Here We Post Poetry We Like -

UtopiaGuy

True & Honest Fan
kiwifarms.net
October
By Robert Frost

O hushed October morning mild,
Thy leaves have ripened to the fall;
Tomorrow’s wind, if it be wild,
Should waste them all.
The crows above the forest call;
Tomorrow they may form and go.
O hushed October morning mild,
Begin the hours of this day slow.
Make the day seem to us less brief.
Hearts not averse to being beguiled,
Beguile us in the way you know.
Release one leaf at break of day;
At noon release another leaf;
One from our trees, one far away.
[exceptional individual] the sun with gentle mist;
Enchant the land with amethyst.
Slow, slow!
For the grapes’ sake, if they were all,
Whose leaves already are burnt with frost,
Whose clustered fruit must else be lost—
For the grapes’ sake along the wall.
 

big baby jesus

Damn, I Wish I Was Barb's Lover
True & Honest Fan
kiwifarms.net
Remember when we was on ice skates,
And I thought you were supposed to be great,
But I kept giving you lip,
And you kept trying to slip,
So I could catch you.
That was our first date,
And after that, every day was great.
So now I want you to know,
That wherever you go,
Atlantic City or in the snow,
Don't worry about a thing,
Cause as long as I got this ring,
I'll always be there to catch you.

- Rocky Balboa
 

r00

Goin' Grink
kiwifarms.net
Catfish Friend

If I were to live my life
in catfish forms
in scaffolds of skin and whiskers
at the bottom of a pond
and you were to come by
one evening
when the moon was shining
down into my dark home
and stand there at the edge
of my affection
and think, "It's beautiful
here by this pond.I wish
somebody loved me,"
I'd love you and be your catfish
friend and drive such lonely
thoughts from your mind
and suddenly you would be
at peace,
and ask yourself, "I wonder
if there are any catfish
in this pond?It seems like
a perfect place for them."

-Richard Brautigan
 

Steamboat_Bill

Going to beat the record of the Robert E. Lee
kiwifarms.net
Rudyard Kipling. The first two lines are somehow really speaking to me today of all days...

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;
If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!
 

Bogs

What's simpler than a fucking potato?
kiwifarms.net
October
By Robert Frost

O hushed October morning mild,
Thy leaves have ripened to the fall;
Tomorrow’s wind, if it be wild,
Should waste them all.
The crows above the forest call;
Tomorrow they may form and go.
O hushed October morning mild,
Begin the hours of this day slow.
Make the day seem to us less brief.
Hearts not averse to being beguiled,
Beguile us in the way you know.
Release one leaf at break of day;
At noon release another leaf;
One from our trees, one far away.
[exceptional individual] the sun with gentle mist;
Enchant the land with amethyst.
Slow, slow!
For the grapes’ sake, if they were all,
Whose leaves already are burnt with frost,
Whose clustered fruit must else be lost—
For the grapes’ sake along the wall.
‘Out, Out—’
The buzz saw snarled and rattled in the yard
And made dust and dropped stove-length sticks of wood,
Sweet-scented stuff when the breeze drew across it.
And from there those that lifted eyes could count
Five mountain ranges one behind the other
Under the sunset far into Vermont.
And the saw snarled and rattled, snarled and rattled,
As it ran light, or had to bear a load.
And nothing happened: day was all but done.
Call it a day, I wish they might have said
To please the boy by giving him the half hour
That a boy counts so much when saved from work.
His sister stood beside him in her apron
To tell them ‘Supper.’ At the word, the saw,
As if to prove saws knew what supper meant,
Leaped out at the boy’s hand, or seemed to leap—
He must have given the hand. However it was,
Neither refused the meeting. But the hand!
The boy’s first outcry was a rueful laugh,
As he swung toward them holding up the hand
Half in appeal, but half as if to keep
The life from spilling. Then the boy saw all—
Since he was old enough to know, big boy
Doing a man’s work, though a child at heart—
He saw all spoiled. ‘Don’t let him cut my hand off—
The doctor, when he comes. Don’t let him, sister!’
So. But the hand was gone already.
The doctor put him in the dark of ether.
He lay and puffed his lips out with his breath.
And then—the watcher at his pulse took fright.
No one believed. They listened at his heart.
Little—less—nothing!—and that ended it.
No more to build on there. And they, since they
Were not the one dead, turned to their affairs.
 
