Friday, May 31, 2019

Today is Walt Whitman's Birthday, May 31, 1819. He was born in West Hills, New York.


when i was a teenager,
i used to disappear into the woods near our house,
take off all my clothes, and jerk off,
repeatedly, sometimes 3 or 4 times
in a single afternoon. i remember
i'm spurting what felt like
two gallons of cum, all hot and gooey
and runny, and i'm all hot and sweaty and
good-looking, and my dick is hard nearly
all the time, and i'm kind of in a state
of orgiastic madness.
back then, i was also a
manic depressive suicidal mess.
soon to be institutionalized.
but, for those few hours there young and
naked and jerking off in the woods,
everything was nice,
the world was good,
and life didn't seem
nearly so crazy.

--Carl Miller Daniels


when my college roommate and i were both college juniors,
we were taking a nap, him in his bed, and, a few
feet away, me in my bed. he woke me up
saying "damn damn damn" as he jumped up out
of his bed and
rushed over to his closet.
"what?" i said.  "what!?"
he didn't tell me what was going on for a moment,
but, as he was taking off his pants and underpants,
he said, "a wet dream in a NAP," he said. "who
has a wet dream while taking a NAP?!"
"um," i said, trying to be friendly,
non-judgemental, kind, "i guess
it can just happen."
"guess so," he said, as he pulled
on a fresh pair of underpants, and
a new pair of pants. "on top
of that, i'm late for class," he
said, rushing out the door
of our little one-room
efficiency apartment.
leaving me there, alone.
still lying in my bed.
i got out of bed.
i went to his closet.
his pants, and his underpants,
the ones he'd been wearing
during the nap, were
still warm, and still had fresh
cum on them. the smell
was magic. cum. heavy,
musky. his cum.
my hot sexy roommate's
cum. my own dick was
hard as a rock.
i held his pants
and underpants
under my nose,
and i jerked off
into my own underpants.
bam! happened fast. i came.
just. like. that.
then. i felt a little
sick, almost nauseated.
i was in love with my
roommate. he was
sexy, sweet, and
a straight boy.
i was secretly,
not even sure yet
that it was so, but
pretty sure.
i was gay.
and in love
with him. and
had just jerked off
with his warm cum
in front of my face.
alone in our apartment.
my own underpants sticky
with my own hot cum.
i looked in the big
mirror on the back
of the bathroom door.
i was sexy, too. i was
good-looking, too.
would that ever
matter to him? what
would i do if it
no, him a straight
boy, and me,
secretly gay. the
odor of hot
cum in that
little room,
the taste of
hunger, the swirling
of ache.

--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem first appeared in Zygote in my Coffee, online issue #138, June 2012. It also appears in my book Saline, published by Interior Noise Press in 2014.)
minimalism: what's it all about?

In a world full of shit

murders + robberies
+ anomie
+ 50 quadzillion people
and a hundred zoozles thousand
more being born every

it's nice just to sit
and stare at a
brick with
blue paint on

--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem also appears in my book SHY BOYS AT HOME, published by Chiron Review Press way back in 1999.)

Wednesday, May 29, 2019

and how are we feeling today?

sometimes brain-sparks just shoot out
and flash intermittently.
in fact, sometimes when
the sexy naked big-dicked teenage boy
is jerking off in his bedroom,
he sees things.
for instance,
people walk in, and then they walk out. today,
while the sexy naked big-dicked teenage boy
is jerking off in his bedroom,
his vision of several gigantic bottles of beer
is interrupted by the sight of
sexy jamie bell walking on
in. jamie bell is very good-looking.
the sexy naked big-dicked teenage boy
has seen all of jamie bell's movies.
jamie bell is an actor, a very
sexy actor with great eyes
and a wry gentle grin.
now, in
the sexy naked big-dicked teenage boy's
jamie bell isn't wearing any clothes.
jamie bell moves to a position directly in
front of
the sexy naked big-dicked teenage boy,
and then,
jamie bell, too, starts jerking off.
they stand there staring at each
other, watching each other
tug on their own hot shiny dicks.
48 canaries began to sing.
a whole herd of houseflies goes
galloping across the ceiling.
"you know," says jamie bell to
the sexy naked big-dicked teenage boy,
"you're really quite a good-looking guy."
then, jamie bell starts spurting cum.
jamie bell's big gooey globs of cum
go all over the chest and belly
of the sexy naked big-dicked teenage boy.
and then
the sexy naked big-dicked teenage boy
starts spurting cum.
it goes all over the sexy naked chest
and belly
of jamie bell. jamie bell is very
good-natured about it all. he grins
his sexy wry crooked little gentle
jamie bell grin, and shrugs, in
his cutest kinda "ah shucks" style.
"ah well," says
jamie bell, as he fades into
the color of sun glow, and
the curtains in the room
spread to satin.
the sexy naked big-dicked teenage boy
takes a long hot shower.
the reality of
soap suds
has never been more in dispute.

