satellite nectarines
gargantua strides across the land,
big thunderous steps
trees are flattened
tour busses
totally destroyed
deer and elk scurry to get out of the way --
all this goes on
as
two sexy naked big-dicked teenage boys
play with each other's
dicks --touching, squeezing, jerking--
they've never done this before,
never touched each other like this or
in any other blatantly sexual way either --
this is their first time doing anything like this
but now,
in a cozy little basement bedroom,
the two sexy naked big-dicked teenage boys
touch each other's dicks until
they gasp and
pant and
spurt cum --
gargantua
strides across the land
eating busloads of
tourists, crushing
Walmart billboards,
tasting the vinyl siding
of unlucky houses
as
the two sexy naked big-dicked teenage boys
look at each other's now-cum-drippy
dicks and smell the
smell of
burning reptilian claw fingers
drifts like an unwashed armpit wet with
musk and sweat
gargantua's tail thrashes back and forth
up and down
the two sex naked big-dicked teenage
boys look at each other's gooey cum spots
and the television
gets suddenly quiet
gargantua thrashes his big
mighty tail
crushes another hapless
jerk who moved too slow, now
the sexy naked big-dicked teenage boys
giggle a little bit
now, just a little bit, true it's a giggle,
but nervous oh
so nervous.
--Carl Miller Daniels
Tuesday, April 30, 2019
Monday, April 29, 2019
Sunday, April 28, 2019
Interview with Karina Bush in Cement Covered Ink Quills
I enjoyed this interview, and she mentions me in it.
:-)
http://cementcoveredinkquills.blogspot.com/2019/04/interview-with-poet-karina-bush.html
I enjoyed this interview, and she mentions me in it.
:-)
http://cementcoveredinkquills.blogspot.com/2019/04/interview-with-poet-karina-bush.html
Friday, April 26, 2019
light
spectacular fireworks displays did not impress him,
but they did make him horny.
perhaps it was the hot july night, the presence
of all the shirtless young men, in their tight
sexy jeans, the aroma of their sweat mixed with
their overly-zealous deoderant.
he watched the fireworks.
he was a sexy young man himself, mostly
naked tonight, wearing only shorts
and shoes. as the fireworks
went off, he noted those around
him, and decided that this
was a night he would go
to the nearby track, and
run laps, and absorb the musky murkiness
and just the general slinkiness of the night.
so, as the fireworks ended,
hot, horny, and energized, he
headed off for the track, and
arrived there a few minutes
later, where he ran and ran
and ran, not really counting
the laps with the normal
obsessivesness with
which he usually counted them,
though he was vaguely aware when
he hit somewhere around the 3-mile
mark. drenched in sweat, his
shorts clinging to his
butt and hips and dick and balls
with almost obscene precision,
he ran on, and on, and on.
when he hit what he
was pretty sure was mile 6,
he noticed a cluster of
fireflies, flashing their
phosphorescence with
perfect synchrony, and
that's when he
shot a load of cum,
right there in his pants.
--Carl Miller Daniels
spectacular fireworks displays did not impress him,
but they did make him horny.
perhaps it was the hot july night, the presence
of all the shirtless young men, in their tight
sexy jeans, the aroma of their sweat mixed with
their overly-zealous deoderant.
he watched the fireworks.
he was a sexy young man himself, mostly
naked tonight, wearing only shorts
and shoes. as the fireworks
went off, he noted those around
him, and decided that this
was a night he would go
to the nearby track, and
run laps, and absorb the musky murkiness
and just the general slinkiness of the night.
so, as the fireworks ended,
hot, horny, and energized, he
headed off for the track, and
arrived there a few minutes
later, where he ran and ran
and ran, not really counting
the laps with the normal
obsessivesness with
which he usually counted them,
though he was vaguely aware when
he hit somewhere around the 3-mile
mark. drenched in sweat, his
shorts clinging to his
butt and hips and dick and balls
with almost obscene precision,
he ran on, and on, and on.
when he hit what he
was pretty sure was mile 6,
he noticed a cluster of
fireflies, flashing their
phosphorescence with
perfect synchrony, and
that's when he
shot a load of cum,
right there in his pants.
--Carl Miller Daniels
pony farm
the splish splash i'm taking a bath
sounds
being made by the sexy naked big-dicked teenage boy
long about saturday night
were splishy and splashy and wet and soapy
and squeezy turgid dick
flopping around on top of the water
almost ready to spurt cum
and
the sexy naked big-dicked teenage boy
wonders if he's going to spurt his cum
right into his own face
and then wash the cum off his face
or if he's going to submerge his
big hard dick right before
the moment he cums
and thus spurt his cum into the hot soapy water
jostling for position
his dick above the water
his dick below the water
sliding his tight firm butt around
on the bottom of the slick hot tub
his dick out of the water
his dick under the water
splishing and splashing
and taking a bath
long about saturday night
and
when
the sexy naked big-dicked teenage boy
cums
his dick is out of the water
and his cum
spurts out and hits
him right on the lips
and on his forehead
and some of it goes right
over his head and hits
the back of the tub
the sexy naked big-dicked teenage boy
spurting cum
splishing and
splashing
long about
saturday night.
the cum on his
face, he scrunches
under the water
and rubs his hands
over his face
and around his
chin
and touches his
adam's apple,
there under the soapy
water,
the sexy naked big-dicked teenage boy
groans and growls
mouthing out bubbles
under
the water
and then
he sticks his
face out of the water
and grins
like a hot sexy maniac
who's just had a whole lota
fun spurting cum
splishing and splashing
and taking a bath
long about saturday
night.
--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem "pony farm" also appears in my book Be Kind to Strangers, published by BareBackPress in 2015. And "pony farm" first appeared in BareBack Magazine, in September 2014.)
the splish splash i'm taking a bath
sounds
being made by the sexy naked big-dicked teenage boy
long about saturday night
were splishy and splashy and wet and soapy
and squeezy turgid dick
flopping around on top of the water
almost ready to spurt cum
and
the sexy naked big-dicked teenage boy
wonders if he's going to spurt his cum
right into his own face
and then wash the cum off his face
or if he's going to submerge his
big hard dick right before
the moment he cums
and thus spurt his cum into the hot soapy water
jostling for position
his dick above the water
his dick below the water
sliding his tight firm butt around
on the bottom of the slick hot tub
his dick out of the water
his dick under the water
splishing and splashing
and taking a bath
long about saturday night
and
when
the sexy naked big-dicked teenage boy
cums
his dick is out of the water
and his cum
spurts out and hits
him right on the lips
and on his forehead
and some of it goes right
over his head and hits
the back of the tub
the sexy naked big-dicked teenage boy
spurting cum
splishing and
splashing
long about
saturday night.
the cum on his
face, he scrunches
under the water
and rubs his hands
over his face
and around his
chin
and touches his
adam's apple,
there under the soapy
water,
the sexy naked big-dicked teenage boy
groans and growls
mouthing out bubbles
under
the water
and then
he sticks his
face out of the water
and grins
like a hot sexy maniac
who's just had a whole lota
fun spurting cum
splishing and splashing
and taking a bath
long about saturday
night.
--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem "pony farm" also appears in my book Be Kind to Strangers, published by BareBackPress in 2015. And "pony farm" first appeared in BareBack Magazine, in September 2014.)
