different

squid ink on the tabletops.
squid ink on the sheets.
squid ink on the showerroom walls.
yes, for some reason unknown to medical science,
the sexy big-dicked teenage boy
spurted cum that looked like squid ink.
black and oily.
even just a tiny bit gritty.
embarrassed, the sexy big-dicked teenage boy
had gone to the doctor for examination.
after several tests,
the doctor had declared both
the sexy big-dicked teenage boy
and the sexy big-dicked teenage boy's
cum
"normal." "with just an atypical pigmentation."
"nothing to worry about."
still, though,
the sexy big-dicked teenage boy felt odd,
and strange.
he knew from pictures in dirty books,
and from pictures on computer screens,
and from the testaments of his friends,
that human male cum
was just not supposed to look like squid ink.
one afternoon, jerking off with
several of his cute male friends,
everyone just kept talking about
that "squid-ink" cum of his.
comparisons to each other's
cum were inevitable.
his was the only cum that looked like that.
there were smirks and chuckles.
at night,
the sexy big-dicked teenage boy
often dreamed of life underneath
the sea. in his dreams,
far below the ocean waves,
he sprouted tentacles, and,
when danger threatened, he
hid himself in clouds of squid-ink cum.
in the morning,
his sheets looked like a Jackson Pollock
painting,
or a Motherwell oil,
free and wild and uninhibited--exactly the
same emotions that
he wished
he felt, but didn't.
squid ink on the tabletops.
squid ink on the sheets.
squid ink on the showerroom walls.
it was all just kind of creepy.

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