--Carl Miller Daniels

Frankart "Hercules" bookends, made circa 1925
Another Blog of Mine

Another blog of mine is this one at newTumbl--

But you won't be able to see everything on my newTumbl blog unless you have a newTumbl account of your own. In general, you'll only be able to see the "G-rated" stuff, and not any of the "X-rated" stuff on my newTumbl blog, if don't have your own newTumbl account.

Tuesday, May 28, 2019

running man


reeking of fresh semen,
he walks into the room
and waits to be noticed.
the semen is his own, splattered onto his own naked
chest during a hot
masturbation session only 10 minutes
earlier and then left
there under his t-shirt, which is
now damp and blotchy with the oozy gooeyness
of his own sticky cum.
he who wears the scent of his own
semen is young -- a college
sophomore as a matter of fact -- and he is tall, sexy, blonde,
lanky, hot-looking; he has great lips. he wears tight
faded blue jeans. and that semen-dampened t-shirt. the
t-shirt is white, with a black-and-red image of Mickey
Mouse on the front, cum oozing gently around Mickey's ears.
the room into which he walks
is a large room, with
about 3 dozen young men in it.  any one of these
young men he can tell at a glance
he would be willing
to do intimate sexual things with. there is not
an ugly young man in this room.
he has never worn his own semen as cologne before.
today he's done it as a lark. and because he
feels, well, sort of evil. sort of angry.
sort of "in-your-face". sort of pissed off
at the world. (sort of, to use an old-fashioned
expression, "full of beans".)
the room into which he, reeking of cum, has just
walked, is in a private home,
the home of a professor of english literature.
it is a big, old, Georgian-style house, and,
the only UGLY man in this particular room is, in fact, the
professor of english literature. the long-time
partner of the english literature professor is
a sometimes perky/sometimes-pouty little man, also
ugly, but he is out of the
room at the moment, fetching ice.
the 3 dozen ATTRACTIVE young men are all students
belonging to the gay and lesbian campus group.
today's occasion is an afternoon party for this group,
to discuss books, politics, ideas, & ideals.
this time, only gay young men have
come to the party. no women have attended.
there is rumor of a schism. there is a rumor
that the women are forming their own
separate group. which is just fine with
he who wears the semen-scented t-shirt. (frankly,
he'd much rather look at boys.)
the ugly english literature professor
is talking to 3 or 4 attractive young men now.
they look bored, but polite.
he who carries the heavy musk of semen-scentedness on
his chest walks up to an
attractive young man at the opposite end of the
room. this attractive young man is wearing long pants,
white, and the shape of his big smooth cockhead is
clearly visible against the fabric of those white
"hi," says semen-shirt boy.
"hey," says cute white-pants boy, wrinkling up his nose
in a surprised and thoroughly interested manner.
"wanna fuck me outside in the garden right now?" says
semen-shirt boy. he says it loudly.
"er, um, er, um," says cute white-pants boy.
ugly english literature professor has wandered over.
"and you are???" ugly english literature professor
says to semen-shirt boy.
"i am trying to get fucked by this cute boy," says
semen-shirt boy. "we want to use your garden. we'll
find a secluded place. one with lots of bushes. we
"um, er, uh, um," says cute white-pants boy.
"i'm afraid this is not that kind of gathering," says
ugly english literature professor, trying
to smile through the look of horror and disapproval
that has captured his rictic face. and he seems to
have detected the odor of fresh semen, and is
eying the moist Mickey Mouse face of semen-shirt boy's
white front-dampened t-shirt.
by this time, semen-shirt boy has taken the hand of
cute white-pants boy and has started to
lead cute white-pants boy out of the big old elegant room.
"nevermind your goddamn garden" says semen-shirt boy. "we will
go fuck our brains out in the big dark forest that is
