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Twinker, Tailor (The Toyboy Trend of Male Designers by Reza Ghahremanzadeh)

   Designers have, from time immemorial, stressed the importance of accessories and how to utilise them effectively. And it would appear that the favourite accessory of the gay designer is the vapid twink on his arm. Allowing a designer to shape and construct the clothes on your back is one thing, but allowing them to shape and construct your identity and purpose is unforgivable.

   I certainly believe that chicken queen designers should be called out for their shallowness and for their propensity to treat young lovers the same way they treat garments and trends: to be used and disposed of as they see fit. With that being said, old piggish men have been around since the beginning of time and they will continue to exist right up until the sun engulfs our planet. Therefore, the onus is really on these younger men to harness some dignity and self-respect and to realise that being a designer's temporary real-life mannequin is a waste of precious time.

   When I look at photos of Calvin Klein and his ex partner Nick Gruber, or photos of Marc Jacobs and his former porn star beau Harry Louis, it truly makes me cringe. Why are these designers so intimidated or repulsed by the notion of a relationship with an age-appropriate partner? Is it that they enjoy the power that comes with being the dominant partner in a relationship? Has a lifetime in the world of fashion completely distorted their perceptions of beauty? I find it interesting that a great number of these designers boast about being able to deal with jet lag, deadlines, fashion events, major marketing campaigns, etc. But the fact that they clearly can't cope with the notion of being in a relationship with an intelligent, older man who can voice his opinions and isn't easily manipulated makes them nothing more than a bunch of vain, hairy-arsed Peter Pans.

   In the introduction, I referred to these toyboys as "vapid twinks." And I think that's an accurate description for many of them. The majority of them probably have very little talent and ambition and are quite happy to ride on the coattails (or, in this case, the haute couture gowns) of their famous lovers. However, I would assume that some of them do possess a fair degree of talent, intelligence and ambition, and that they're essentially using the relationship in order to climb the career ladder. But even if this is the case, leveraging sex for professional gain is never a good idea. Your pride and dignity are paramount. They are worth more than any job or any amount of money.

   It is time for every toyboy to wake up and smell the coffee. The relationship with your sugar-fashionista-daddy is doomed to fail. And the worst part is that the death of the relationship will affect you way more than it affects them. You will be left sitting alone, paranoid about your fading beauty, feeling like used goods, and panicking about what your next chapter will be. But for the designers, well, it's off to another glamorous, celebrity-laden fashion show in some sparkling cosmopolitan city with their latest pubescent lover in tow.

   The world of fashion is like a siren's song: enchanting but treacherous. The physical dangers associated with it are obvious: bulimia, anorexia, drugs, alcohol. But the most dangerous aspect of all is that it encourages us to see and treat people just like trends. But we are not trends. We are not seasonal. Our souls are just like Holly Golightly's little black dress: completely timeless. So to the young gay men who might spot Calvin Klein or Marc Jacobs across the room at some exclusive party, be very careful. All that glitters is not gold.

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Apprentices Who'll Never Become Spiritual Masters (An Analysis of BBC's The Apprentice by Reza Ghahremanzadeh)

   It's the same thing. Every. Single. Year. The rattiest rats participate in the raciest race. A bunch of incompetent narcissists dust off their error-strewn, exaggerated CVs and attempt to become another cog in Lord Sugar's machine. I would advise all contestants, past, present and future, to take a break from boardrooms and undertake some serious soul-searching. From what I can see, all of them are eternal apprentices who'll never transcend to spiritual masters.

   The competition itself seems like such a futile endeavour. Even the winning contestants will come nowhere close to amassing the fame, fortune and success that Mr. Sugar possesses. He is the show's permanent winner. A position I'm certain he relishes. The show is essentially his job search for a new shoeshiner. And sadly, too many people are more than happy to partake in this degrading spectacle.

