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.)
Sunday, June 30, 2019
cranberry juice spritzer with twist of vodka pete, please
the swig and swagger of broad back and
big floppy cock and sexy tiny-nippled
chest--these were the things he noticed
as he sat, benched, eyes fixed
and roaming like lust-starved bulls,
targeting for zoom-in close the
great faces and naked
well-delineated-striated-style-
skinny-smooth-
tongue-tip-tasty
bellies
of sexy near-naked young men,
the cries of seabirds and the aerial
drift of cloud surfaces the pandemonium
center, the source of silent guttural
growls emanating from close to the back
of his throat, but, more likely,
from the very center of the
longing center that spread from
his chest-central, and crept on
down toward the realm of his
genital cockwad-minded ballsiness,
his heart going thump thump thump,
the sounds lost in the seascape
of bending skin and flexing muscle,
sinew tight but yet well lubricated
thoughts racing and flexing as only found
in the knees and the elbows anatomy
a shrill song of precision run amuck
on the landscape and
quagmire of neo-spunky and
quick-fingered transcendent desire.
--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem first appeared in FUCK!, June 2006, Vol. 9, No. 6. It also appears in my book String Bean.)
the swig and swagger of broad back and
big floppy cock and sexy tiny-nippled
chest--these were the things he noticed
as he sat, benched, eyes fixed
and roaming like lust-starved bulls,
targeting for zoom-in close the
great faces and naked
well-delineated-striated-style-
skinny-smooth-
tongue-tip-tasty
bellies
of sexy near-naked young men,
the cries of seabirds and the aerial
drift of cloud surfaces the pandemonium
center, the source of silent guttural
growls emanating from close to the back
of his throat, but, more likely,
from the very center of the
longing center that spread from
his chest-central, and crept on
down toward the realm of his
genital cockwad-minded ballsiness,
his heart going thump thump thump,
the sounds lost in the seascape
of bending skin and flexing muscle,
sinew tight but yet well lubricated
thoughts racing and flexing as only found
in the knees and the elbows anatomy
a shrill song of precision run amuck
on the landscape and
quagmire of neo-spunky and
quick-fingered transcendent desire.
--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem first appeared in FUCK!, June 2006, Vol. 9, No. 6. It also appears in my book String Bean.)
Saturday, June 29, 2019
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Friday, June 28, 2019
twice the size of our regular brand
millipedes on the resplendent landscapes of
theoretical principles of sex and sexuality
fascinated everyone, of course,
but none more than the
sexy naked big-dicked teenage boy.
when he thought about everything,
about the hair and the aroma and
the slipperiness of it all,
the millipede on the
stepping stone in the backyard
rolling up into a ball as a way
to protect itself from harm,
the sexy naked big-dicked teenage boy
knelt down and studied the
creature, the spiral of the
coil, the legs tugged in tight,
its little head protected in
the very center of the coil,
golly what a pretty creature
it is,
and
as
the sexy naked big-dicked teenage boy
stares at the millipede which has
rolled itself into a coil on
the stepping stone in his
backyard,
he contemplates being out here
naked,
hoping no one will observe
him out here,
where he shouldn't be naked--
it's not like he's an exhibitionist
or something, it's not like
he wants everyone to
see his big throbbing dick,
a part of nature as
sure as
the yellow dragonflies,
currently laying their eggs
in the crystal-clear fishpond
that his father loves
like a son.
--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem also appears in my book Gorilla Architecture, published by Interior Noise Press in 2011.)
millipedes on the resplendent landscapes of
theoretical principles of sex and sexuality
fascinated everyone, of course,
but none more than the
sexy naked big-dicked teenage boy.
when he thought about everything,
about the hair and the aroma and
the slipperiness of it all,
the millipede on the
stepping stone in the backyard
rolling up into a ball as a way
to protect itself from harm,
the sexy naked big-dicked teenage boy
knelt down and studied the
creature, the spiral of the
coil, the legs tugged in tight,
its little head protected in
the very center of the coil,
golly what a pretty creature
it is,
and
as
the sexy naked big-dicked teenage boy
stares at the millipede which has
rolled itself into a coil on
the stepping stone in his
backyard,
he contemplates being out here
naked,
hoping no one will observe
him out here,
where he shouldn't be naked--
it's not like he's an exhibitionist
or something, it's not like
he wants everyone to
see his big throbbing dick,
a part of nature as
sure as
the yellow dragonflies,
currently laying their eggs
in the crystal-clear fishpond
that his father loves
like a son.