miles & miles away. i have my car."
semen-shirt boy says these words loudly, as he pulls cute
white-pants boy toward the door. cute white-pants boy does
not have to be pulled toward the door with very much
effort. cute white-pants boy
seems both aroused and amused by the direct language
and non-subtle approach of semen-shirt boy.
ugly little partner of ugly english literature
professor enters the room carrying a little glass bowl
of melting ice cubes.
ugly little partner gives semen-shirt boy and cute
white-pants boy the eye.
"not leaving so soon i hope?" say ugly little partner
of the ugly english literature professor.
"afraid we must," says semen-shirt boy.
"um er uh, ummm," says cute white-pants boy.
and with that, semen-shirt boy and cute white-pants boy are
out the door, in semen-shirt boy's car, the windows
down, the car going at a fast speed toward the forest,
toward sex, toward wild and hedonistic abandon, an
afternoon of unbridled sexual passion and
multi-orgasmic pleasure.  it's a little later now,
after they have parked the car and wandered into
the forest.
"i like it much better out here than at that
stuffy old party," says semen-shirt boy to
cute white-pants boy.  only now,
neither boy is wearing any of those items of apparel.
in fact, now, neither boy is wearing any apparel at all.
birds sing. breezes rush through the leaves and pine
needles of the trees that loom overhead.  "and god i hate
english literature," says semen-shirtless boy, as he
lies on his back, on a bed of moss, his legs lifted and spread
wide, with his toes almost touching his
broad sexy shoulders.
cute white-pantsless boy pushes his big smooth
cock deeper into the tight pink asshole of semen-shirtless
boy. "ummmmmm, nice," says
semen-shirtless boy.  "and,
as a matter of fact," adds semen-shirtless boy,
"i HATE literature. period. i HATE the word. i HATE the
term. it all just sounds so goddamn PRISSY, doesn't
"um," says cute white-pantsless boy, "um um um".
"exactly," says semen-shirtless boy, "now fuck me faster, ok?"
cute white-pantsless boy obliges, thrusting more quickly
than before, and even more deeply.
"ummmmmm" says semen-shirtless boy. "you're good. you're
hot. you're goddamn huge, too."
cute white-pantsless boy slobbers now; the slobber drips onto
semen-shirtless boy's smooth sexy chest. it mixes
there with the dried semen, and, as he's getting
semen-shirtless boy rubs the slobber into his skin
with his finger-tips, and smiles really quite
maniacally. "ahhhhhhh" say the two boys. "ahhhhhhh."

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

many years ago, i
had unprotected sex with
a total stranger
on a public beach.

he was really cute.

the cops didn't show up.

i didn't get sick.

in fact,
everything turned out fine.


--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem also appears in Chiron Review, Issue 114, Winter 2018.)
Junkie with Open Shirt by Edward Melcarth

Interior of a pottery bowl. Bowl was made by Paul Bogatay, 1934

The Footballer, by Winifred Turner, 1930s

Roseville creamware child's plate, 7 inches in diameter
Roseville creamware child's bowl, 8 inches in diameter

Frankart "Hercules" bookends, circa 1925

Rookwood vase, 1911, 8 1/2 inches tall (photo courtesy of Coleman Lewis)
Rookwood candlesticks, 1922, 7 inches tall (photo courtesy of Coleman Lewis)

Monday, May 27, 2019

creosote pineapple

let us go
into the realm
of elevated emotional states, and quickened heartbeat,
and big thick erections that occur so often,
they are practically every quarter hour.
its quick jounces and its apparent pulsating urgency.
let us go into his bedroom, where,
sometimes, after a
nap, and all alone,
in front of his own bedroom mirror,
the sexy naked big-dicked teenage boy
alters the flow of blood
to his heart,
and re-arranges his position so that
his dick points off more toward
one side, than toward the middle.
just a swivel of the
hips, really,
one buttock a little more
relaxed, than

--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem first appeared in The Commonline Journal, May 13, 2016.)