Thursday, April 25, 2019
not all who wander are lost
i'm constantly revising the movie BLUE LAGOON in my mind.
there's no brooke shields in my movie. there's
only me and christopher atkins, both of us running
around naked and having sex all the time.
i don't know if you've ever seen BLUE LAGOON or not,
but in that movie christopher atkins is a beautiful blonde big-dicked
teenage boy. he was wide shoulders. tiny nipples.
a rippled belly. he is astonishingly hot. his voice
is sweet and gently masculine. he is yummy.
in BLUE LAGOON he and brooke shields are
trapped as children on a tropical island
after a ship wreck. they are the only
people on the island. no adults.
gradually, as they grow into teenagers,
they discover sex and have a baby.
but, in my constant revisions, there
is NO BROOKE SHIELDS on that island.
it's just me and christopher atkins.
one day while we're wrestling, our
dicks get hard and he discovers
he can butt-fuck me. we both
like it, and i discover that i can
butt-fuck him. we both like it.
we go for long swims in the warm
ocean, wash ourselves squeaky
clean, watch each other jerk off,
jerk each other off, suck each
other off, sleep together as one tangled
mass of hot moist teenage-boy flesh.
i love the smell of his sun-crinkled
blonde hair. the blue of his eyes.
the sexy manliness of his gentle
voice. as a teenage
boy, i am almost as good-looking
as he is. but let's face it: no one
is as good-looking as
christopher atkins. look him
up on google if you don't
believe me.
you'll see. and as to
those constant revisions i'm doing,
how does
christopher atkins butt-fuck my
tight little teenage-boy asshole?
wouldn't some kind of lubricant
be helpful? i mean, i'm just
a teenage boy, and my
asshole is really really TIGHT.
ah, coconut oil. coconuts
are plentiful on the island,
and we already know how
to get into them. that slick
slimy rind, run your fingers
over it, and they come out
slippery, feeling oily. just spread
it in the appropriate places, his
dick and my tight little pink asshole,
and my being butt-fucked
by christopher atkins
is almost easy. and, with
that stuff on my dick and
rubbed into his asshole,
i'm sure he'd feel
just about the same.
you can lick that stuff,
too, leaves your tongue
kinda musky and oily.
christopher and i talk
about that flavor, and
he likes the smell
of my armpits as
much as i like the smell
of his armpits, which is
a lot, the sweaty wisps
of hair, his face against
my chest in the middle
of a hot tropical night.
**
he's so beautiful --
a puff of air
inside a bag
of skin.
--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem also appears in my book Saline, published by Interior Noise Press in 2014, and currently available from Amazon.)
i'm constantly revising the movie BLUE LAGOON in my mind.
there's no brooke shields in my movie. there's
only me and christopher atkins, both of us running
around naked and having sex all the time.
i don't know if you've ever seen BLUE LAGOON or not,
but in that movie christopher atkins is a beautiful blonde big-dicked
teenage boy. he was wide shoulders. tiny nipples.
a rippled belly. he is astonishingly hot. his voice
is sweet and gently masculine. he is yummy.
in BLUE LAGOON he and brooke shields are
trapped as children on a tropical island
after a ship wreck. they are the only
people on the island. no adults.
gradually, as they grow into teenagers,
they discover sex and have a baby.
but, in my constant revisions, there
is NO BROOKE SHIELDS on that island.
it's just me and christopher atkins.
one day while we're wrestling, our
dicks get hard and he discovers
he can butt-fuck me. we both
like it, and i discover that i can
butt-fuck him. we both like it.
we go for long swims in the warm
ocean, wash ourselves squeaky
clean, watch each other jerk off,
jerk each other off, suck each
other off, sleep together as one tangled
mass of hot moist teenage-boy flesh.
i love the smell of his sun-crinkled
blonde hair. the blue of his eyes.
the sexy manliness of his gentle
voice. as a teenage
boy, i am almost as good-looking
as he is. but let's face it: no one
is as good-looking as
christopher atkins. look him
up on google if you don't
believe me.
you'll see. and as to
those constant revisions i'm doing,
how does
christopher atkins butt-fuck my
tight little teenage-boy asshole?
wouldn't some kind of lubricant
be helpful? i mean, i'm just
a teenage boy, and my
asshole is really really TIGHT.
ah, coconut oil. coconuts
are plentiful on the island,
and we already know how
to get into them. that slick
slimy rind, run your fingers
over it, and they come out
slippery, feeling oily. just spread
it in the appropriate places, his
dick and my tight little pink asshole,
and my being butt-fucked
by christopher atkins
is almost easy. and, with
that stuff on my dick and
rubbed into his asshole,
i'm sure he'd feel
just about the same.
you can lick that stuff,
too, leaves your tongue
kinda musky and oily.
christopher and i talk
about that flavor, and
he likes the smell
of my armpits as
much as i like the smell
of his armpits, which is
a lot, the sweaty wisps
of hair, his face against
my chest in the middle
of a hot tropical night.
**
he's so beautiful --
a puff of air
inside a bag
of skin.
--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem also appears in my book Saline, published by Interior Noise Press in 2014, and currently available from Amazon.)
Tuesday, April 23, 2019
working through it
two sexy young men, one who is depressed,
and one who isn't, standing
in the depressed guy's apartment, late at night, talking,
just the two of them:
the depressed guy says: "i have seen your dick and i like it,"
and then he gets this weird crazy kind of expression
on his face, as if he's asking himself NOW WHY DID I SAY THAT?
the guy who isn't depressed says: "i can get undressed if you like."
the depressed guy says: "i don't know."
the guy who isn't depressed says: "let's just both get undressed
and cuddle on your bed. i bet you'll feel better."
the depressed guy says: "i'm not in the mood to have sex."
the guy who isn't depressed says: "you say that NOW."
the guy who isn't depressed smiles charmingly, and his
eyes flash signals of aliveness and zest for life.
the depressed guy has tears welling up in his eyes.
the depressed guy feels really really morose.
the depressed guy says: "i'm really not planning on
having sex, ok?"
the guy who isn't depressed says: "hey! you
know me after all this time, i hope! no pressure!! but let's
just get undressed and cuddle. sometimes when you're
feeling down like this, it helps just to lie
there with somebody you like. and i hope i'm still someone you
like???"
the depressed guy says: "of course you are."
the guy who isn't depressed says: "that's good."
then,
the guy who isn't depressed adds, "and you're
someone i happen to like very very much, ok?"
the depressed guy nods, kind of listlessly.
the guy who isn't depressed takes off all of his
clothes and stands there in the living room
of the depressed guy's apartment.
the guy who isn't depressed is hot-looking, naked,
sexy, sweet face, beautiful lips, big smooth cock.
then, the guy who isn't depressed says, "OK now!
let's see that sexy sexy body of yours!"
but, so far, the depressed guy has only taken off his
shirt. the depressed guy looks good that way -- shirtless --
he is lean, has muscles, a byronic face, with dark sad eyes.
the depressed guy stands there shirtless in his own living
room looking lost, confused, ill-at-ease.
the guy who isn't depressed says: "oh come on now,
off with those shoes, young man! and off with those
pants!" he says these
words very cheerfully, encouragingly, gently,
with a twinkle in each of his mischievous eyes.
the depressed guy sits down on the couch and
starts unlacing his shoes. he does so as
if it's a real effort, as if there's no meaning
in shoes, laces, socks, feet, as if the entire world
is a distant and annoying little buzzing sound.
the guy who isn't depressed says: "jesus! you
are freaking me out here! let me do that, ok?"
the depressed guy leans back on the couch,
his hands by his side. "ok" he says.
very gently, the guy who isn't depressed unties
the depressed guy's shoe laces. then the
guy who isn't depressed pulls off the
depressed guy's shoes (adidas, track shoes).
then the guy who isn't depressed pulls
off the depressed guy's socks.