   It is, of course, no shock that a certain amount of ruthlessness is required in a person's attempt to reach the top of the corporate ladder. I understand that. But the fact that so many of these Apprentice contestants are willing to sell their souls to the devil, as well as their grandmothers down the river, in order to get ahead is truly grotesque.

   The experience of watching The Apprentice would probably be less painful if the contestants who participated were actually the crème de la crème of the entrepreneurial world. They never are. As is the case every year, we're forced to watch a group of wannabes whose level of ambition is dramatically diminished by their lack of ability. Having a big mouth and being devoid of a skill set is not a combination that is conducive to success. (And I've just remembered that Trump is president! Anyway, moving on!)

   Equally as insufferable as the contestants are Sugar's sycophantic sidekicks, Karren Brady and Claude Littner. This gruesome twosome hover over the contestants during their profit-centric tasks and convey their perpetual displeasure at the contestants' ineptness and incompetency. Gee, it must be so wonderful to have all the answers! Does some of their disgust stem from the fact that another brown-noser will soon be joining Team Sugar and thus they'll have to compete a little harder for Lord Sugar Daddy's attention and financial largesse? Aww, don't worry, guys! There's room for everyone on the private jet! And if there isn't, Lord Sugar can buy another one!

   It's time for Apprentice contestants to wake up and smell the white mocha frappuccino. To work for and be part of the Sugar machine is to exist in a constant state of insatiability. Greed begets greed. And you don't have to be a Himalayan monk to know that a nourished bank account pales in comparison to a nourished soul.

   It's time for these contestants to start placing more value on dignity and self-respect. Neither of these are worth sacrificing for a job. I mean, when the bottom three fight for survival in the boardroom, they transform into some kind of hyena-lion hybrid, viciously attacking each other with all of their remaining energy. All that's missing is a voice-over from David Attenborough. The whole scene is extremely desperate and highly uncomfortable.

   The pièce de résistance comes in the form of Lord Sugar's infamous finger point (a gesture that is universally considered rude and disrespectful and shouldn't be exhibited in any environment much less a professional setting). And when he tells the contestant "you're fired", very few are able to disguise their immense disappointment. But, in my view, what he's really telling them is "you're free." We then get to witness the latest casualty licking their wounds in a chauffeur-driven car, having just been discarded like a bad contract.

   There are no real masters in the world of business. Even CEOs are slaves to capitalism and all of its complexities. The average businessperson will never reach the position that Lord Sugar holds. But the real sad news is that these Apprentice contestants, if they continue on the path they're on, will never become spiritual masters. In order to do so, they would need to tame the power of the ego, put integrity and self-respect ahead of career advancement, look inward as opposed to outward, and reject the "profit-at-all-costs" mentality. Alas, I don't see this happening anytime soon. Sugar, in all of its variations, is dangerously addictive.

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The Beautiful who knew

She knew she was beautiful

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Revenge Over The Rainbow (A Poem by Reza Ghahremanzadeh)

The Scarecrow once was very smart,

He had a high IQ,

He mocked his wife, he called her dumb,

He made her sad and blue.

The Tin Man once was flesh and bone,

Girls called his body "art",

He cheated on his faithful wife,

He truly broke her heart.

The Lion once was brave and strong,

Was apt to blow a fuse,

His poor wife had to cover up

The latest cut and bruise.

And then one night they all met up,

They said the sacred spell,

It took away their partners' gifts,

The gifts that caused them hell.

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It was so cold. So, so cold. The blistering, biting feeling of the below freezing temperatures was unbearable, but there was nothing else that could be done. They were being marched to their death, with U.S. soldiers pointing their large rifles at the group in case anyone got any ideas about escaping. The carcasses of their fellow Indians littered the ground, young and old alike having succumb to disease, the cold, starvation, and whatever else was willing to cause the Grim Reaper to take them to the depths of the afterlife. It was as if Hell had taken over the Earth itself and then decided to freeze over.