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UtopiaGuy

True & Honest Fan
kiwifarms.net
‘Out, Out—’
The buzz saw snarled and rattled in the yard
And made dust and dropped stove-length sticks of wood,
Sweet-scented stuff when the breeze drew across it.
And from there those that lifted eyes could count
Five mountain ranges one behind the other
Under the sunset far into Vermont.
And the saw snarled and rattled, snarled and rattled,
As it ran light, or had to bear a load.
And nothing happened: day was all but done.
Call it a day, I wish they might have said
To please the boy by giving him the half hour
That a boy counts so much when saved from work.
His sister stood beside him in her apron
To tell them ‘Supper.’ At the word, the saw,
As if to prove saws knew what supper meant,
Leaped out at the boy’s hand, or seemed to leap—
He must have given the hand. However it was,
Neither refused the meeting. But the hand!
The boy’s first outcry was a rueful laugh,
As he swung toward them holding up the hand
Half in appeal, but half as if to keep
The life from spilling. Then the boy saw all—
Since he was old enough to know, big boy
Doing a man’s work, though a child at heart—
He saw all spoiled. ‘Don’t let him cut my hand off—
The doctor, when he comes. Don’t let him, sister!’
So. But the hand was gone already.
The doctor put him in the dark of ether.
He lay and puffed his lips out with his breath.
And then—the watcher at his pulse took fright.
No one believed. They listened at his heart.
Little—less—nothing!—and that ended it.
No more to build on there. And they, since they
Were not the one dead, turned to their affairs.
"After Apple-Picking"

My long two-pointed ladder's sticking through a tree
Toward heaven still,
And there's a barrel that I didn't fill
Beside it, and there may be two or three
Apples I didn't pick upon some bough.
But I am done with apple-picking now.
Essence of winter sleep is on the night,
The scent of apples: I am drowsing off.
I cannot rub the strangeness from my sight
I got from looking through a pane of glass
I skimmed this morning from the drinking trough
And held against the world of hoary grass.
It melted, and I let it fall and break.
But I was well
Upon my way to sleep before it fell,
And I could tell
What form my dreaming was about to take.
Magnified apples appear and disappear,
Stem end and blossom end,
And every fleck of russet showing clear.
My instep arch not only keeps the ache,
It keeps the pressure of a ladder-round.
I feel the ladder sway as the boughs bend.
And I keep hearing from the cellar bin
The rumbling sound
Of load on load of apples coming in.
For I have had too much
Of apple-picking: I am overtired
Of the great harvest I myself desired.
There were ten thousand thousand fruit to touch,
Cherish in hand, lift down, and not let fall.
For all
That struck the earth,
No matter if not bruised or spiked with stubble,
Went surely to the cider-apple heap
As of no worth.
One can see what will trouble
This sleep of mine, whatever sleep it is.
Were he not gone,
The woodchuck could say whether it's like his
Long sleep, as I describe its coming on,
Or just some human sleep.
 

Mike "Bubbles" Smith

kiwifarms.net
I'm a pioneer, I'm an explorer
I'm a human, and I'm coming!
I'm animated, I'm alive, my heart's big!
It's got hot blood, going through it fast.
I like to fight too!
I like to eat! I like to have children!
I'm here! I've got a life force!
This is a human, this is what we look like!
This is what we act like! This what everybody was like before us.
This is what I am, I'm a throwback. I'm here!
I've got the fire of human liberty! I'm setting fires everywhere!
And humans are turning on everywhere!
 