"wow!" says the guy who isn't depressed. "VERY nice.
you've even got sexy toes, did you know that?"
the depressed guy smiles just a tiny little
bit, but his lips barely move at all, actually.
you'd miss it if you weren't looking real real
close. the guy who isn't depressed IS looking
real real close. "that's better," says the
guy who isn't depressed. "i saw that little
tiny hint of a smile. i knew there was one
in there somewhere. now, stand up, ok?"
the depressed guy stands up real slow.
"that's it!" says the guy who isn't depressed.
"real good!! now i'm gonna undo your
belt and unzip your pants, ok?"
something dark and scary crosses the
depressed guy's face. then it fades, mostly.
"ok," says the depressed guy.
the guy who isn't depressed unbuckles the
depressed guy's belt, pulls down his zipper.
"you are one sexy guy," says the guy
who isn't depressed. "don't be alarmed
if i get a hardon, ok? it doesn't mean
we have to have sex. it only means
i'm standing here naked undressing
a very sexy guy who i happen to like
a whole lot. it's a natural reaction,
sorry."
"sure," says the depressed guy. "whatever."
the depressed guy really does not seem
to care about what is happening at this
moment. he really does not seem to care
that a naked and very attractive
big-dicked young man is undressing him.
"let's just get you undressed and
in bed beside me," says the guy
who isn't depressed. "then i'm gonna
do some serious holding and comforting,
no doubt about that."
"hmmm" says the depressed guy. there is
a tear at each corner of his
deep dark sexy brooding eyes.
the guy who isn't depressed pulls
down the depressed guy's pants, then
he pulls down the depressed guy's underpants.
"come on," says the guy who isn't
depressed. "step out of these, ok?
just lift your feet, and take a little
step. it's not that difficult."
the depressed guy obeys, as if why
the hell not, why the hell not bother,
why the hell not do anything, or
why DO anything, for that matter. the depressed
guys eye's are vacant, dark, almost
blank, actually, and just a bit scary.
the depressed guy is totally naked now,
and beautiful, and masculine, and very
very sexy.
so now both the depressed guy and
the guy who isn't depressed walk
naked down the hall into the depressed
guy's bedroom. in there is a
big bed, full-size, at least,
maybe bigger. the bed is neatly
made. the guy who isn't
depressed pulls back the covers.
the sheets look clean and smooth.
"come on" says the guy who isn't depressed.
"lie down here beside me, ok?"
the guy who isn't depressed climbs onto
the bed and lies down on his back.
the depressed guy lies down, too,
right beside him. they are both
lying on their backs. the guy who
isn't depressed pulls up the covers
and snuggles in beside the depressed
guy. he pushes his nose up against
the side of the depressed guy's neck,
drapes one arm over the depressed
guy's chest.
"any idea what's wrong?" says the
guy who isn't depressed. "or is
it the same as usual?"
the depressed guy sighs darkly.
"the same" he says. "i just get
this way sometimes. i thought
you understood."
"i do," says the guy who isn't
depressed. "really. it's like
a brain-wave thing or something. your
brain waves go one way for a while,
and then they go the other." he
kisses the depressed guy on the
side of his neck. "did i say it
right?"
"pretty much" says the depressed
guy.
"thought so," says the guy who isn't
depressed. "i'm a pretty good listener,
you know. i pay attention."
"hmmmmm," says the depressed guy, his
voice fading away, as
if he sort of doesn't care.
they lie there naked in bed together,
the guy who isn't depressed pressing
himself close up against the depressed
guy, cuddling, snuggling, gently
kissing the depressed guy's neck from time.
"i do love you," says the guy who
isn't depressed.
"and i love you," says the depressed guy.
"i'm sorry you're feeling down," says
the guy who isn't depressed. "i'm here
to help, and you won't feel bad forever. we
both know that."
"ummm," says the depressed guy. "we both
know."
they lie there naked together,
under the covers, and as the
guy who isn't depressed snuggles up
against the depressed guy, the
depressed guy starts to snuggle back,
just a little, but, still, there
is a bit of reciprocation going on.
they lie there like that a long time.
they both lose track. 2 hours?
3 hours? only the beside lamp
is on, and neither of them
gets out of bed to turn it off.
they both fall asleep.
in the middle of the night,
the guy who isn't depressed
is awakened by the
depressed guy speaking these words:
"climb on top of me, ok?"
the depressed guy is flat on his
back, looking up at the ceiling.
the guy who isn't depressed
rolls over, climbs on top of
the depressed guy. they push
their chests together. they
push their big dicks together.
they push their bellies together.
they kiss each other, hard.
"there," says the depressed guy.
"perfect. just stay this way, ok?"
the depressed guy has his arms
wrapped tightly around the back
of the guy who isn't depressed.
the depressed guy is holding,
hugging, pulling the guy who
isn't depressed tight up against
him. they both have big hardons now.
"this feels fantastic" says the
depressed guy. "let's just lie
here this way, the rest of the
night, ok?"
the guy who isn't depressed says:
"sure, whatever you want."
they lie there like that. the
bottoms of their
hard dicks are pressed tight up
against each other.
the depressed guy holds onto
the guy who isn't depressed
as if the
guy who isn't depressed is the only thing in
the entire world that's pure
and virtuous and beautiful, the only thing
that even matters at all.
the guy who isn't depressed
likes this feeling, likes
this feeling that he's really
needed, wanted. he likes this feeling
a lot. he likes it so much he
starts to cry. his
tears run down his face and plop
onto the face of the depressed
guy.
both guys are hot, and sweaty.
they can feel the liquid sheen
of the sweat between their chests,
pushed tightly against each other.
the guy who isn't depressed pushes
his arms under the back of the
depressed guy, and hugs him
as tightly as he can.
they lie there in bed in the
middle of the night, both crying now,
both hugging each other as hard
as they can, their big stiff dicks
pressed up against each other.
in another instant, they are
both crying and spurting their cum
all over each other's bellies,
at practically the exact same moment.
then they go limp, the guy who
isn't depressed slumping on top
of the guy who is; then, again,
they hug each other tight,
their arms wrapped around each
other; they kiss each other on
the neck. embracing, feeling
the heat of each other's bodies --
the embrace they are sharing
the balm, the salve, and the
glue that assures them both,
whenever there's any doubt,
of why they truly belong together.
after they wipe themselves off,
they snuggle in for the rest of
the night. they both sleep like babies,
and, in the morning, everything's
fine, just fine -- maybe even
beautiful.
--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem also appears in my book Gorilla Architecture, published by Interior Noise Press in 2011.)
two sexy young men, one who is depressed,
and one who isn't, standing
in the depressed guy's apartment, late at night, talking,
just the two of them:
the depressed guy says: "i have seen your dick and i like it,"
and then he gets this weird crazy kind of expression
on his face, as if he's asking himself NOW WHY DID I SAY THAT?
the guy who isn't depressed says: "i can get undressed if you like."
the depressed guy says: "i don't know."
the guy who isn't depressed says: "let's just both get undressed
and cuddle on your bed. i bet you'll feel better."
the depressed guy says: "i'm not in the mood to have sex."
the guy who isn't depressed says: "you say that NOW."
the guy who isn't depressed smiles charmingly, and his
eyes flash signals of aliveness and zest for life.
the depressed guy has tears welling up in his eyes.
the depressed guy feels really really morose.
the depressed guy says: "i'm really not planning on
having sex, ok?"
the guy who isn't depressed says: "hey! you
know me after all this time, i hope! no pressure!! but let's
just get undressed and cuddle. sometimes when you're
feeling down like this, it helps just to lie
there with somebody you like. and i hope i'm still someone you
like???"
the depressed guy says: "of course you are."
the guy who isn't depressed says: "that's good."
then,
the guy who isn't depressed adds, "and you're
someone i happen to like very very much, ok?"