--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem also appears in my book Gorilla Architecture, published by Interior Noise Press in 2011.)
The Basketball Diaries by Jim Carroll
Here's one of my favorite passages from the book--
Tonight I just stuck
it out in bed, radared the scene and slipped into some
baggy jeans, a tee-shirt (stayed barefoot) and went out
and up. "Up" is my roof, and what I do is simply take
off all my clothes, stand around awhile, a totally naked
young boy, stare into the star machine and jerk myself
off. Is it strange? Maybe, but it's certainly the most beau-
tiful and exciting way of masturbating I've experienced
since I first began my steady practice of the art when
I was just turning twelve . . .
Here's one of my favorite passages from the book--
Tonight I just stuck
it out in bed, radared the scene and slipped into some
baggy jeans, a tee-shirt (stayed barefoot) and went out
and up. "Up" is my roof, and what I do is simply take
off all my clothes, stand around awhile, a totally naked
young boy, stare into the star machine and jerk myself
off. Is it strange? Maybe, but it's certainly the most beau-
tiful and exciting way of masturbating I've experienced
since I first began my steady practice of the art when
I was just turning twelve . . .
Another blog of mine is this one at newTumbl--
https://cmd2019.newtumbl.com/
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.
BTW, the vegetables pictured above are Radishes.
Thursday, June 27, 2019
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.)
all quiet
the georgian tectonics of the speedo situation
resulted
in lots of sexy naked young men
dipping their dicks in watercolors and then
drawing watercolor pictures of themselves, naked,
hungry, eager for companionship, but,
alas, alone, alone, alone.
**
the dawning of advanced civilization
required
self-understanding, conceptualization
of the meaning
of midnight waking up hot and horny
and eager
for cum-spurting. certainty was sought,
a surcease of sorrow,
but mostly
sexy naked young men who wake up
horny in the middle of the night
just do
what sexy naked young men
have done for centuries:
they tug on their own big hard smooth
dicks until they spurt cum all
alone naked on their backs
in their lonely beds,
or,
they go to the beds of
their fellow sexy naked young
man friends, and, together,
they spurt their cum,
speaking in parables and hyperboles,
of sense and sensibility,
of
puberty vs maturity,
excitement vs the mundane,
as the clock
strikes 1 a.m., and the
stars twinkle like madness
gone public,
the reefers of desire
the plains
of
reason.
--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem also appears in my book Gorilla Architecture, published by Interior Noise Press in 2011.)
the georgian tectonics of the speedo situation
resulted
in lots of sexy naked young men
dipping their dicks in watercolors and then
drawing watercolor pictures of themselves, naked,
hungry, eager for companionship, but,
alas, alone, alone, alone.
**
the dawning of advanced civilization
required
self-understanding, conceptualization
of the meaning
of midnight waking up hot and horny
and eager
for cum-spurting. certainty was sought,
a surcease of sorrow,
but mostly
sexy naked young men who wake up
horny in the middle of the night
just do
what sexy naked young men
have done for centuries:
they tug on their own big hard smooth
dicks until they spurt cum all
alone naked on their backs
in their lonely beds,
or,
they go to the beds of
their fellow sexy naked young
man friends, and, together,
they spurt their cum,
speaking in parables and hyperboles,
of sense and sensibility,
of
puberty vs maturity,
excitement vs the mundane,
as the clock
strikes 1 a.m., and the
stars twinkle like madness
gone public,
the reefers of desire
the plains
of
reason.
--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem also appears in my book Gorilla Architecture, published by Interior Noise Press in 2011.)
Tuesday, June 25, 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.)
Monday, June 24, 2019
sometimes, time pitty-pats on quiet feet
it was unlikely that he would be overheard, but
still, though, the sexy young man
was always very very quiet when he
was masturbating. he lay on his
back, surrounded by dozens of others
who slept around him. it was on
the maximum security ward of
a psychiatric hospital. a handtowel
dangled from the head of the metal bed.
most of the other patients seemed to be
medicated to a far greater level
than he was. they slept the sleep
that would not end until they
were awaken by the orderlies
in the morning. him, though,
he wasn't as heavily medicated.
he guessed he wasn't as "sick"
as those with whom he was
surrounded. in the middle
of the night, looking at
the bars that covered the windows,
he felt the urgency of his
hard dick under the sheets,
and he masturbated into
the towel that he withdrew
oh so quietly from the head
of his bed, and, after
he came, he returned the
towel to its position where
it dried before morning.
he always wondered if his
towel was subsequently examined
by someone on the staff
for evidence
of masturbatory activity.
but, if it was, he was
never told about it.
when released from the
psychiatric hospital,
the sexy young man
for months and months
maintained his habit
of silent of so
very very silent masturbatory
activity. then, one night,
all alone in his own little
apartment, he decided
to groan and grunt and howl
as much as possible during
the whole procedure -- just
be as theatric as possible.
and so he writhed and
moaned and groaned and grunted
naked sweaty on his back
on the bed tugging with
great force and zest and zeal on
his great big smooth hard cock,
shaking the bed, rattling
the mattress and when
he spurted cum, he
howled like a wolf.
then, quiet again,
he lay there smiling
with such a silly grin
on his handsome face,
he felt almost sheepish.
