Thursday, January 31, 2019

shopping list, folded in the middle

time standing like a dinosaur
poised to pounce,
as the sexy big-dicked country boy
sucked on mark's big schlongy
hard pumping dick.
the sexy big-dicked country boy
his cousin mark
only did this the one time,
and then it was over,
a thing of the past,
never talked about ever
ever again between them,
or to anyone else,
as far
the sexy big-dicked country boy
the wind moving the willow leaves
and their long feral branches,
the sexy big-dicked country boy
is a man, with wrinkles
on his face,
and memories inside
his warm moist brain
that skitter and spark from
brain-ridge to
brain-ridge, and
fire like pistons, as
if still having the
very best time of their
little wet pink lives.

--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem also appears in my book Gorilla Architecture, published by Interior Noise Press in 2011.)

Wednesday, January 30, 2019

leaf shadows

that's him alright

he's young & good-looking &
he knows the pure hot sex-joy of
playing with his own
big dick all alone.
he's good at it, too.
he's mastered all
the techniques --
prolonging, delaying,
teasing, then, well,
just letting nature takes its
big, wet, gooey, sloppy course.
and, during those 10, 20,
30 busy-fingered minutes,
he is the happiest
boy in the world.  but then,
after that, it's time to get
busy on that list of chores:
take out the trash, mow the
lawn, weed the flower bed next
to the back door -- none of which is
much fun at all, especially
when he compares 'em to, well,
you know,
playing with his
dick, and then having an orgasm.
the truth is:
he compares everything
he does to having an
orgasm; and then
he compares
one orgasm to the
next orgasm. he's
not single-minded,
exactly, but let's
just say
his days are pretty well

--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem also appears in my book Riot Act, published by Chiron Review Press in 2010. The poem  was first published in online Zygote in my Coffee, issue #65, July 3, 2006.)

the endowment which he had been given
was a great body, a sweet face, and a big dick.
he'd had to do no work at all to get all that.
it had just happened.
people liked being around him, too.
he was friendly, had a good voice,
enjoyed conversation -- and being 23 years
old and lean, athletic, tall,
good-looking -- all of that certainly
seemed to work to his advantage.
yet, he dreamed dark dreams,
his thoughts drifted down bleak and
despair-filled rivers; he often
woke in the middle of the night
and bawled like a baby, just
because he felt incredibly sad.
at times like this, if the weather
was good, he climbed out
of bed, put on shorts and tennis shoes, nothing
else, and went out running -- sometimes
for miles and miles, through dark quiet
suburban streets in the middle of
the night.  then, near the end of his
run, he ended up in the deep dark
middle of the municipal
golf course, where he
stripped off his shorts & shoes
and masturbated under the warm night
stars, spurting cum onto the
soft dewy grass.
if the weather was bad, he sat
naked in front of late-nite tv, whatever
was on, it didn't really seem to matter,
and he masturbated there;
he preferred masturbating in front
of something interesting on tv,
but he had found that even
the weather channel was satisfactory.
then, after spurting
a great deal of cum, he wiped
up, returned to bed, and slept
fitfully until the alarm clock rang,
at which point he got out of
bed, and again, uttered
his marriage vows to the world,
to the universe, to the stars and to
the galaxies
and to the vast expanse of vastness.
then, as usual, he floated
thru the day like a mote of dust,
greeting the other dust-lings,
cheating on the lunar debris.

--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem also appears in my book Gorilla Architecture, published by Interior Noise Press in 2011.)
Another blog of mine is I'm just sayin'...