the depressed guy nods, kind of listlessly.
the guy who isn't depressed takes off all of his
clothes and stands there in the living room
of the depressed guy's apartment.
the guy who isn't depressed is hot-looking, naked,
sexy, sweet face, beautiful lips, big smooth cock.
then, the guy who isn't depressed says, "OK now!
let's see that sexy sexy body of yours!"
but, so far, the depressed guy has only taken off his
shirt. the depressed guy looks good that way -- shirtless --
he is lean, has muscles, a byronic face, with dark sad eyes.
the depressed guy stands there shirtless in his own living
room looking lost, confused, ill-at-ease.
the guy who isn't depressed says: "oh come on now,
off with those shoes, young man! and off with those
pants!" he says these
words very cheerfully, encouragingly, gently,
with a twinkle in each of his mischievous eyes.
the depressed guy sits down on the couch and
starts unlacing his shoes. he does so as
if it's a real effort, as if there's no meaning
in shoes, laces, socks, feet, as if the entire world
is a distant and annoying little buzzing sound.
the guy who isn't depressed says: "jesus! you
are freaking me out here! let me do that, ok?"
the depressed guy leans back on the couch,
his hands by his side. "ok" he says.
very gently, the guy who isn't depressed unties
the depressed guy's shoe laces. then the
guy who isn't depressed pulls off the
depressed guy's shoes (adidas, track shoes).
then the guy who isn't depressed pulls
off the depressed guy's socks.
"wow!" says the guy who isn't depressed. "VERY nice.
you've even got sexy toes, did you know that?"
the depressed guy smiles just a tiny little
bit, but his lips barely move at all, actually.
you'd miss it if you weren't looking real real
close. the guy who isn't depressed IS looking
real real close. "that's better," says the
guy who isn't depressed. "i saw that little
tiny hint of a smile. i knew there was one
in there somewhere. now, stand up, ok?"
the depressed guy stands up real slow.
"that's it!" says the guy who isn't depressed.
"real good!! now i'm gonna undo your
belt and unzip your pants, ok?"
something dark and scary crosses the
depressed guy's face. then it fades, mostly.
"ok," says the depressed guy.
the guy who isn't depressed unbuckles the
depressed guy's belt, pulls down his zipper.
"you are one sexy guy," says the guy
who isn't depressed. "don't be alarmed
if i get a hardon, ok? it doesn't mean
we have to have sex. it only means
i'm standing here naked undressing
a very sexy guy who i happen to like
a whole lot. it's a natural reaction,
sorry."
"sure," says the depressed guy. "whatever."
the depressed guy really does not seem
to care about what is happening at this
moment. he really does not seem to care
that a naked and very attractive
big-dicked young man is undressing him.
"let's just get you undressed and
in bed beside me," says the guy
who isn't depressed. "then i'm gonna
do some serious holding and comforting,
no doubt about that."
"hmmm" says the depressed guy. there is
a tear at each corner of his
deep dark sexy brooding eyes.
the guy who isn't depressed pulls
down the depressed guy's pants, then
he pulls down the depressed guy's underpants.
"come on," says the guy who isn't
depressed. "step out of these, ok?
just lift your feet, and take a little
step. it's not that difficult."
the depressed guy obeys, as if why
the hell not, why the hell not bother,
why the hell not do anything, or
why DO anything, for that matter. the depressed
guys eye's are vacant, dark, almost
blank, actually, and just a bit scary.
the depressed guy is totally naked now,
and beautiful, and masculine, and very
very sexy.
so now both the depressed guy and
the guy who isn't depressed walk
naked down the hall into the depressed
guy's bedroom. in there is a
big bed, full-size, at least,
maybe bigger. the bed is neatly
made. the guy who isn't
depressed pulls back the covers.
the sheets look clean and smooth.
"come on" says the guy who isn't depressed.
"lie down here beside me, ok?"
the guy who isn't depressed climbs onto
the bed and lies down on his back.
the depressed guy lies down, too,
right beside him. they are both
lying on their backs. the guy who
isn't depressed pulls up the covers
and snuggles in beside the depressed
guy. he pushes his nose up against
the side of the depressed guy's neck,
drapes one arm over the depressed
guy's chest.
"any idea what's wrong?" says the
guy who isn't depressed. "or is
it the same as usual?"
the depressed guy sighs darkly.
"the same" he says. "i just get
this way sometimes. i thought
you understood."
"i do," says the guy who isn't
depressed. "really. it's like
a brain-wave thing or something. your
brain waves go one way for a while,
and then they go the other." he
kisses the depressed guy on the
side of his neck. "did i say it
right?"
"pretty much" says the depressed
guy.
"thought so," says the guy who isn't
depressed. "i'm a pretty good listener,
you know. i pay attention."
"hmmmmm," says the depressed guy, his
voice fading away, as
if he sort of doesn't care.
they lie there naked in bed together,
the guy who isn't depressed pressing
himself close up against the depressed
guy, cuddling, snuggling, gently
kissing the depressed guy's neck from time.
"i do love you," says the guy who
isn't depressed.
"and i love you," says the depressed guy.
"i'm sorry you're feeling down," says
the guy who isn't depressed. "i'm here
to help, and you won't feel bad forever. we
both know that."
"ummm," says the depressed guy. "we both
know."
they lie there naked together,
under the covers, and as the
guy who isn't depressed snuggles up
against the depressed guy, the
depressed guy starts to snuggle back,
just a little, but, still, there
is a bit of reciprocation going on.
they lie there like that a long time.
they both lose track. 2 hours?
3 hours? only the beside lamp
is on, and neither of them
gets out of bed to turn it off.
they both fall asleep.
in the middle of the night,
the guy who isn't depressed
is awakened by the
depressed guy speaking these words:
"climb on top of me, ok?"
the depressed guy is flat on his
back, looking up at the ceiling.
the guy who isn't depressed
rolls over, climbs on top of
the depressed guy. they push
their chests together. they
push their big dicks together.
they push their bellies together.
they kiss each other, hard.
"there," says the depressed guy.
"perfect. just stay this way, ok?"
the depressed guy has his arms
wrapped tightly around the back
of the guy who isn't depressed.
the depressed guy is holding,
hugging, pulling the guy who
isn't depressed tight up against
him. they both have big hardons now.
"this feels fantastic" says the
depressed guy. "let's just lie
here this way, the rest of the
night, ok?"
the guy who isn't depressed says:
"sure, whatever you want."
they lie there like that. the
bottoms of their
hard dicks are pressed tight up
against each other.
the depressed guy holds onto
the guy who isn't depressed
as if the
guy who isn't depressed is the only thing in
the entire world that's pure
and virtuous and beautiful, the only thing
that even matters at all.
the guy who isn't depressed
likes this feeling, likes
this feeling that he's really
needed, wanted. he likes this feeling
a lot. he likes it so much he
starts to cry. his
tears run down his face and plop
onto the face of the depressed
guy.
both guys are hot, and sweaty.
they can feel the liquid sheen
of the sweat between their chests,
pushed tightly against each other.
the guy who isn't depressed pushes
his arms under the back of the
depressed guy, and hugs him
as tightly as he can.
they lie there in bed in the
middle of the night, both crying now,
both hugging each other as hard
as they can, their big stiff dicks
pressed up against each other.
in another instant, they are
both crying and spurting their cum
all over each other's bellies,
at practically the exact same moment.
then they go limp, the guy who
isn't depressed slumping on top
of the guy who is; then, again,
they hug each other tight,
their arms wrapped around each
other; they kiss each other on
the neck. embracing, feeling
the heat of each other's bodies --
the embrace they are sharing
the balm, the salve, and the
glue that assures them both,
whenever there's any doubt,
of why they truly belong together.
after they wipe themselves off,
they snuggle in for the rest of
the night. they both sleep like babies,
and, in the morning, everything's
fine, just fine -- maybe even
beautiful.
