pissholesurfer:

hey fishy fishy fishy fishy fishy fishy fishy fishy fishy (by s () /\/)

pilgrimsoulinme:

It would not be entirely accurate to say that something was “cut.” But it seems that fucking is a series of severance. Gradations of release and simultaneous clutching that grind bodies into self-induced climate-change. Gliding between bedsheets stained with come and feral desperation. We become…

(via pilgrimsoulinme-deactivated2012)

hollyswonderland:

She asked for a lollipop…and got exactly what she was hoping for.

hollyswonderland:

She asked for a lollipop…and got exactly what she was hoping for.

Tags: cocksucking

smooth:

Dylan Reyes — photography @ ShockBlast
smooth:

STREETS OF BEIGE
septagonstudios:

Edward Kinsella

septagonstudios:

Edward Kinsella

(via 2headedsnake)

Tags: Illustration

crissant:

David Bradley, in Kes.

crissant:

David Bradley, in Kes.

(via meinwelt-deactivated20130116)

meinwelt:

Caio Fern 2001 

meinwelt:

Caio Fern 2001 

(via meinwelt-deactivated20130116)

designismymuse:

uhhleeese:Roman Opałka was a French-born Polish painter who painted numbers. In 1965 he began painting a process of counting – from one to infinity. Starting in the top left-hand corner of the canvas and finishing in the bottom right-hand corner, the tiny numbers were painted in horizontal rows. As of July 2004, he had reached 5.5 million.

hydeordie:

John Martin The Great Day of His Wrath, 1851–3

hydeordie:

John Martin The Great Day of His Wrath, 1851–3

abbyjean:

RHYMES OF GOODBYE, 2011. Rock, broken car wind screen. By Anya Gallaccio. (via Daily Serving)

abbyjean:

RHYMES OF GOODBYE, 2011. Rock, broken car wind screen. By Anya Gallaccio. (via Daily Serving)

(via sympathyfortheartgallery)

thiscitycalledearth:

by soomuu, New York.

skunkpapers:

Ernst has lived among men for decades, aging in lines and footsteps, but like a little boy still in his heart, in his quivering soul because of all the chemical banquets and emotional anorexia consumed, lovingly, when he should have been creating a manhood and wearing a tie. 

Ernst loved his sisters, both soft-faced adventure girl and tomboy champion of the world, imaginary games and sweet tenderness with barbed taunting, and lived Ernst for all time in tiny childhood confusion, his mother disappearing into the fuzzy background like the sound of household dust on a record player needle while his father, all presence and residual oppression stroked him and puppeteered his little hands, persistently, shamefully, secretly. 

Ernst failed at sport, dropped out of school as reward-revenge, giving hooray for small victories, like a throat-lump crying with the deep hurt inside his little messup mind, and his plaintiff cry: Why cannot you just love me simple-big-hug-love, as I love you, oh, my role man, my papa, my god-like? And all his screwed up sex anguish lies rooted in that marital bed, his lean hunger, his opiate-induced meandering. Ernst wants to cry big wallowing floods and springs and leaks bursting out to wash his sins away, sins of the father like shackles on the ankles of the crippled son, clanking, but there is no liquid love for Ernst and his tears come out only as salt. When Ernst cries, sidewalks melt.

(via grumpyskunk-deactivated20120604)