Monday, January 28, 2019


"sometimes there's nothing more satisfying
than running the water in the bathroom sink
and washing your hands there under
the running water at the bathroom sink
and just washing your hands and washing
your hands and letting the water run
and run and run and carry the soap
and dirt from your hands down
the drain and the water runs
and runs and runs" he's thinking
as he stands there young and
naked and sexy in front of
the bathroom sink washing
his hands and washing his
hands and now he's spitting
into the sink, water running, watching
the running water carry his
spit down the drain and
down the drain and down the
drain and he's thinking "spitting
into the bathroom sink while
the water runs and runs
and carries your spit down
the drain is satisfying
and pleasant and the sound
of the running water is good
and the water going down
the drain carrying your
spit and you spit some more
and it carries that spit
away too" he's thinking
as he stands there young and
naked and sexy in front of
the bathroom sink watching
the water carry his spit
down the drain and listening
to the sound of the running
water and he's still washing
his hands and he's still
spitting down the sink
his big dick is hard
now and he stands there
listening to the water
run into the sink
and watching the water
run into the sink
and down the drain
and his dick is hard
and now he jerks off
quickly and precisely
into the sink, pushing
down on his cock at
the critical moment
to aim his spurts of
cum into the back of the
sink and then he
splashes water
onto his spurts of cum, to wash
his spurted cum down the drain
and as he stands there young and
naked and sexy in front of
the bathroom sink washing
his cum down the drain he's
thinking "you're watching
your cum go down the drain
and it's satisfying listening
to the sound of the water
and watching the running
water carry your cum down
the drain, everything,
all your troubles, all
your this and that,
mis and match, spit and
spurt and plip and plop,
right down the drain
water running and running
and running it's nice
just being here naked
the water running
hand washings
cum spurts spit droplets
a few more hand washings
all going going gone into
the sink running down
the drain, you're
likely to be here quite
a while longer aren't
you, this is all
pretty dern satisfying,
the water running
standing here your
hands in the bathroom
sink, the
water running and
running" he thinks,
standing there young and
naked and sexy in front of
the bathroom sink and
the water runs and
runs and runs.

--Carl Miller Daniels
another darn doogie fantasy

he sits in the deep hot bath water jerking off, he
is a tall skinny rough-looking boy of 17 with
short bushy blonde spikey hair.
"i look just like doogie howser m.d." he is saying
to himself, "only i am rough-looking and mean
and in fact i don't even like pretty-looking boys" he is saying to
"i would like to have my cock up doogie howser's smooth pink ass
right now," he is thinking to himself, as he slides
his hand up and down the long thick hard shaft
of his big underwater cock. "i'd like to have my cock
up doogie howser's ass and be fucking him so
hard he'd be groaning and moaning and telling
me it hurts it hurts it hurts."
splash. splash. splash. these are the sounds as
the tall skinny 17-yr-old rough-looking blonde-haired boy sits
in the hot bath water jerking off thinking of himself fucking
doogie howser, m.d., doogie howser is on his hands and knees in
the bathroom beside the bathtub, the tall
skinny 17-yr-old boy is on top of him,
fucking doogie howser's smooth pink ass
while doogie howser m.d. cries and moans
and says it hurts it hurts god it hurts, but the tall
skinny rough-looking 17-yr-old boy won't stop until he comes with his
dick way up inside
doogie howser's smooth pink ass
and in fact now the tall skinny naked rough-looking 17-yr-old boy with
the short bushy spikey blonde hair
sitting in the bathtub full of hot deep water is coming and coming,
murky whitish
underwater plumes of his cum jetting into the hot bath
water, the rough-looking 17-yr-old boy is twitching jerking heaving
gasping with each spurt, then when he's done he settles back into the
tub, his semen swirling in the hot water around him, he is lonely and sad
and wishes that doogie howser m.d. really were here with
him, they would talk gently and kiss on the lips, and before
the afternoon ended maybe
he'd even let doogie fuck him in the ass
if doogie seemed desperate enough and asked real gentle,
like he knew who was boss.

--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem also appears in my book Shy Boys at Home, published by Chiron Review Press in 1999, and now out of print.)
Be Kind to Strangers, a book of poems by me, Carl Miller Daniels. Be Kind to Strangers was published by BareBackPress in 2015 and is currently available at Amazon, and at the BareBackPress website, too.
He played "Mullet Fingers" in the movie Hoot.

