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Last Image You Saved - we all know it's hentai
- Twórca wątku sadstuck
- Data rozpoczęcia
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🇵🇦 Nuestro primer dominio localizado está en español en kiwifarms.pa. Our first localized domain is on Spanish on kiwifarms.pa.
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Cardinal Cardinal
kiwifarms.net
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"BAJORANS could be here" he thought, "I've never been in this sector before. There could be BAJORANS anywhere." The cool wind felt good against his bare scales. "I HATE BAJORANS" he thought. The Never Ending Sacrifice reverberated his entire shuttlecraft, making it pulsate even as the $9 kanar circulated through his powerful thick veins and washed away his (merited) fear of inferior species after dark. "With a shuttlecraft, you can go anywhere you want" he said to himself, out loud.
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Ventrue
kiwifarms.net
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- 31 Paź 2023
Sistine Chapel
As the myth goes Michaelagelo painted on his back, turns out he stood looking up which caused back pain that made him question if the suffering was worth doing the work. He wrote a poem about the experience.
As the myth goes Michaelagelo painted on his back, turns out he stood looking up which caused back pain that made him question if the suffering was worth doing the work. He wrote a poem about the experience.
I've already grown a goiter from this torture,
hunched up here like a cat in Lombardy
(or anywhere else where the stagnant water's poison).
My stomach's squashed under my chin,my beard's
pointing at heaven, my brain's crushed in a casket,
my breast twists like a harpy's. My brush,
above me all the time, dribbles paint
so my face makes a fine floor for droppings!
My haunches are grinding into my guts,
my poor ass strains to work as a counterweight,
every gesture I make is blind and aimless.
My skin hangs loose below me, my spine's
all knotted from folding over itself.
I'm bent taut as a Syrian bow.
Because I'm stuck like this, my thoughts
are crazy, perfidious tripe:
anyone shoots badly through a crooked blowpipe.
My painting is dead.
Defend it for me, Giovanni, protect my honor.
I am not in the right place—I am not a painter.
hunched up here like a cat in Lombardy
(or anywhere else where the stagnant water's poison).
My stomach's squashed under my chin,my beard's
pointing at heaven, my brain's crushed in a casket,
my breast twists like a harpy's. My brush,
above me all the time, dribbles paint
so my face makes a fine floor for droppings!
My haunches are grinding into my guts,
my poor ass strains to work as a counterweight,
every gesture I make is blind and aimless.
My skin hangs loose below me, my spine's
all knotted from folding over itself.
I'm bent taut as a Syrian bow.
Because I'm stuck like this, my thoughts
are crazy, perfidious tripe:
anyone shoots badly through a crooked blowpipe.
My painting is dead.
Defend it for me, Giovanni, protect my honor.
I am not in the right place—I am not a painter.
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- 24 Sie 2024