / crab and proud
милое на тему пустого дома и райхенбаха. после смерти шерлока джон перестает видеть цвета. (но все с ХЭ!)
грустно мне очень, я оч любила этого автора, а потом он взялся писать инцесты. так мне обидно от этого - слов нет. очень разочарована в нем (авторе, that is). но фик все равно прекрасен, тут только отп.
грустно мне очень, я оч любила этого автора, а потом он взялся писать инцесты. так мне обидно от этого - слов нет. очень разочарована в нем (авторе, that is). но фик все равно прекрасен, тут только отп.
verwirrt / crab and proud
verwirrt / crab and proud
аааа ненавижу капранос почему ты всегда знаешь какая музыка мне нравится аааа
verwirrt / crab and proud
verwirrt / crab and proud
пардон, что я только что подняла кучу старых своих записей, но мне надо было их увидеть и достать из сундука так сказать.
verwirrt / crab and proud
verwirrt / crab and proud
Little Beast
By: Richard Siken
1
An all-night barbeque. A dance on the courthouse lawn.
The radio aches a little tune that tells the story of what the night
is thinking. It’s thinking of love.
It’s thinking of stabbing us to death
and leaving our bodies in a dumpster.
That’s a nice touch, stains in the night, whiskey kisses for everyone.
Tonight, by the freeway, a man eating fruit pie with a buckknife
carves the likeness of his lover’s face into the motel wall. I like him
and I want to be like him, my hands no longer an afterthought.
2
Someone once told me that explaining is an admission of failure.
I’m sure you remember, I was on the phone with you, sweetheart.
3
History repeats itself. Somebody says this.
History throws its shadow over the beginning, over the desktop,
over the sock drawer with its socks, its hidden letters.
History is a little man in a brown suit
trying to define a room he is outside of.
I know history. There are many names in history
but none of them are ours.
4
He had green eyes,
so I wanted to sleep with him
green eyes flicked with yellow, dried leaves on the surface of a pool—
You could drown in those eyes, I said.
The fact of his pulse,
the way he pulled his body in, out of shyness or shame or a desire
not to disturb the air around him.
Everyone could see the way his muscles worked,
the way we look like animals,
his skin barely keeping him inside.
I wanted to take him home
and rough him up and get my hands inside him, drive my body into his
like a crash test car.
I wanted to be wanted and he was
very beautiful, kissed with his eyes closed, and only felt good while moving.
You could drown in those eyes, I said,
so it’s summer, so it’s suicide,
so we’re helpless in sleep and struggling at the bottom of the pool.
5
It wasn’t until we were well past the middle of it
that we realized
the old dull pain, whose stitched wrists and clammy fingers,
far from being subverted,
had only slipped underneath us, freshly scrubbed.
Mirrors and shop windows returned our faces to us,
replete with tight lips and the eyes that remained eyes
and not the doorway we had hoped for.
His wounds healed, the skin a bit thicker that before,
scars like train tracks on his arms and on his body underneath his shirt.
6
We still groped for each other on the backstairs or in parked cars
as the road around us
grew glossy with ice and our breath softened the view through the glass
already laced with frost,
but more frequently I was finding myself sleepless, and he was running out of
lullabies.
But damn if there isn’t anything sexier
than a slender boy with a handgun,
a fast car, a bottle of pills.
7
What would you like? I’d like my money’s worth.
Try explaining a life bundled with episodes of this—
swallowing mud, swallowing glass, the smell of blood
on the first four knuckles.
We pull our boots on with both hands
but we can’t punch ourselves awake and all I can do
is stand on the curb and say Sorry
about the blood in your mouth. I wish it was mine.
I couldn’t get the boy to kill me, but I wore his jacket for the longest time.
By: Richard Siken
1
An all-night barbeque. A dance on the courthouse lawn.
The radio aches a little tune that tells the story of what the night
is thinking. It’s thinking of love.
It’s thinking of stabbing us to death
and leaving our bodies in a dumpster.
That’s a nice touch, stains in the night, whiskey kisses for everyone.
Tonight, by the freeway, a man eating fruit pie with a buckknife
carves the likeness of his lover’s face into the motel wall. I like him
and I want to be like him, my hands no longer an afterthought.
2
Someone once told me that explaining is an admission of failure.
I’m sure you remember, I was on the phone with you, sweetheart.
3
History repeats itself. Somebody says this.
History throws its shadow over the beginning, over the desktop,
over the sock drawer with its socks, its hidden letters.
History is a little man in a brown suit
trying to define a room he is outside of.
I know history. There are many names in history
but none of them are ours.
4
He had green eyes,
so I wanted to sleep with him
green eyes flicked with yellow, dried leaves on the surface of a pool—
You could drown in those eyes, I said.
The fact of his pulse,
the way he pulled his body in, out of shyness or shame or a desire
not to disturb the air around him.
Everyone could see the way his muscles worked,
the way we look like animals,
his skin barely keeping him inside.
I wanted to take him home
and rough him up and get my hands inside him, drive my body into his
like a crash test car.
I wanted to be wanted and he was
very beautiful, kissed with his eyes closed, and only felt good while moving.
You could drown in those eyes, I said,
so it’s summer, so it’s suicide,
so we’re helpless in sleep and struggling at the bottom of the pool.
5
It wasn’t until we were well past the middle of it
that we realized
the old dull pain, whose stitched wrists and clammy fingers,
far from being subverted,
had only slipped underneath us, freshly scrubbed.
Mirrors and shop windows returned our faces to us,
replete with tight lips and the eyes that remained eyes
and not the doorway we had hoped for.
His wounds healed, the skin a bit thicker that before,
scars like train tracks on his arms and on his body underneath his shirt.
6
We still groped for each other on the backstairs or in parked cars
as the road around us
grew glossy with ice and our breath softened the view through the glass
already laced with frost,
but more frequently I was finding myself sleepless, and he was running out of
lullabies.
But damn if there isn’t anything sexier
than a slender boy with a handgun,
a fast car, a bottle of pills.
7
What would you like? I’d like my money’s worth.
Try explaining a life bundled with episodes of this—
swallowing mud, swallowing glass, the smell of blood
on the first four knuckles.
We pull our boots on with both hands
but we can’t punch ourselves awake and all I can do
is stand on the curb and say Sorry
about the blood in your mouth. I wish it was mine.
I couldn’t get the boy to kill me, but I wore his jacket for the longest time.
verwirrt / crab and proud
я сдегка подустал делать гифы, да и к тому же скорость просмотра фильмов у меня выше, чем лапы доходят открывать адоб премьер... жаль, парочка моментов из Plein Soleil так и просится, но да черт с ним... но...
Rocco e i suoi fratelli
Rocco e i suoi fratelli
verwirrt / crab and proud
verwirrt / crab and proud
“I guess I’m positive,” said McCarthy.
“And I must be the yang to his yin,” added Kapranos.
FUCKING AWWWWWWWWWWWWWW
еще маленький видос xD
verwirrt / crab and proud
знаете, что меня бесит в фиках про асексуального шерлока? всякие вещи типа джон будет спать с другими людьми. или типа трисом - джон трахается, а шерлок там типа контролирует. в таком роде. я такие отношения не понимаю и презираю. мне от этого тошно.
поэтому мне и неприятно читать асексуального шерлока, мда.
поэтому мне и неприятно читать асексуального шерлока, мда.
среда, 16 марта 2011
verwirrt / crab and proud
verwirrt / crab and proud
cute martin is cute!
verwirrt / crab and proud
о! хартбрейк! так грустно! но прелестно. из разряда brave new world айрисблё.