Some silently mourned the loss of their fellow tribesmen, while others wailed and sobbed loudly, heartbroken by the macabre and horrifying sights of their fellow Indians lying on the ground, dead or dying. A few brave folks decided the best course of action would be to attack the soldiers that were tasked with walking them to their inevitable demises. Those poor souls had their brains splattered all over the snowy ground. It was sad, brutal, and cruel, but the upside was that their suffering had ended, at least…

Most of them simply did as they were told, even though they were being wronged so very clearly. They had made an appeal to the Supreme Court, and the Supreme Court said they could stay, but…tyrants will always be tyrants, no matter what the letter of the law says. Obviously, laws, checks, and balances didn’t matter to President Jackson, but, hell, what could any of them do? He had the support of his country and the power of the military behind him. Opposing that crazy, crotchety old fuck would only result in you being jailed, dead, or worse. So, they simply marched their way through the freezing, treacherous, long-winding path of doom that they were being forcibly walked down without any supplies or help, simply trying to make it to tomorrow on this trail of tears.

Then, something unexpected and odd happened...the group stopped abruptly. When I say group, that meant everyone had stopped. The soldiers, the Indians…you name it. Everyone had halted the death march to Oklahoma, and they all began looking around curiously. There were vaguely animalistic sounds that could be heard in the background, seemingly of a shrieking/hissing nature. It sounded raspy and thick, and very eerie indeed.

Eventually, the Indians began to panic as the noise became closer and closer to the group’s location. They all began backing up and they looked as though the Indians were going to make a break for it. The soldiers became confused and irritated, ordering the Indians back, even threatening to shoot them where they stood if they kept their fearful antics up. But even the soldiers seemed as they wanted to leave this shithole of a place. Not because it was a shithole (well, that was, admittedly, part of the reason), but because the Indians were getting riled up, and the soldiers were hearing what it was they feared too.

A shadowy figure began approaching them at a blindingly fast speed. It was almost like a blur. That’s how quick it had jumped out of the woods it had been hiding in. Well, sort of hiding in, anyways. Its screeching and roaring gave it away. Not that the damn being given away was going to save them all now. They were completely and utterly…well, fucked.

The thing that ran towards them all was a true oddity of nature and everything that had been known to exist. A most unholy sight, indeed. Imagine, if you will, an elk. Now make that elk so starved that its joints and bones and ribcage can be seen with ease, and its fur has eroded to slight bristles, with the smell of rotting, decaying flesh accompanying it. A very undead look, if you will. Cover it in blood, give it fangs and claws bigger than human legs, make it 12 feet tall and bipedal, and color its eyes a soulless, zombie-like milky white. Oh, and don’t forget to give it an irresistible, unrelenting for that most taboo and unholy of meals: human flesh.

Some folks referred to it as “The Tall Man”, or maybe some variation of its name, such as Wee-Tee-Go, Windiga, etc. However…almost everyone knew of it as simply…The Wendigo.

The soldiers looked on in terror as the Indians ran away, screaming and hollering in terror, desperately trying to escape the clutches (or rather jaws) of this monstrous, demonic, deformed beast of burden. It reared its ugly head and opened its gaping maw, letting out a deafening, primal roar before swiping its claws wildly at every human in its sight, tearing and ripping them apart with ease. Blood was spilled everywhere, in a similar manner to how tea was dumped into Boston’s harbor all those years ago, entrails were strewn about like party decorations meant for the birthday of a small, hyperactive child, bones had been crushed into dust, almost like a fine, soft powder. Like grains of sand or bits of flour. It…it was truly a terrifying sight to witness. The mouth of the monster tore off limbs of carcasses and swallowed them whole, digging its claws into any would be escapees before eating them alive.

The screams of terror and pain that erupted from the soldiers and Indians alike filled the air and resonated throughout the cold trail, the heavily wooded areas echoing both the roars of the elk-thing that was busy devouring the people, and the screams of the folks who were being held at the mercy of the ever-hungry Wendigo, who didn’t intend to show them any type of mercy on this particular day, which meant that there were no survivors…except one.