Steamboat_Bill

Going to beat the record of the Robert E. Lee
kiwifarms.net
Two by Hilaire Belloc: "Tarantella" -

Do you remember an Inn,
Miranda?
Do you remember an Inn?
And the tedding and the spreading
Of the straw for a bedding,
And the fleas that tease in the High Pyrenees,
And the wine that tasted of tar?
And the cheers and the jeers of the young muleteers
(Under the vine of the dark verandah)?
Do you remember an Inn, Miranda,
Do you remember an Inn?
And the cheers and the jeers of the young muleteeers
Who hadn't got a penny,
And who weren't paying any,
And the hammer at the doors and the Din?
And the Hip! Hop! Hap!
Of the clap
Of the hands to the twirl and the swirl
Of the girl gone chancing,
Glancing,
Dancing,
Backing and advancing,
Snapping of a clapper to the spin
Out and in --
And the Ting, Tong, Tang, of the Guitar.
Do you remember an Inn,
Miranda?
Do you remember an Inn?
Never more;
Miranda,
Never more.
Only the high peaks hoar:
And Aragon a torrent at the door.
No sound
In the walls of the Halls where falls
The tread
Of the feet of the dead to the ground
No sound:
But the boom
Of the far Waterfall like Doom.

and "The Microbe" -

The Microbe is so very small
You cannot make him out at all,
But many sanguine people hope
To see him through a microscope.
His jointed tongue that lies beneath
A hundred curious rows of teeth;
His seven tufted tails with lots
Of lovely pink and purple spots,
On each of which a pattern stands,
Composed of forty separate bands;
His eyebrows of a tender green;
All these have never yet been seen--
But Scientists, who ought to know,
Assure us that they must be so ...
Oh! let us never, never doubt
What nobody is sure about!
 

Man vs persistent rat

A good egg is a nice person
kiwifarms.net
Necromancy via some fantasy -


O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
Alone and palely loitering?
The sedge has withered from the lake,
And no birds sing.

O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
So haggard and so woe-begone?
The squirrel’s granary is full,
And the harvest’s done.

I see a lily on thy brow,
With anguish moist and fever-dew,
And on thy cheeks a fading rose
Fast withereth too.

I met a lady in the meads,
Full beautiful—a faery’s child,
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild.

I made a garland for her head,
And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
She looked at me as she did love,
And made sweet moan

I set her on my pacing steed,
And nothing else saw all day long,
For sidelong would she bend, and sing
A faery’s song.

She found me roots of relish sweet,
And honey wild, and manna-dew,
And sure in language strange she said—
‘I love thee true’.

She took me to her Elfin grot,
And there she wept and sighed full sore,
And there I shut her wild wild eyes
With kisses four.

And there she lullèd me asleep,
And there I dreamed—Ah! woe betide!—
The latest dream I ever dreamt
On the cold hill side.

I saw pale kings and princes too,
Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
They cried—‘La Belle Dame sans Merci
Thee hath in thrall!’

I saw their starved lips in the gloam,
With horrid warning gapèd wide,
And I awoke and found me here,
On the cold hill’s side.

And this is why I sojourn here,
Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is withered from the lake,
And no birds sing.
 

The Shadow

Friendly Neighborhood Shitposter
kiwifarms.net
The Strawberry Roan /Curley Fletcher
I'm a-layin' around, just spendin' muh time,
Out of a job an' ain't holdin' a dime,
When a feller steps up, an' sez, “I suppose
That you're uh bronk fighter by the looks uh yure clothes.”

“Yuh figures me right—I'm a good one, I claim,
Do you happen tuh have any bad uns tuh tame?”
He sez he's got one, uh bad un tuh buck,
An' fur throwin' good riders, he's had lots uh luck.

He sez that this pony has never been rode,
That the boys that gets on 'im is bound tuh get throwed,
Well, I gets all excited an' asks what he pays,
Tuh ride that old pony uh couple uh days.

He offers uh ten spot. Sez I, “I'm yure man,
Cause the bronk never lived, that I couldn't fan;
The hoss never lived, he never drew breath,
That I couldn't ride till he starved plum tuh death.

“I don't like tuh brag, but I got this tuh say,
That I ain't been piled fur many uh day.”
Sez he, “Get yure saddle, I'll give yuh uh chance.”
So I gets in his buckboard an' drifts tuh his ranch.

I stays until mornin', an' right after chuck,
I steps out tuh see if that outlaw kin buck.
Down in the hoss corral, standin' alone,
Was this caballo, uh strawberry roan.