--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem also appears in my book Gorilla Architecture, published by Interior Noise Press in 2011.)
Monday, April 22, 2019
some more moss on that memory sandwich
at the filling station, the wayward bus docks,
and spills its water.
7 sexy adolescent boys
get up, go get something to drink,
piss, get a snack, and talk
to each other about things
of itinerant nature.
then, back on the bus,
the 7 boys, all chosen as their
high school's representatives to
this year's American Legion Boys State,
chat, and doze, and find hope in the
certainty that Williamsburg, Va,
is a nice town, with a good
campus (William & Mary), and
that, with a little luck and
good campaigning, charisma,
and charm, each of them
will be mock-elected to mock-office
and pass mock-bills and enact
mock-legislation in
the mock-assembly for the common good
of all those mock-assembled.
The American Legion wants
dreamers and doers. these 7
boys selected from their high school's
best and brightest
are there to do a job, make
their high school proud,
and indicate their
bulwark of society to
the culture of
belief systems that
are good, noble, and true.
hot dogs for dinner,
and
at night,
sleeping two to a dorm
room
on a campus lent to them
for the duration of their
stay (4 days),
there are
a plethora of
fuzzy-headed dreams,
some of them focused like
needle points going for the
hole of the button, some
of them drifting
like
american marigolds, just
before the
harvest.
**
i was one of the American
Legion Boys State boys in
that group of 7.
many years ago.
while on that bus heading
to that year's
American Legion Boys State, a classmate
of mine, Greg, who was tall
dark and handsome,
put his head on my shoulder
and slept while he thought that
i, too, was asleep.
all these years later
(i'm 59 years
old now), i still remember
that moment: Greg's head
resting on my shoulder,
my heart pounding, my heart
is pounding so hard i'm
afraid he'll hear it and wake
up and confirm what i'm thinking.
what i'm thinking is i love
this moment and i love
that Greg is resting his
head on my shoulder
and i love Greg and
i love Greg
and
i love Greg and
the word
"homosexual"
flashes like neon
on my forehead,
Greg's head
resting on my
shoulder,
please don't let him hear
my faggot heartbeat
don't let anyone see that
neon light stuck to
my forehead or
hear that bass-drum heart thump
as the bus nears its
destination,
as i see the King's Palace,
Williamsburg awaits.
**
now,
years later: things that i know:
i know that i'm a homosexual,
i know that Greg isn't, that he
never was, that
he got married to his high-school
sweetheart. i knew he wasn't
a homosexual when he put
his head on my shoulder on
that bus trip. i knew his was
an innocent, friendly, non-sexual,
guy-on-guy gesture, that he
was sleepy, wanted a comfortable place
to rest his head. a basketball
player, he'd no doubt done
this, slept on
their sleeping shoulders, with other
sleeping straight
guys on other bus trips, basketball
trips, teammates, buds.
**
but the sweetness of the gesture,
his head resting on my shoulder,
him asleep,
on me, me just a regular guy
at that moment, this,
just one of the things
regular guys do with regular guys,
affirming my normality
the most normal guy
on the bus sleeping
on me
my heart pounding and pounding,
me pretending to sleep,
wondering why he didn't
wake up to the
pounding of my heart.
the sweetness of the gesture.
the normalness
of normality.
**
Williamsburg awaits.
me getting off the bus,
going to my room assignment,
no memory of who i was
assigned to.
somebody who wanted to
get elected to something.
somebody, now that i
think back, somebody who did get
elected to something.
Williamsburg was
Williamsburg was
no fun
at all.
--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem first appeared in the January 2012 issue of My Favorite Bullet.)
at the filling station, the wayward bus docks,
and spills its water.
7 sexy adolescent boys
get up, go get something to drink,
piss, get a snack, and talk
to each other about things
of itinerant nature.
then, back on the bus,
the 7 boys, all chosen as their
high school's representatives to
this year's American Legion Boys State,
chat, and doze, and find hope in the
certainty that Williamsburg, Va,
is a nice town, with a good
campus (William & Mary), and
that, with a little luck and
good campaigning, charisma,
and charm, each of them
will be mock-elected to mock-office
and pass mock-bills and enact
mock-legislation in
the mock-assembly for the common good
of all those mock-assembled.
The American Legion wants
dreamers and doers. these 7
boys selected from their high school's
best and brightest
are there to do a job, make
their high school proud,
and indicate their
bulwark of society to
the culture of
belief systems that
are good, noble, and true.
hot dogs for dinner,
and
at night,
sleeping two to a dorm
room
on a campus lent to them
for the duration of their
stay (4 days),
there are
a plethora of
fuzzy-headed dreams,
some of them focused like
needle points going for the
hole of the button, some
of them drifting
like
american marigolds, just
before the
harvest.
**
i was one of the American
Legion Boys State boys in
that group of 7.
many years ago.
while on that bus heading
to that year's
American Legion Boys State, a classmate
of mine, Greg, who was tall
dark and handsome,
put his head on my shoulder
and slept while he thought that
i, too, was asleep.
all these years later
(i'm 59 years
old now), i still remember
that moment: Greg's head
resting on my shoulder,
my heart pounding, my heart
is pounding so hard i'm
afraid he'll hear it and wake
up and confirm what i'm thinking.
what i'm thinking is i love
this moment and i love
that Greg is resting his
head on my shoulder
and i love Greg and
i love Greg
and
i love Greg and
the word
"homosexual"
flashes like neon
on my forehead,
Greg's head
resting on my
shoulder,
please don't let him hear
my faggot heartbeat
don't let anyone see that
neon light stuck to
my forehead or
hear that bass-drum heart thump
as the bus nears its
destination,
as i see the King's Palace,
Williamsburg awaits.
**
now,
years later: things that i know:
i know that i'm a homosexual,
i know that Greg isn't, that he
never was, that
he got married to his high-school
sweetheart. i knew he wasn't
a homosexual when he put
his head on my shoulder on
that bus trip. i knew his was
an innocent, friendly, non-sexual,
guy-on-guy gesture, that he
was sleepy, wanted a comfortable place
to rest his head. a basketball
player, he'd no doubt done
this, slept on
their sleeping shoulders, with other
sleeping straight
guys on other bus trips, basketball
trips, teammates, buds.
**
but the sweetness of the gesture,
his head resting on my shoulder,
him asleep,
on me, me just a regular guy
at that moment, this,
just one of the things
regular guys do with regular guys,
affirming my normality
the most normal guy
on the bus sleeping
on me
my heart pounding and pounding,
me pretending to sleep,
wondering why he didn't
wake up to the
pounding of my heart.
the sweetness of the gesture.
the normalness
of normality.
**
Williamsburg awaits.
me getting off the bus,
going to my room assignment,
no memory of who i was
assigned to.
somebody who wanted to
get elected to something.
somebody, now that i
think back, somebody who did get
elected to something.
Williamsburg was
Williamsburg was
no fun
at all.
--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem first appeared in the January 2012 issue of My Favorite Bullet.)