Nick Robinson (Love, Simon)

profile bw

ah him yes

cereal in bed


Tyler Posey bouncy

Nicholas Hoult

Nichols Hoult
banana yellow

when smearing water-color paint all over
the body of a sexy naked young man (a
young man such as Andrew Garfield--maybe
you've seen him
in the movie THE SOCIAL NETWORK or
anyhow, when smearing water-color paint
all over Andrew Garfield's (a sexy
naked young man) body,
i'd go for the nipples
first, then
the sunburst around his
his scrotum would
be next,
and then the
shaft of his cock.
each of these would
be painted a different
and, the more he giggled,
the more i would,

--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem also appears in my book Saline, published by Interior Noise Press in 2014.)
krebs cycle no ez A

"i masturbate a lot and i've never
masturbated alone in my
entire life," the masturbator-guy suddenly says to tex.
the masturbator-guy is real good-looking, too.
"oh yeah?" says tex, nervously.
tex is not exactly bad-looking himself.
they are in tex's college dorm room at the time,
studying microbiology.
"yeah," says the masturbator-guy. "even when i was just
starting out, i never masturbated alone.
always wanted to do it with somebody else around.
like now, for instance."
"er," says tex. "um," adds tex.
masturbator-guy whips out his cock,
starts masturbating. "we'll get back to studying
right after," says masturbator-guy.
"um," says tex. "um." tex is
nervous, and seems creeped-out. but tex doesn't look away.
soon, masturbator-guy goes off like
a rocket. sitting there in the chair right across from tex,
masturbator-guy whips off his shirt right before,
and then mops up his chest and belly
with a glob of kleenexes which
he then drops into tex's trashcan. so wet it goes "plop".
tex watches everything.
"your turn," says masturbator-guy. "and actually,
the idea is to jerk off at the SAME time i'm
jerking off."
"er," tex says. "this is too weird for me.  let's
just get back to studying, ok?"
masturbator-guy zips up and puts his shirt back on.
then he and tex do get right back to studying.
"next time, you'll join in," says
masturbator-guy. "you'll see."
turns out masturbator-guy was right
about a whole lot of things that semester.
-- both he & tex eventually making
so much cream you'd think they were trying to answer
all the cumulative coffee prayers of the tired &
hungry masses.
at starbucks, they always chuckled. they didn't
take coffee back to tex's room, but
they could've, if they wanted.
next semester, the history of science.

--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem also appears in my chapbook Riot Act, published by Chiron Review Press in 2010.  The poem was first published in Zygote in My Coffee, Issue #68, October 2006.)

Sunday, January 27, 2019

Charles Burchfield, Night Wind

Bunny brooch, Raymond Yard, 1920s

M2 1954 Mercury, approximately 3 inches long. (Photo courtesy of Coleman Lewis)