His laigs is all spavined an' he's got pigeon toes,
Little pig eyes an' uh big Roman nose,
Little pin ears that touch at the tip
An' uh double square iron stamped on his hip.

Yew necked an' old, with uh long lower jaw,
I kin see with one eye, he's uh reg'lar outlaw.
I puts on muh spurs—I'm sure feelin' fine—
Turns up muh hat, an' picks up muh twine.

I throws that loop on 'im, an' well I knows then,
That before he gets rode, I'll sure earn that ten.
I gets muh blinds on him, an' it sure was a fight,
Next comes muh saddle—I screws it down tight.

An' then I piles on 'im, an' raises the blind,
I'm right in his middle tuh see 'im unwind.
Well, he bows his old neck, an' I guess he unwound,
Fur he seems tuh quit livin' down on the ground.

He goes up t'ward the East, an' comes down t'ward the West,
Tuh stay in his middle, I'm doin' muh best,
He sure is frog walkin', he leaves uh big sigh,
He only lacks wings, fur tuh be on the fly.

He turns his old belly right up toward the sun,
He sure is uh sun-fishin' son-of-uh-gun,
He is the worst bucker I seen on the range,
He kin turn on uh nickle an' give yuh some change.

While he's uh-buckin' he squeals like uh shoat,
I tell yuh, that pony has sure got muh goat.
I claim that, no foolin', that bronk could sure step,
I'm still in muh saddle, uh-buildin' uh rep.

He hits on all fours, an' suns up his side,
I don't see how he keeps from sheddin' his hide.
I loses much stirrups an' also muh hat,
I'm grabbin' the leather an' blind as uh bat.

With uh phenomenal jump, he goes up on high,
An' I'm settin' on nothin', way up in the sky,
An' then I turns over, I comes back tuh earth
An' lights in tuh cussin' the day of his birth.

Then I knows that the hosses I ain't able tuh ride
Is some of them livin'—they haven't all died,
But I bets all muh money they ain't no man alive,
Kin stay with that bronk when he makes that high dive.
 

Steamboat_Bill

Going to beat the record of the Robert E. Lee
kiwifarms.net
The Strawberry Roan /Curley Fletcher
I'm a-layin' around, just spendin' muh time,
Out of a job an' ain't holdin' a dime,
When a feller steps up, an' sez, “I suppose
That you're uh bronk fighter by the looks uh yure clothes.”

“Yuh figures me right—I'm a good one, I claim,
Do you happen tuh have any bad uns tuh tame?”
He sez he's got one, uh bad un tuh buck,
An' fur throwin' good riders, he's had lots uh luck.

He sez that this pony has never been rode,
That the boys that gets on 'im is bound tuh get throwed,
Well, I gets all excited an' asks what he pays,
Tuh ride that old pony uh couple uh days.

He offers uh ten spot. Sez I, “I'm yure man,
Cause the bronk never lived, that I couldn't fan;
The hoss never lived, he never drew breath,
That I couldn't ride till he starved plum tuh death.

“I don't like tuh brag, but I got this tuh say,
That I ain't been piled fur many uh day.”
Sez he, “Get yure saddle, I'll give yuh uh chance.”
So I gets in his buckboard an' drifts tuh his ranch.

I stays until mornin', an' right after chuck,
I steps out tuh see if that outlaw kin buck.
Down in the hoss corral, standin' alone,
Was this caballo, uh strawberry roan.

His laigs is all spavined an' he's got pigeon toes,
Little pig eyes an' uh big Roman nose,
Little pin ears that touch at the tip
An' uh double square iron stamped on his hip.

Yew necked an' old, with uh long lower jaw,
I kin see with one eye, he's uh reg'lar outlaw.
I puts on muh spurs—I'm sure feelin' fine—
Turns up muh hat, an' picks up muh twine.

I throws that loop on 'im, an' well I knows then,
That before he gets rode, I'll sure earn that ten.
I gets muh blinds on him, an' it sure was a fight,
Next comes muh saddle—I screws it down tight.