Saturday, April 20, 2019
lagomorphic medicine
the easter bunny was having pain upon swallowing, so
he erected a tent and moved in to get away from all
the stress. however, about 7 or 8 sexy teenage
boys started hanging out in his tent, whether
he was there or not, and they liked to smoke
grass and jerk off together. sometimes
they even jerked one another off, in varied
rhythmic manipulations of each other's big hard
cum-spurting teenage man meat. even though
the easter bunny was again feeling fine --
no more problems on swallowing -- he
didn't move back home. he decided to just
live in the tent, permanently, and he accepted
the occasional presence of the 7 or 8
sexy teenage boys who hung out there from
time to time; sometimes they were
completely naked, and openly discussed
explicit sexual functionality without any apparent
embarrassment or inhibition. they enjoyed
watching the easter bunny paint all those
eggs, and, whenever, by accident, he
happened to break one, they immediately
dived right on in and consumed that egg.
they even learned the value of consuming
the shells, brittle bites, small pieces,
calcium good for what ails ya, be it
ear, nose, or throat.
--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem also appears in my book Gorilla Architecture, published by Interior Noise Press in 2011.)
the easter bunny was having pain upon swallowing, so
he erected a tent and moved in to get away from all
the stress. however, about 7 or 8 sexy teenage
boys started hanging out in his tent, whether
he was there or not, and they liked to smoke
grass and jerk off together. sometimes
they even jerked one another off, in varied
rhythmic manipulations of each other's big hard
cum-spurting teenage man meat. even though
the easter bunny was again feeling fine --
no more problems on swallowing -- he
didn't move back home. he decided to just
live in the tent, permanently, and he accepted
the occasional presence of the 7 or 8
sexy teenage boys who hung out there from
time to time; sometimes they were
completely naked, and openly discussed
explicit sexual functionality without any apparent
embarrassment or inhibition. they enjoyed
watching the easter bunny paint all those
eggs, and, whenever, by accident, he
happened to break one, they immediately
dived right on in and consumed that egg.
they even learned the value of consuming
the shells, brittle bites, small pieces,
calcium good for what ails ya, be it
ear, nose, or throat.
--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem also appears in my book Gorilla Architecture, published by Interior Noise Press in 2011.)
Friday, April 19, 2019
Thursday, April 18, 2019
good B.J. (conceptually speaking)
i like controversial art, but
i hate controversy.
i have written stuff
on bathroom walls, and i like
to read stuff that others have written
on bathroom walls.
i like seeing outrageous stuff
put on a wall, or on paper,
or made into a 3-dimensional work
of art,
or spread across a computer screen.
but i don't want to stand face-to-face
against somebody and scream
my words at them while they
disagree with what i say.
i don't want to see
the whites of their eyes,
i don't want to be able
to focus first-hand on
the pinks of their tongues.
i'd rather they read what
i have written, read
it while hundreds of
miles away from me,
and keep that distance.
does this make me
cowardly (probably), or
is it just a way for
me to maintain
my artistic objectivity?
(whatever that is.)
geee, i like controversial art,
but i hate controversy.
you know, i would never kill a pig
myself,
but i sure love to eat pork.
there's dirty work,
and then there's DIRTY work.
i love to read about two
cute teenage boys fucking each
other up the ass,
i love to see images of two
cute teenage boys fucking
each other up the ass,
but do i want to defend
that kind of art
face-to-face
to those who hate
it and who are offended
by it?
no.
but it's fun to
imagine the offended smoldering,
and sweating,
and getting their hackles up.
it's fun to have fun.
and tougher to explain why
fun IS fun.
knowing that people
look at art and
get mad
because of what they are
seeing,
is fun for me.
having somebody standing
in my face, yelling,
um,
not so much.
some acorns grow into great big oak
trees, but most of those
acorns just rot,
or get eaten by squirrels,
before anything can happen.
all those hot sexy teenage boys
spurting all that hot gooey cum,
most of it never seen,
most of it just
goes quietly down
a bathtub drain,
never bothers a soul,
not even
a bird gets to see it
go.
--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem also appears in my book String Bean, published by BareBackPress in March 2018. The poem first appeared in Chiron Review, Issue #96, Autumn 2011.)
i like controversial art, but
i hate controversy.
i have written stuff
on bathroom walls, and i like
to read stuff that others have written
on bathroom walls.
i like seeing outrageous stuff
put on a wall, or on paper,
or made into a 3-dimensional work
of art,
or spread across a computer screen.
but i don't want to stand face-to-face
against somebody and scream
my words at them while they
disagree with what i say.
i don't want to see
the whites of their eyes,
i don't want to be able
to focus first-hand on
the pinks of their tongues.
i'd rather they read what
i have written, read
it while hundreds of
miles away from me,
and keep that distance.
does this make me
cowardly (probably), or
is it just a way for
me to maintain
my artistic objectivity?
(whatever that is.)
geee, i like controversial art,
but i hate controversy.
you know, i would never kill a pig
myself,
but i sure love to eat pork.
there's dirty work,
and then there's DIRTY work.
i love to read about two
cute teenage boys fucking each
other up the ass,
i love to see images of two
cute teenage boys fucking
each other up the ass,
but do i want to defend
that kind of art
face-to-face
to those who hate
it and who are offended
by it?
no.
but it's fun to
imagine the offended smoldering,
and sweating,
and getting their hackles up.
it's fun to have fun.
and tougher to explain why
fun IS fun.
knowing that people
look at art and
get mad
because of what they are
seeing,
is fun for me.
having somebody standing
in my face, yelling,
um,
not so much.
some acorns grow into great big oak
trees, but most of those
acorns just rot,
or get eaten by squirrels,
before anything can happen.
all those hot sexy teenage boys
spurting all that hot gooey cum,
most of it never seen,
most of it just
goes quietly down
a bathtub drain,
never bothers a soul,
not even
a bird gets to see it
go.
--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem also appears in my book String Bean, published by BareBackPress in March 2018. The poem first appeared in Chiron Review, Issue #96, Autumn 2011.)
Tuesday, April 16, 2019
Oh this is indeed a wonderful book. Sweet, gentle, kind, and, every now and then, angry. The poems are conversational in style, easy-to-read, filled with images that linger in my brain like a series of my favorite stories. Actually, there's a mix of poems and prose in here, and I think his prose is so beautiful, so calm and matter-of-fact and conversational, so personal, that I'd call his prose pieces "prose poems".
I love this book. I've loved Michael Hathaway's poems for over 30 years now, and I still love them. I love his prose ("prose poems"), too. I recommend this book with my strongest possible recommendation. Good stuff! There's gentle humor, too (quite a bit of it, actually, see his poem "Flaming Orgasm" for example). He writes about love, death, sexy men, his cats, his life in rural Kansas, the people he's met and loved--family, friends, lovers. Oh, golly, this is good stuff! I highly recommend Postmarked Home: New and Selected Poems 1979-2019 by Michael Hathaway.
--Carl Miller Daniels
Monday, April 15, 2019
be kind to strangers
evidently my filing system isn't sophisticated enough
to answer these kinds of questions,
but where did adam's very first ejaculation
get spurted?
back before there was eve,
did adam lie there on his back, all hot and sexy
and sexed-up, and did he
tug gently on his big beautiful barely-used-at-all
dick until he spurted cum, and it went
all over his taut sexy chest and belly?
or did adam's very first ejaculation
happen while he was asleep,
while he was having this nebulous
murky kind of dream,
and when he woke up, his big smooth
dick was hard as a rock, and he
was spurting a little geyser of cum
all over himself?
back before there was eve,
i wonder: where DID adam spurt
his cum?
sweet sexy horned-up adam,
all sexed-up and his big dick
turgid and shapely and
just meant for gripping,
just the right shape and
texture, and form,
adam standing there in
the forest
tugging on it gently
and that rush of orgasmo-heat-
pleasure that jolted through
him while his dick
was spurting cum,
was that where the very
first adam ejaculation went?
onto the surface of
the mossy ground in the middle
of the hot sunny woods?
the sun beams on adam's sexy
naked shoulders,
cream-colored droplets on the
tops of his feet.