the sweet smell of decay

some of us got together and decided to buy
an old mental hospital that we found in the woods.
it was in pretty bad shape.
some walls had collapsed.
there was water damage.
the forest had worked its way right into
the central lawn and up against the
main complex of buildings.
we contributed what we could.
a penny here, a nickel there.
it wasn't much of a down payment, but the
current owners didn't seem very set on the particulars.
we told them we'd get the rest of the money from the bank.
we told the bank we were going to turn
the place into a luxury hotel out there in the middle
of the wilderness with a five-star restaurant
and top-quality service.
the bank was most agreeable and gave
us the necessary funds.
i'm afraid some of us didn't work very hard to whip
the place into shape.
some of us spent most of the days just wandering
in the woods, looking at the signs of decay.
there was an old wall way out way away from
the main complex that didn't seem to be there for anything.
it was crumbly and big, and old vines and trees wriggled
all over it.
some of us spent a lot of time in our rooms, trying to
get things organized and livable.  ironically,
some of the rooms were already in really good
shape when we took over the place.
nice furniture, no mildew, good-looking carpets,
bathrooms immaculate and no rust stains,
those rooms went fast, there was kinda a stampede
on those rooms,
my old college roommate and i got one of those
rooms, he mostly wanted it for himself, but
decided he wasn't going to get rid of me
very easily, so he'd just accept the situation,
some of us tried to learn to cook, but
we weren't very good at it. some of
us spent a lot of time sweeping the hallways,
some of us really were good with hammers and
saws and sanders and power-tools and they
made a lot of progress. my old college
roommate was among that group,
i was kinda with the floor sweepers, kinda
with the guys who went out by themselves
and wandered in the woods on nice
days, sometimes one of us would run
into the other one and we'd take off
all our clothes and lie down beside
each other and we'd jerk off together,
talking admiringly, yet, with just a tinge
of bitterness, about the guys who were doing
the sawing and sanding and power-tool
using. then we'd get dressed and wander off
on our separate ways, and eventually
we'd end up back at the old mental
hospital. my old college roommate
was having less and less use for
me, he worked hard all day and
his muscles were getting bigger
and he was sore and cranky.
he was making noises that i should
do more work or move out. i kept out
of his way as much as possible,
and, in fact, i really did start doing
my work better, those hallways were
constantly clean and looked real darn good,
but i was still a little leery of him, and
for quite a few weeks i had developed
the habit of coming in late when he was already
asleep in his bed and watching
him sleep, occasionally he slept
on his back with just a sheet
over him and his big erect dick
lifted the sheet well above his
belly and it just kinda bounced
lightly with the pulse of his erection.
eventually the renovation was done.
we hired a really good chef and
a whole crew to run the restaurant.
guests began to come down the
old winding road through the woods and to
eat in the restaurant and to spend
the night in rooms in our old renovated
mental hospital. sometimes guests would
go out walking in the woods. sometimes
a solitary guest would go out alone,
and one afternoon a few of us
happened upon a guest all alone in the woods
and we asked him if he wanted to
take off all of his clothes and jerk off
with us and he said yes. he was
only 17 or 18 yrs old and he was
very very beautiful, with a really
big monstrous cock, and we all
paid quite a lot of attention to
him as he stripped and jerked off.
it was enjoyable, there in the
deep dark woods watching him
and each other jerking off,
although he was by far the
most fun to watch. he had
a great face and lots of muscles
and his fully erect cock was very thick and
probably at least 11 inches long,
maybe longer.
i think everybody came two or three
times that day. then we all got
dressed and went our different
ways and all arrived back at
the old mental hospital by separate
routes. the next day, the cute boy who had jerked
off with us left along with his parents.
the weeks went by. those who
sawed and sanded and
used power-tools called meetings
and told us we were making
a nice profit, that things were
going well, our duties became
more systematic, it was acknowledged, for instance,
in fact, my old college roommate said it quite
eloquently, that i was an excellent sweeper
of the halls, that i kept them really clean,
and that i should be assigned that duty
permanently. i flushed bright red
as he talked, and that night, when he
was asleep on his back, and i was watching
his big erect cock lift his nice white
sheet above his nice flat belly,
i pulled down the sheet very very carefully
and just as it cleared his thighs, he
opened his eyes, and he told me that if
i wanted it that bad, go ahead,
give him a nice slow handjob, and
that's what i did, he came all over his
belly and i wiped it off of him with a
nice warm soapy wash rag from our
bathroom, and then i rinsed his belly
with fresh water, and then i dried
his belly, and pulled the sheet
back over him and he went to sleep
in his bed and i went to sleep in my
bed, after first jerking myself off
as silently as possible, i don't think
my old college roommate heard
a thing.  weeks went by.
profits were up. we all had
food and a roof over our heads
and sometimes nobody did
hardly any work and in spite
of the fact that those who sawed
and sanded and used power-tools
held meetings and yelled at various
ones of us, it was noted that
sometimes the power-tool guys
didn't do all that much work themselves
on certain days, there was
general dissatisfaction from
the kitchen, the head chef quit,
and went to another job, and took
most of his staff with him,
there was a general feeling
of tension about the place,
the old mental hospital was
not attracting the customers
it once did, sometimes there
were days when there were
no guests at all, and some
of us fixed sandwiches for ourselves
and for everybody else, and sometimes
everybody had to fix their own
sandwiches, my old college
roommate started spending
a lot of time just laying about
the room and sometimes
he lay on his bed stark naked
and expected me to give
him handjobs without even
being asked to, i wasn't
liking him as much as i used
to, and sometimes i didn't
even come back to the room
at night, but lay near the old
wall way out in the woods,
listening to things move amongst
the fallen leaves in the darkness,
sometimes i took off all my
clothes and lay there spread
eagle on the leaves staring
up into the sky, there were
tears in my eyes, and as
the night wore on, i would
make growling sounds in
my throat to answer the
growling sounds i occasionally
heard around me, and then
i'd get dressed and go back
to the room and shower,
eventually my old college roommate
left the old mental hospital altogether,
and i had the room to myself,
for a period of time
there were no more guests at all
at the old mental hospital,
except one night the 17-or-18
yr-old guy who had jerked off
with us in the woods came back
and some of us ended up jerking
off with him in the old shock-therapy
room while we smeared jergens
body lotion all over him,
he left that same night,
his eyes were wild and
the tip of his tongue was
between his lips, eventually
there were only a few of us left in
the old mental hospital in the woods,
we ate coldcuts and bread,
one of the power-tool guys
was evidently pretty rich and a little off his
rocker, and he kept on
funding the place, but there
were no extravagances, it
was pretty basic, out there
in the woods. sometimes,
growling in the night alone
in my room, i heard others
growling, too, sometimes
i'd creep outside the door
of somebody i heard growling,
and then i'd try the doorknob,
generally it wouldn't open,
but sometimes it would,
and i'd go on in, and we'd
just sit down together, and
we'd talk about what
was going to happen next,
and we wouldn't have a clue,
we'd say we missed the good
ole days when there were
lots of guests and the restaurant
was still operating, and i'd confess
that i felt like everything was
going to hell, we were all
in one big long tailspin that
we were never going to get out
of, often the guy whose room i
happened to be in at the moment
would agree, and then sometimes
we'd just lay there not saying
a word, too tired to lift a finger,
too tired for much of anything,
eventually the power-tool guy
with the money moved out,
winter was coming, food
was running low, but
we stayed on anyway,
and every now and then,
guests still came, not
of the quality we were used to,
and not in the numbers we'd
once grown to expect,
but we were constantly surprised
by what people were looking for
out there in the middle of
the woods, our old mental
hospital looming grey and sinister
there in the clearing,
exactly what they are looking for
has never been readily apparent
to any of us, certainly not to me
anyway, and they tolerate questionable conditions
far better than i'd have
ever expected.

