motherfuck

when the cattails are thick and fuzzy and
their strap-shaped leaves are harsh green
and leathery,
two sexy sexed-up pissed-off young men
go down to the pond beside those cattails,
and those two sexy sexed-up pissed-off
young men complain and complain and complain
and talk about things they hate and
things they despise about the world,
things they despise about people,
life, everything, and
all the while they are complaining
and saying harsh hard and really angry things,
they are drinking bourbon, and drinking
bourbon, and drinking more bourbon,
and soon they're stripping off their
shirts and sitting there on the bank
shirtless and sexy-looking and sexed-up
and cussing and saying things that they
hate about people and life and
supervisory figures and political
figures and radio talk-show figures,
and then those two sexy angry
sexed-up young men are drinking
some more bourbon, and taking off
their shoes and taking off their
socks and taking off their pants
and taking off their underpants
and standing there naked angry
big-dicked jacking off standing
there beside each other watching
each other jack off and watching
themselves jack off and saying
mean angry bitter things while
they are standing there
jacking off and
when they both spurt cum they
just stand there staring at each
other watching each
other spurt cum and then
they just stand there
naked and sheepish and
big-dicked and for the first time
that afternoon they break into
big goofy smiles and hoots of
laughter, and, at that moment,
there's a lot less tension
in the air down there at the cattail pond,
a lot less tension.

--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem also appears in my book String Bean, published by BareBackPress in March 2018.)