**
i've checked my filing
system several times,
but it's just not
sophisticated enough
to provide that kind
of information. where
oh where
DID adam spurt his
first blobs of cum? where
did they go? what did
they smell like, all gooey
and musky and male.
adam's nose quivering,
that look of sweet
puzzlement in
his sad sexy eyes.
--Carl Miller Daniels (This is the title poem from my book Be Kind to Strangers, which was published by BareBackPress in 2015. The poem first appeared in My Favorite Bullet, February 2014.)
evidently my filing system isn't sophisticated enough
to answer these kinds of questions,
but where did adam's very first ejaculation
get spurted?
back before there was eve,
did adam lie there on his back, all hot and sexy
and sexed-up, and did he
tug gently on his big beautiful barely-used-at-all
dick until he spurted cum, and it went
all over his taut sexy chest and belly?
or did adam's very first ejaculation
happen while he was asleep,
while he was having this nebulous
murky kind of dream,
and when he woke up, his big smooth
dick was hard as a rock, and he
was spurting a little geyser of cum
all over himself?
back before there was eve,
i wonder: where DID adam spurt
his cum?
sweet sexy horned-up adam,
all sexed-up and his big dick
turgid and shapely and
just meant for gripping,
just the right shape and
texture, and form,
adam standing there in
the forest
tugging on it gently
and that rush of orgasmo-heat-
pleasure that jolted through
him while his dick
was spurting cum,
was that where the very
first adam ejaculation went?
onto the surface of
the mossy ground in the middle
of the hot sunny woods?
the sun beams on adam's sexy
naked shoulders,
cream-colored droplets on the
tops of his feet.
**
i've checked my filing
system several times,
but it's just not
sophisticated enough
to provide that kind
of information. where
oh where
DID adam spurt his
first blobs of cum? where
did they go? what did
they smell like, all gooey
and musky and male.
adam's nose quivering,
that look of sweet
puzzlement in
his sad sexy eyes.
--Carl Miller Daniels (This is the title poem from my book Be Kind to Strangers, which was published by BareBackPress in 2015. The poem first appeared in My Favorite Bullet, February 2014.)
blowing out the candle
"the sky folded, and then split in two.
there were lots of flames in the split site.
like a zipper unzipped, and flames behind
the teeth of the zipper."
the good-looking sexy big-dicked teenage boy
was describing a recent dream he'd had.
the good-looking sexy big-dicked teenage boy
was saying these words to his psychologist.
his psychologist, a wise and, physically,
a very ugly man, but with a big
and beautiful heart,
said,
"so you clearly have feelings about
never having had sex before. is it flames
that you see waiting for you behind those labial lips
of a hot vagina?"
the good-looking sexy big-dicked teenage boy
cringed. "is it that obvious?" he asked.
"seems pretty damn obvious to me,"
said his psychologist.
then, almost inexplicably,
both the good-looking sexy big-dicked teenage boy
and his psychologist
chuckled. then, their chuckles broke into
warm friendly laughter.
they truly liked each other,
the good-looking sexy big-dicked teenage boy
and his psychologist,
and it
was a beautiful day
to talk, and swear, and
make peace out of anxiety,
sense out
of buffalo nickles,
all stacked up on top of each other,
leaning like the leaning tower of pisa,
or, jutting up,
like a penis.
"i suppose you'd really like
to get your virginity done and
over with,
wouldn't you?" said
his psychologist.
"yep," said the good-looking sexy big-dicked teenage boy.
"well," said his psychologist,
"let's talk about that some more, shall we?"
ah a nice day in that office, the walls
dark and varnished, and the smell of
furniture polish, quietly comforting.
--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem -- "blowing out the candle" -- appears in my book Be Kind to Strangers, published by BareBackPress in 2015. And "blowing out the candle" first appeared in The Commonline Journal, May 7, 2014.)
"the sky folded, and then split in two.
there were lots of flames in the split site.
like a zipper unzipped, and flames behind
the teeth of the zipper."
the good-looking sexy big-dicked teenage boy
was describing a recent dream he'd had.
the good-looking sexy big-dicked teenage boy
was saying these words to his psychologist.
his psychologist, a wise and, physically,
a very ugly man, but with a big
and beautiful heart,
said,
"so you clearly have feelings about
never having had sex before. is it flames
that you see waiting for you behind those labial lips
of a hot vagina?"
the good-looking sexy big-dicked teenage boy
cringed. "is it that obvious?" he asked.
"seems pretty damn obvious to me,"
said his psychologist.
then, almost inexplicably,
both the good-looking sexy big-dicked teenage boy
and his psychologist
chuckled. then, their chuckles broke into
warm friendly laughter.
they truly liked each other,
the good-looking sexy big-dicked teenage boy
and his psychologist,
and it
was a beautiful day
to talk, and swear, and
make peace out of anxiety,
sense out
of buffalo nickles,
all stacked up on top of each other,
leaning like the leaning tower of pisa,
or, jutting up,
like a penis.
"i suppose you'd really like
to get your virginity done and
over with,
wouldn't you?" said
his psychologist.
"yep," said the good-looking sexy big-dicked teenage boy.
"well," said his psychologist,
"let's talk about that some more, shall we?"
ah a nice day in that office, the walls
dark and varnished, and the smell of
furniture polish, quietly comforting.
--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem -- "blowing out the candle" -- appears in my book Be Kind to Strangers, published by BareBackPress in 2015. And "blowing out the candle" first appeared in The Commonline Journal, May 7, 2014.)
My other two blogs are these:
https://cmd2019.newtumbl.com/
and
https://humblr.social/@carlmillerdaniels
https://cmd2019.newtumbl.com/
and
https://humblr.social/@carlmillerdaniels
Sunday, April 14, 2019
twigs and biomorphism-sensitive phosphates
the spontaneous pillow fight
between the two sexy naked big-dicked young men
soon erupted into a battering ram of sex.
then, since the now-tattered-
and-torn pillows had big holes
in them anyway,
the two sexy naked big-dicked young men
decided to just spurt cum all over
them, give them "a
good slimy drenching"
and they took pictures of each other
jizzing those pillows. then, while
looking at pictures of themselves
spurting cum on the pillows,
the two sexy naked big-dicked young men
got so turned on again
that they had another
hour or so of
messy sloppy sex
with particular emphasis
on nipples
and armpits, and tight spaces
between clenched buttocks.
then, the two
sexy naked big-dicked young men
desecrated the
pillows again, as
evening began to fall,
and the room began to get
dark. suddenly there
was a shared moment of
epiphany: the essence
of zoological study
became apparent,
in an instant,
as the rules
of the biology midterm waiting for
them on monday
took on a life
of hairy testicular pouches
as the twists and turns of
inferential insinuation
became twine and twilight
for sweet slithery
metaphysical slime -- the tone of the
crescendo, the pace of the drawl,
perhaps another beer now, just
one though, the certainty of
monday
a bother,
but certainly not a
bleep.
--Carl Miller Daniels (2015)
the spontaneous pillow fight
between the two sexy naked big-dicked young men
soon erupted into a battering ram of sex.
then, since the now-tattered-
and-torn pillows had big holes
in them anyway,
the two sexy naked big-dicked young men
decided to just spurt cum all over
them, give them "a
good slimy drenching"
and they took pictures of each other
jizzing those pillows. then, while
looking at pictures of themselves
spurting cum on the pillows,
the two sexy naked big-dicked young men
got so turned on again
that they had another
hour or so of
messy sloppy sex
with particular emphasis
on nipples
and armpits, and tight spaces
between clenched buttocks.
then, the two
sexy naked big-dicked young men
desecrated the
pillows again, as
evening began to fall,
and the room began to get
dark. suddenly there
was a shared moment of
epiphany: the essence
of zoological study
became apparent,
in an instant,
as the rules
of the biology midterm waiting for
them on monday
took on a life
of hairy testicular pouches
as the twists and turns of
inferential insinuation
became twine and twilight
for sweet slithery
metaphysical slime -- the tone of the
crescendo, the pace of the drawl,
perhaps another beer now, just
one though, the certainty of
monday
a bother,
but certainly not a
bleep.