--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem also appears in my book String Bean, published by BareBackPress in 2018. The poem first appeared in my book Shy Boys at Home, published by Chiron Review Press in 1999. It also appeared in The Commonline Journal, June 12, 2015.)

flowered pillows

Gorilla Architecture, a book of poems by me, Carl Miller Daniels. Gorilla Architecture was published by Interior Noise Press in 2011, and is currently available at Amazon.

"i wonder what the squirrels are up to today?"
said the sexy big-dicked budding biologist high-school boy.
he said it kind of to himself, and kind of outloud,
as he stood in front of his bedroom window
and looked down at the ground.
three squirrels were chasing each other around out there.
"preliminaries to sex?" wondered the
sexy big-dicked budding biologist high-school boy.
his dick was hard.
he took off all his clothes.
the squirrels skittered about.
he tugged on his dick.
the squirrels ran half-way up a tree,
and then back down again.
he tugged on his dick.
the squirrels continued their scampering.
he grabbed a handful of kleenexes and
he tossed the cum-soaked wad of kleenexes into the
trashcan, and stood there a while longer,
naked and big-dicked, in his room, staring
down at the frolicking squirrels.
"gee, they really seem to be having fun,"
the sexy big-dicked budding biologist high-school boy
said softly.
"is that the biological explanation to
everything?" he wondered.  "is
everything about having fun?" he mused, outlining his
sexy little nipples with
just the tips of his long slender fingers.