An old woman, who sat cowering at the edge of the trail as she whimpered and pleaded for the monstrous thing to spare her from the gory death that she was fated to receive. But her pleas for mercy fell on very deaf ears. Ears that ignored her cries and whimpers. All they heard was her screams of terror and pain as it tore into her stomach and disemboweled her with its mouth…

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The mountain in me

I’m a mountain

Standing firm and tall

Carrying all burden

Although not all is mine

But I carry it anyway

As they keep on putting down their weight

Where else would they do so

When I’m their hearts’ shrine

Yet not all their prayers are alike

I’m a mountain with all its might

My power is in stillness

Despite the stormy winds and the cold nights

I’m a mountain in formation

Stones are my feet

Rocks are my knees

Pebbles are my joints

Bury all your secrets within my caves

Or under my trees

You can trust me on them

Because after all

I’m a mountain waiting to fall

Dust to dust

Carbon to ash

Iron to rust

~ Lotus

@lotuswords

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My Poison

  You asked me to not call you that ever again. It triggered you. But why did it? Why does it? Does it bother you to think that maybe you are such a bad person after all? Well, at least to me.

  You are normally so nice, so sweet, you almost give your life for others. But with me? You like to poke at my past, my traumas. You like to remind me of my pain, almost as if you find pleasure from it.

  I use to call you heartless and cold and it would get you so mad. But why? Is it because its true? Is it true, my love? Am I the only one that truly knows you? Is that why you rest within me?

  When you touch and kiss my body, is it you letting go of your anger? Your stress? You only call me once every other week, is it because it becomes too much for you? If I can be completely honest with you, you are not gentle. There is so much passion but its not passion from love. The marks that are left on my body are not from love, they are from anger and resentment.

  But what are you so angry about? I am the only one that you trust enough to let your walls down. You don’t allow me to love you and you most definitely don’t allow yourself to love me.

  However, you do know you’re feeding me your demons. Every time you bury yourself inside of me you are unloading them from your shoulders and dropping them on me. You know you can’t deal with your demons on your own, someone else has to carry them for you. Your demons are too strong for someone like you. Someone has to get rid of them for you.

  You see? This is why you are such a bad person. You use a girl, a girl who is already dealing with her own demons. A girl who can’t even live properly. A girl who want to kill herself every night. You are using a girl who’s only reason to live is your call every other week.

  You are poison to me. So now, please, tell me this, why am I still craving more poison? Why am I waiting for this poison? Every time my phone goes off, I am hoping it’s you. Why is it that I want this poison so bad, my love?