Poison Ivy

newly opened margarine tub

the dignity of cloth napkins

the sexy naked big-dicked boys are
out roaming the forests. their eyes are
praeternaturally bright and their teeth
are so white that they're dazzling.
the sexy naked big-dicked boys attack
wild animals and tear them into pieces and
swallow them raw. they are having the
time of their lives, these sexy naked
big-dicked boys, roaming around
wild and wild-eyed, taking what they want.
nothing can stop them.
after a successful day in which they
fell 3 deer and 2 wild pigs, as well as an elk, a moose,
and a mountain lion,
the sexy naked big-dicked boys
are lounging around beside a stream,
all of them masturbating
while they eat,
their big dicks hard
and throbbing and
periodically spurting out
big gooey plumes of hot runny cum.
then, after dining
and spurting cum,
a relatively peaceful mood hovers about the place,
and they settle down for conversation.
the sexy naked big-dicked boy who's
kinda in charge tonight -- they took a vote -- he also happens
to be the cutest guy there -- maybe effected the outcome
of the vote, maybe not -- anyhow, this guy gets to 
select the topic for this evening's
discussion.  when he announces it is "the history
of bipolar disorder and its treatment," at first
everyone has a real good chuckle, until they
realize he's goddamn serious.
then, out come the textbooks,
and it's right down to business.

--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem first appeared in The Commonline Journal, February 9, 2015.)
Succulents in greenhouse

couch rub

Kit Harington

hanes and oil and sweet face

"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.)

skinny studious blonde-haired teenage boy
walks along
miserable, depressed.
actually, he is seriously mentally
ill. he will soon attempt suicide
and be sent to a mental hospital where
he will be diagnosed as manic depressive.
he will spend 3 months there.
for now, though, he walks along
alone in the woods, saying
"all causes are already lost and
all time is already wasted."
he also says:
"hope is the mother of disappointment
and the father of despair."
even in the darkness of
depression, though, he has sexual urges.
he strips off his shirt and carries
it beside him.
then he stops and strips off his
pants and carries them beside him,
too. he walks along in only his
underpants and socks and tennis
shoes. his underpants are
tight white briefs. his big
smooth cock is bulging against
the front of them, its head
almost peeking out and over
the tight elastic waistband.
soon he stops walking.
he strips off
his underpants,
his big gently up-curved
cock projecting
out in front of him
like a smooth pink sapling.
he strokes his big
smooth cock; he feels
like he is making love
to the woods,
to the sacred grove; he
sees pagan spirits all around,
and when
the cum begins to spurt,
he feels so good his
mantra is almost
silent, but, as if
to accompany
the very last spurt
as it dribbles onto
the fallen leaves,
as if by themselves,
his lips form the
"all causes are already lost and
all time is already wasted."
"hope is the mother of disappointment
and the father of despair."
he knows something
is going to happen.
he knows things can't
go on like this,
the birds twittering over
his head, the sunflecks
on his
shoulders, mottling
his cock,
he sees darkness
on the horizon,
feels a dark-gray
shadow slowing down
the beat of his heart --
the future
blinks at him
like a bloated toad,
bumpy and full of acrid
nostril licks, the slimy
white sheen of
his own liberation curled
on the woodland leaves
like an afterbirth
for a
near-dead citizen.

--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem first appeared in FRiGG #11, January 19, 2006.)

Sunday, May 26, 2019

This photograph was taken from a glass plate negative created by W.R. Gray (1865-1947) at his studio in St. John, Kansas. Mr. Gray's photography equipment and 30,816 glass plate negatives were donated to the Stafford County Historical Society in 1986. This photograph also appears on page 120 of Chiron Review, Fall 2017, issue #109.

"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.)
plastic lizard and coins on table cloth

Liverworts in greenhouse

Lettuce, tomatoes, knife

Flap Jacks in greenhouse