--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem also appears in my book Gorilla Architecture, published by Interior Noise Press in 2011.)
both of us 20 years old, him & me

there is nothing more to be said.
there is always something more to be said.
i need to talk with him.
but mainly i want to lick the tip of
his dick and feel his warm cum
spurting into my mouth, feel his warm cum
slosh around on my slobbery tongue.
i am 20 years old. so is
he is straight. i am trying
to be straight, too, but almost
certainly i am gay.
he is a swimmer on the college
swim team. he is gorgeous,
sweet, gentle, friendly.
i am almost certainly in love
with him.
i am pretty good-looking, too.
long, lean, lithe, athletic.
we play a lot of tennis
together, him and me.
we look good together, too.
i need to talk with him. even though
we talk hours and hours
and hours, but it is not enough.
it is never enough.
we talk while we shower together
in the university gym.
we talk while we backpack together
on hikes on the weekends.
we talk while we're getting dressed.
we talk while we're walking to class.
no matter how much we talk,
it is not enough.
we are twenty years old.
he is gorgeous, his face handsome,
his cheeks ruddy, his dick big
and sturdy.
i am pretty good-looking myself.
there is nothing more to be said.
there is always something more to be said.
i need to talk to him. i want
to lick the tip of his dick.
i want to watch him spurt cum.
i want him to watch me spurt cum.
i don't like his girlfriends, even
though they are nice enough.
i am jealous of them. i am
jealous of the time they
take from me.
i am 20 years old.
so is he. we are roommates.
we are in college. we are
young and our energy never
ends. we run laps and play
tennis and since it is
not swimteam season
he doesn't have to swim
so he is able to spend
that time with me.
i watch him sleep.
i jerk off while he sleeps.
i want him to wake up and
catch me doing that, but
he is a sound sleeper.
at least he pretends to
be. if he's ever caught
me jerking off, he's
not let on.
we need to talk. i need
to talk. we talk a lot.
but it is never ever enough.
once i blurted out to him that
i loved him. he seemed
kinda taken aback, then,
he was a good sport
about it, and said
he loved me, too. kind of in
his "aw shucks" voice.
things go on like that.
i am 20. so is he.
we look good together.
we need to talk.
i need to talk.
i need.
there's nothing more to
be said.
there's always something
more to be said.
i need to touch his dick.
i need to feel him spurt his
cum into my mouth.
i need for us to sit on
the couch naked and
watch each other jerk off.
i need for us to jerk each
other off. i'm sure his
touch on my
dick would be warm, but gentle.
i'm sure my touch on his
dick would be crazy fast and
entirely too eager.
we are 20 years old.
it is early in the morning.
we are playing tennis.
the sound of the
court: thwack. thwack.
we need to talk.
i love him.
i am in pain.
he is beautiful.
i look pretty good myself.
we look good together.
i need to talk.
why do i seem to feel
every emotion through my
dick? why does the sound
his nice deep voice
resonate in my dick?
i feel everything in my
joy, sorrow, love,
hate--i feel them
all in my dick.
i spurt cum and think
of him.
i hate his girlfriends.
can't we talk, just him
and me?
i need to talk.
there's nothing more to
be said.
there's always something
more to be said.
how often does he spurt cum? i
wish he would
tell me tell me tell me tell me.
i need to talk.
i know we talk a lot, but
please, let's just
talk some more.
no matter how
much we say
to each other,
it is never enough
talking all night
only whets my
insatiable appetite
for him and
him and
the more he's there
the more i'll want
this will never end
this will always hurt
this will always
be a big slurry
of lust, and joy,
and pain.
we'll be 20 years old
forever, him and me, the
sunrises and
sunsets flashes
of light and dark,
twists of tenderness and
the light shining behind his
ears makes
them glow pink,
then nearly red,
i look into his crystal
blue eyes
as the sunlight
immolates first one, then
the other,
of his sacred, sexy,
delicately pink ears.

--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem first appeared in The Commonline Journal, November 16, 2015. It also appears in my book String Bean, published by BareBackPress in 2018 and currently available at Amazon.)