       My Poison

       @goluriz

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In Love and Death

The first time I caught a glimpse of Him was behind the tool shed when Grampa's heart beat for the last time. Granny shooed me away to call for help, and as I trotted toward the house, I craned my neck to see the body. Instead, my gaze met a pair of piercing blue eyes that sent a cold jolt of desire through my thirteen year old heart. A sick tickle dripped from the nape of my neck, slowly down my spine, and settled, warm and heavy, at the base of my pelvis. From that day forward, I spent a lot of time hanging around hospitals. I'd see Him sometimes, but always fleetingly. His flowing black robe fluttering around a corner, or His long, thin, alabaster fingers pulling the remnants of soul from some poor bastard's lifeless sternum. I volunteered in nursing homes and cancer wards, chasing that sweet rush of pubescent desire I'd felt upon our first encounter. My mother thought I was a treasure, an altruist with a heart of gold bent on helping those whose lives were coming to a close. In truth, though, I was a madwoman in love. What started as an innocent crush had blossomed through my adolescence into true passion. My every waking thought was of His hollow cheeks, His white-blue stare, His ethereal, floating gait. Our brief meetings would no longer suffice. I longed for Him to wrap those chilled and lanky arms around my waist. I could no longer fantasize about His bony fingers brushing my bare skin; I needed the real thing. So, in an attempt to draw Him straight to me, I claimed my first victim. I met Rob on a dating site, one of the free ones where every other message is an anonymous dick pic. Rob said he'd love to eat my ass, so I invited him to my place. I spent hours preparing for the date. I wore a black silk dress that felt just like I'd always imagined Death's soft robes would feel against my freshly shaven legs. I strapped on a pair of black heels that lifted me seven inches, in hopes that I might look straight into those piercing baby blues as I professed my love to Him. And, as a final touch, I applied a blood red lipstick to my mouth. I didn't have to ask to know that Death's favorite color was blood. I heard a knock at the door, and my heart jumped with excitement. I lifted my silken dress and slipped the small pistol from the drawer of my vanity into my garter belt. "Coming," I sang, as I pranced down the stairs to open the front door. Rob looked me up and down and licked his lips. "Damn girl," he laughed, "You sure put a lot of time into an outfit that I'm gonna tear right off you." "Oh, you," I giggled, partially to appear affectionate, but mostly at his stupidity. "Please, come in." I closed the door behind us and ushered him toward the couch. "How about a little strip tease?" Rob smirked and sat down, unbuttoning his jeans. I turned my back to him, and began moving my hips slowly from side to side. Sliding my hands down my torso and between my legs, I bent over, secretly pulling the pistol from my thigh. I held it to my chest, the steel warm from being pressed against my skin, as the other danced down my back, entrancing Rob. "Sorry," I whispered as I threw myself to face him and pulled the trigger four times fast, shooting him thrice in the chest and once in the head. I dropped the gun. And then there He was. Death walked through the door, eyebrows furrowed, a stern look on His face. "You've been following me." His voice shook the room, but landed on my ears as soft as breath. My knees nearly buckled. Wiping the blood splatter from my dress, I said shakily, "I am sorry. But I have waited for this moment for so long. From the first moment I saw-." He pressed a single icy fingertip to my lips. Firm and plush, it felt just as I'd always dreamed. My heart raced as I pursed my lips to kiss that perfect phalanx. He pulled it away, a red mark remaining where either my lipstick or Rob's blood had left a stain. "Shut up," He commanded. And so I did. All I wanted was to be ruled  by Him. Fascinated, I watched him lean over the horny corpse. His billowing robes obstructed my view, but I was content fixing my gaze upon His looming posture as he worked. Just to be in His presence filled me with more pleasure than I'd ever known. Still, I wanted more. Sidling up beside Him, I threw my arms around His waist. "What are you doing?" He boomed, and my heart fluttered . "I need you. I love you. Please, let me love you." I pressed myself closer to Him. "I am a very busy guy," He spoke, pushing me away, "I have no time for love." My hips tingled where he pushed me away. He turned to leave, Rob's lifeless body still stooped on the couch where I'd ended him. My eyes brimmed with tears, but I knew I had the power. Slowly curving my lips into a smile, I laughed, "You will be back! I have control of you now! I can bring you to me any time I please! I WILL make you love me!" Death smirked as He floated away, leaving me alone, but not without hope.

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do not feel intimidated by those who try to belittle you. you have a heart that’s conquered battles to save your mind, with love; the most powerful weapon there is. you are thunder in a soliloquy, that’s intimidating.

Ekta Somera

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“i was called a puzzle because they couldn’t figure me out until, i hit the ground and my pieces fell perfectly into place after the fall, that’s when they looked in awe at the mosaic mistaken for so long.” — Ekta Somera

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Press me between pages like a sacred flower, a treasured memento secreted amongst the poetry and prose. Pronounce love dead so we may live in gilt-edged memory without regret.

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I was just wondering if you give out opinions also? I’m not really looking to have mine posted here

I’d be more than happy to give my opinion on your piece, but submitting anonymously is a great way to get other great writers to give you pointers. Either way, you are welcome to submit, just let us know if you don’t want it posted once you submit. -Tumblrwrites

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