An' then I piles on 'im, an' raises the blind,
I'm right in his middle tuh see 'im unwind.
Well, he bows his old neck, an' I guess he unwound,
Fur he seems tuh quit livin' down on the ground.

He goes up t'ward the East, an' comes down t'ward the West,
Tuh stay in his middle, I'm doin' muh best,
He sure is frog walkin', he leaves uh big sigh,
He only lacks wings, fur tuh be on the fly.

He turns his old belly right up toward the sun,
He sure is uh sun-fishin' son-of-uh-gun,
He is the worst bucker I seen on the range,
He kin turn on uh nickle an' give yuh some change.

While he's uh-buckin' he squeals like uh shoat,
I tell yuh, that pony has sure got muh goat.
I claim that, no foolin', that bronk could sure step,
I'm still in muh saddle, uh-buildin' uh rep.

He hits on all fours, an' suns up his side,
I don't see how he keeps from sheddin' his hide.
I loses much stirrups an' also muh hat,
I'm grabbin' the leather an' blind as uh bat.

With uh phenomenal jump, he goes up on high,
An' I'm settin' on nothin', way up in the sky,
An' then I turns over, I comes back tuh earth
An' lights in tuh cussin' the day of his birth.

Then I knows that the hosses I ain't able tuh ride
Is some of them livin'—they haven't all died,
But I bets all muh money they ain't no man alive,
Kin stay with that bronk when he makes that high dive.
Do you happen to know the dirty version?
 

Syaoran Li

Slum Lord of Pallet Town
kiwifarms.net
El Dorado
By Edgar Allan Poe

Gaily bedight,
A gallant knight,
In sunshine and in shadow,
Had journeyed long,
Singing a song,
In search of Eldorado.

But he grew old—
This knight so bold—
And o’er his heart a shadow—
Fell as he found
No spot of ground
That looked like Eldorado.

And, as his strength
Failed him at length,
He met a pilgrim shadow—
‘Shadow,’ said he,
‘Where can it be—
This land of Eldorado?’

‘Over the Mountains
Of the Moon,
Down the Valley of the Shadow,
Ride, boldly ride,’
The shade replied,—
‘If you seek for Eldorado!’


This is my favorite poem and Poe is my favorite poet.
 

ZeeMarin

ZeeMarin
kiwifarms.net
This Be The Verse
BY PHILIP LARKIN
They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.

But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another’s throats.

Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don’t have any kids yourself.

Not Waving but Drowning
BY STEVIE SMITH
Nobody heard him, the dead man,
But still he lay moaning:
I was much further out than you thought
And not waving but drowning.

Poor chap, he always loved larking
And now he’s dead
It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way,
They said.

Oh, no no no, it was too cold always
(Still the dead one lay moaning)
I was much too far out all my life
And not waving but drowning.
 

ICameToplaY

世界一かわいい!
kiwifarms.net
The times are hard: a year of famine has emptied the fields,
My brothers live abroad- scattered west and east.
Now fields and gardens are scarcely seen after the fighting,
Family members wander, scattered on the road.
Attached to shadows, like geese ten thousand li apart,
Or roots uplifted into September's autumn air.
We look together at the bright moon, and then the tears should fall,
This night, our wish for home can make five places one.

-Feelings on Watching the Moon
By: Bai Juyi
 
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Francis E. Dec Esc.

kiwifarms.net
“How much will you pay for an extra day?”
The clock man asked the child.
“Not one penny,” the answer came,
“For my days are as many as smiles.”

“How much will you pay for an extra day?”
He asked when the child was grown.
“Maybe a dollar or maybe less,
For I’ve plenty of days of my own.”

“How much will you pay for an extra day?”
He asked when the time came to die.
“All of the pearls in all of the seas,
And all of the stars in the sky.”

- Shel Silverstein
 
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Maiden-TieJuan

Your roving Californialand reporter
True & Honest Fan
kiwifarms.net
I heard one that I liked. I guess some monks were supposed to write a meaningful poem before death, and this one monk got so fed up with people asking for his final poem he wrote "life is thus, death is thus, poem or no poem, what's the fuss?"

Shitposting at its most artistic.
 