Saturday, January 26, 2019

Matthew Mitcham

Art by Dean Cameron

Diary by Christopher Shellhammer

A pair of Frankart "Hercules" bookends, circa 1925

I've become a two-blog guy. My other blog is

Coleus blossoms



"green peppers and pickles can be remarkably satisfying,"
he thinks, sitting there in the screened-in porch,
the waves crashing onto the beach. he's wearing
only a towel, wrapped loosely around his waist.
sexy young and unkempt, he's discarded his
wet swimsuit, his legs
are spread, and he's enjoying the feel
of the sea breeze on his balls.
he's picking up slices of green pepper and
little green cucumber pickles from
a plate that's sitting in the middle
of the table.  he's chewing the pepper slices
and the little cucumber pickles
slowly and methodically, and swallowing
them with great enthusiasm.  some people
eat fish and shrimp and oysters and
scallops and things of this nature
while at the beach, but not him. never.
bits of vegetation is what he craves.
bits of vegetation is what he wants.
so he sits there, his legs spread,
the towel loosely draped, the
sea breeze on his balls, a mouthful
of sliced green peppers -- and
the fish that frolic in the waves,
the crabs that pick at bits of
mysterious debris, the oysters and
scallops filtering the water for  
mightily nutritious bits of floating
algae, are safe from him.
he yawns and stretches
and when the towel parts
to reveal his smooth pink
genitalia in a totally calm
and relaxed state of non-arousal,
his lips smack just a bit,
and the sea breeze feels
so wonderful, a whole
well-spring of emotion
best described as "elevation"
forms in his chest, and
he just goes on chewing,
crunch crunch crunch.

–Carl Miller Daniels (This poem – "saline" – is the title poem from my book Saline; the book was published by Interior Noise Press in 2014. And the poem "saline" first appeared in My Favorite Bullet, Vol. 9, Issue 1, July 2009.)
squid fuckers

the big-dicked sexy naked boys killed
the squid by fucking it to death.
it made odd rubbery gurgling
sounds while they were
fucking it. they made slits
in its big gray body with
knives, and then they
inserted their dicks
into the slits, and fucked
away.  the squid didn't
bleed, not conventionally
anyway. it kind of oozed
grayish-green-yellow slippery
fluids, which made a sensual
lubricant for their big dicks
as these boys jammed their
hardened ramrod-stiff dicks into
the holes they'd made in
the squid flesh. a few times,
before it died, the squid
did seem to be in pain.
its flesh kind of quivered
as though an electric charge
were sizzling through it,
and a couple of big tentacles
flailed about helplessly. one
or two of them grazed the
naked backs and butts of
three or four of the hot
sexy sexually-frenzied boys
who were fucking it, but
mainly, it just lay there
and took it, a big squid,
too, its being-fucked body
at least 30 feet long, not even
counting the near-languid
tentacles; the number of boys
was 14 or so, all
fucking away at once,
slobber draining from their
open mouths, watching the
squid die, watching their
peers fuck with wild and
near-angry youthful frenzy,
the big gray body of
the dying squid.  after it
was dead, after the last
boy had spurted the last
of his big gooey wads
of cum into it,
the sexy big-dicked
broad-shouldered, ripple-
bellied boys stood around
naked staring at it.
then they waded into
the water, washed the
strange squid juices
off of their dicks
and bellies and hands
and feet. in fact, they
pretty much submerged
and just rinsed around
out there in the water,
the blazing sun beating
down on their broad shoulders
and wide backs and hair-plastered
heads and faces as
they popped up
out of the water
and exchanged looks that were boyishly
quizzical, even slightly naive and
goofy -- and yet there was an edge,
too, to the looks they gave each
other.  the looks they
exchanged were
confident, cocky
as it were;
there was a sense of pride,
there was a sense of accomplishment:
there was a sense that
they'd gotten away with it
this time,
and, that, next time, by golly,
they'd get away with it

--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem also appears in my book Gorilla Architecture, published by Interior Noise Press in 2011.)