--Carl Miller Daniels (2015)
how many prawns can you eat?
the science of satiation says to keep on doing
something until you're full of it. teehee.
well, seriously now, the
science of satiation basically says,
you keep on eating until you
are full. then, you stop eating, because you
are full, and you don't want anything
else to eat, for a while anyway.
the science of satiation says to keep on doing
something until you are done, and
then you stop. for instance,
the beautiful big-dicked young man
keeps on masturbating, keeps on
rubbing and stroking and pumping away
on his big hard dick, until he
spurts cum. then, the
beautiful big-dicked young man stops
masturbating. and
the beautiful big-dicked young man doesn't
masturbate again until
he's in the mood again.
the science of satiation says the
beautiful big-dicked young man
will masturbate until he's done,
and then he won't masturbate anymore,
for a good while. but, that "good while"
part is open to interpretation.
the science of satiation is fuzzy on this point.
the science of satiation is indeterminant in
this area.
when does a person who has eaten
his or her fill need to eat again?
when does the beautiful big-dicked
young man need to masturbate again?
it is this "betweenness" in the
science of satiation that causes
so much head-scratching. between
one meal and the next. between
one masturbatory session and
the next. what does one DO with
all that betweenness? and, in
fact, how much betweenness
should there be? is there
some optimal amount of
betweenness? the science
of satiation is a world
of imprecision, of maybe's
and kinda's and sort-of's. when the
beautiful big-dicked young man
is masturbating, he is happy,
pleasant, and cheerful.
when the beautiful big-dicked
young man is eating, he
is happy, pleasant, and cheerful.
often, though, when he
is eating, he is thinking
about masturbating. when
will he get to masturbate again?
after dessert? or, should
he skip dessert, and get
right to the masturbating?
between meals, between
masturbation sessions,
drifting along in the
realm of betweenness,
the beautiful big-dicked young man
is lost, adrift, and
alone -- as the scientists
of satiation congratulate
themselves on the knowledge
they've amassed so far, and slap each
other on the back, until
one of them says stop.
--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem also appears in my book Gorilla Architecture, published by Interior Noise Press in 2011. Gorilla Architecture is currently for sale at good ole' Amazon.)
the science of satiation says to keep on doing
something until you're full of it. teehee.
well, seriously now, the
science of satiation basically says,
you keep on eating until you
are full. then, you stop eating, because you
are full, and you don't want anything
else to eat, for a while anyway.
the science of satiation says to keep on doing
something until you are done, and
then you stop. for instance,
the beautiful big-dicked young man
keeps on masturbating, keeps on
rubbing and stroking and pumping away
on his big hard dick, until he
spurts cum. then, the
beautiful big-dicked young man stops
masturbating. and
the beautiful big-dicked young man doesn't
masturbate again until
he's in the mood again.
the science of satiation says the
beautiful big-dicked young man
will masturbate until he's done,
and then he won't masturbate anymore,
for a good while. but, that "good while"
part is open to interpretation.
the science of satiation is fuzzy on this point.
the science of satiation is indeterminant in
this area.
when does a person who has eaten
his or her fill need to eat again?
when does the beautiful big-dicked
young man need to masturbate again?
it is this "betweenness" in the
science of satiation that causes
so much head-scratching. between
one meal and the next. between
one masturbatory session and
the next. what does one DO with
all that betweenness? and, in
fact, how much betweenness
should there be? is there
some optimal amount of
betweenness? the science
of satiation is a world
of imprecision, of maybe's
and kinda's and sort-of's. when the
beautiful big-dicked young man
is masturbating, he is happy,
pleasant, and cheerful.
when the beautiful big-dicked
young man is eating, he
is happy, pleasant, and cheerful.
often, though, when he
is eating, he is thinking
about masturbating. when
will he get to masturbate again?
after dessert? or, should
he skip dessert, and get
right to the masturbating?
between meals, between
masturbation sessions,
drifting along in the
realm of betweenness,
the beautiful big-dicked young man
is lost, adrift, and
alone -- as the scientists
of satiation congratulate
themselves on the knowledge
they've amassed so far, and slap each
other on the back, until
one of them says stop.
--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem also appears in my book Gorilla Architecture, published by Interior Noise Press in 2011. Gorilla Architecture is currently for sale at good ole' Amazon.)
Friday, April 12, 2019
springsummer winterfall
the sexy naked sophomore college boy and the
scrawny skinny naked freshman college boy
are sitting in their dorm room on
the bottom bunk, legs crossed, facing each other.
they are eating crackers.
the scrawny skinny naked freshman college boy
has sprouted quite a nice big hardon, and
the sexy naked sophomore college boy
comments: "you've got a hardon."
the scrawny skinny naked freshman college boy
replies: "these are certainly excellent crackers,
aren't they?"
then, with almost the accompanying "SPROING!" sound,
the sexy naked sophomore college boy sprouts
a nice big hardon, too.
the two boys sit there eating their crackers
and staring at each other's hardons.
"JERK-OFF BREAK!!" they both shout in
perfect unison.
and that's exactly what they do,
the sexy naked sophomore college boy and the
scrawny skinny naked freshman college boy,
sitting there across from each other
on the bottom bunk, jerking themselves off
until they spurt cum all over their own
naked chests and bellies.
then, with one graceful, seemingly pre-rehearsed
motion, they each grab a handful of tissues
from the nearby tissue box, and wipe
themselves off.
"well," says
the sexy naked sophomore college boy to the
scrawny skinny naked freshman college boy,
"back to the crackers?"
"they are tasty, aren't they?" says
the scrawny skinny naked freshman college boy,
"and salty, too."
"we like salt," say the two boys together.
"we do we do we do."
--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem also appears in my book Saline, published by Interior Noise Press in 2014.)
the sexy naked sophomore college boy and the
scrawny skinny naked freshman college boy
are sitting in their dorm room on
the bottom bunk, legs crossed, facing each other.
they are eating crackers.
the scrawny skinny naked freshman college boy
has sprouted quite a nice big hardon, and
the sexy naked sophomore college boy
comments: "you've got a hardon."
the scrawny skinny naked freshman college boy
replies: "these are certainly excellent crackers,
aren't they?"
then, with almost the accompanying "SPROING!" sound,
the sexy naked sophomore college boy sprouts
a nice big hardon, too.
the two boys sit there eating their crackers
and staring at each other's hardons.
"JERK-OFF BREAK!!" they both shout in
perfect unison.
and that's exactly what they do,
the sexy naked sophomore college boy and the
scrawny skinny naked freshman college boy,
sitting there across from each other
on the bottom bunk, jerking themselves off
until they spurt cum all over their own
naked chests and bellies.
then, with one graceful, seemingly pre-rehearsed
motion, they each grab a handful of tissues
from the nearby tissue box, and wipe
themselves off.
"well," says
the sexy naked sophomore college boy to the
scrawny skinny naked freshman college boy,
"back to the crackers?"
"they are tasty, aren't they?" says
the scrawny skinny naked freshman college boy,
"and salty, too."
"we like salt," say the two boys together.
"we do we do we do."
--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem also appears in my book Saline, published by Interior Noise Press in 2014.)
Thursday, April 11, 2019
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