Francis E. Dec Esc.

kiwifarms.net
Whenever Richard Cory went down town,
We people on the pavement looked at him:
He was a gentleman from sole to crown,
Clean favored, and imperially slim.

And he was always quietly arrayed,
And he was always human when he talked;
But still he fluttered pulses when he said,
"Good-morning," and he glittered when he walked.

And he was rich – yes, richer than a king –
And admirably schooled in every grace:
In fine, we thought that he was everything
To make us wish that we were in his place.

So on we worked, and waited for the light,
And went without the meat, and cursed the bread;
And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,
Went home and put a bullet through his head.

- Edward Arlington Robinson
 

Henry Bemis

Irony: Not even once.
Retired Staff
kiwifarms.net
Fiddler Jones
from Spoon River Anthology, by Edgar Lee Masters

The earth keeps some vibration going
There in your heart, and that is you.
And if the people find you can fiddle,
Why, fiddle you must, for all your life.
What do you see, a harvest of clover?
Or a meadow to walk through to the river?
The wind’s in the corn; you rub your hands
For beeves hereafter ready for market;
Or else you hear the rustle of skirts
Like the girls when dancing at Little Grove.
To Cooney Potter a pillar of dust
Or whirling leaves meant ruinous drouth;
They looked to me like Red-Head Sammy
Stepping it off, to “Toor-a-Loor.”
How could I till my forty acres
Not to speak of getting more,
With a medley of horns, bassoons and piccolos
Stirred in my brain by crows and robins
And the creak of a wind-mill—only these?
And I never started to plow in my life
That some one did not stop in the road
And take me away to a dance or picnic.
I ended up with forty acres;
I ended up with a broken fiddle—
And a broken laugh, and a thousand memories,
And not a single regret
 

Gus

Interlocutor
kiwifarms.net
ἄγου δέ μ᾽, ὦ Ζεῦ, καὶ σύ γ᾽ ἡ Πεπρωμένη,
ὅποι ποθ᾽ ὑμῖν εἰμι διατεταγμένος:
ὡς ἕψομαί γ᾽ ἄοκνος: ἢν δέ γε μὴ θέλω,
κακὸς γενόμενος, οὐδὲν ἧττον ἕψομαι.

Conduct me, Jove, and thou, 0 Destiny,
Wherever thy decrees have fixed my station.
I follow cheerfully; and, did I not,
Wicked and wretched, I must follow still.


***
Attributed to Cleanthes, in the Manual of Epictetus. I later read it quoted by Seneca who took an extra: Fate guides the willing, and drags the unwilling.

I find this simple fragment to be more profound than anything I saw in the Hymn to Zeus, and it has stuck with me since I first ever read it. Let it never be said that the Stoics could have no emotion or art, let it never be said that we lost no more than spilled wine with the fall of the Roman Empire and the coming of the Dark Ages.
 
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The Kiwi Farms is about eccentric individuals and communities on the Internet. We call them lolcows because they can be milked for amusement or laughs. Our community is bizarrely diverse and spectators are encouraged to join the discussion.

We do not place intrusive ads, host malware, sell data, or run crypto miners with your browser. If you experience these things, you have a virus. If your malware system says otherwise, it is faulty.

Supporting the Forum

How to Help

The Kiwi Farms is constantly attacked by insane people and very expensive to run. It would not be here without community support.

We are on the Brave BAT program. Consider using Brave as your Browser. It's like Chrome but doesn't tell Google what you masturbate to.

BTC: 1EiZnCKCb6Dc4biuto2gJyivwgPRM2YMEQ
BTC+SW: bc1qwv5fzv9u6arksw6ytf79gfvce078vprtc0m55s
ETH: 0xc1071c60ae27c8cc3c834e11289205f8f9c78ca5
LTC: LcDkAj4XxtoPWP5ucw75JadMcDfurwupet
BAT: 0xc1071c60Ae27C8CC3c834E11289205f8F9C78CA5
XMR: 438fUMciiahbYemDyww6afT1atgqK3tSTX25SEmYknpmenTR6wvXDMeco1ThX2E8gBQgm9eKd1KAtEQvKzNMFrmjJJpiino