"baaaaa" he said
softly, and then he
burst into sweet
gentle throaty laughter.
"baaa baaa baaa"
he said again. and then,
he giggled so
charmingly, it was
almost as though
he had never actually
been sick,
but, if he had been sick
(and ok, yeah, he
most certainly was), well,
those days were gone,
and, now, relaxed and
beautiful naked sweaty
on the soft
white sheets, wiggling
his toes, he
was quite sure those
days were behind him,
and that none of it would
ever happen again.
--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem first appeared in CommonLine E-Journal, Winter 2009. It also appears in my book Saline, published by Interior Noise Press in 2014.)
it was unlikely that he would be overheard, but
still, though, the sexy young man
was always very very quiet when he
was masturbating. he lay on his
back, surrounded by dozens of others
who slept around him. it was on
the maximum security ward of
a psychiatric hospital. a handtowel
dangled from the head of the metal bed.
most of the other patients seemed to be
medicated to a far greater level
than he was. they slept the sleep
that would not end until they
were awaken by the orderlies
in the morning. him, though,
he wasn't as heavily medicated.
he guessed he wasn't as "sick"
as those with whom he was
surrounded. in the middle
of the night, looking at
the bars that covered the windows,
he felt the urgency of his
hard dick under the sheets,
and he masturbated into
the towel that he withdrew
oh so quietly from the head
of his bed, and, after
he came, he returned the
towel to its position where
it dried before morning.
he always wondered if his
towel was subsequently examined
by someone on the staff
for evidence
of masturbatory activity.
but, if it was, he was
never told about it.
when released from the
psychiatric hospital,
the sexy young man
for months and months
maintained his habit
of silent of so
very very silent masturbatory
activity. then, one night,
all alone in his own little
apartment, he decided
to groan and grunt and howl
as much as possible during
the whole procedure -- just
be as theatric as possible.
and so he writhed and
moaned and groaned and grunted
naked sweaty on his back
on the bed tugging with
great force and zest and zeal on
his great big smooth hard cock,
shaking the bed, rattling
the mattress and when
he spurted cum, he
howled like a wolf.
then, quiet again,
he lay there smiling
with such a silly grin
on his handsome face,
he felt almost sheepish.
"baaaaa" he said
softly, and then he
burst into sweet
gentle throaty laughter.
"baaa baaa baaa"
he said again. and then,
he giggled so
charmingly, it was
almost as though
he had never actually
been sick,
but, if he had been sick
(and ok, yeah, he
most certainly was), well,
those days were gone,
and, now, relaxed and
beautiful naked sweaty
on the soft
white sheets, wiggling
his toes, he
was quite sure those
days were behind him,
and that none of it would
ever happen again.
--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem first appeared in CommonLine E-Journal, Winter 2009. It also appears in my book Saline, published by Interior Noise Press in 2014.)
Sunday, June 23, 2019
horsepower and the art of mustang maintenance
when well maintained,
cars still go quite fast even when
they're just drifting, such as when the driver's
foot is off the accelerator.
**
sometimes his car drifts; sometimes
it accelerates; but, at all times, it
is still going very very fast.
**
in fact, the cute guy driver
who is getting a blow job
says: "even when we're drifting,
we're still going really really fast."
**
and the cute guy passenger who
is giving the cute guy driver
the blow job lifts his lips
away from the cute guy driver's
great big saliva-slicked-up cock
for just a moment
and says: "yes, that's true: even
when we're drifting, we're still going
really really fast."
**
when the cute guy driver cums
and starts spurting a seemingly
endless series of cum globules
into the cute guy passenger's mouth,
and the cute guy passenger swallows and
swallows and swallows,
the car goes very very fast, then
drifts, but never moves slowly.
in fact, the momentum is always
more than adequately
maintained.
**
of course,
the best sexual adventures are often
devoid of any technological advancements
whatsoever (for example: raw naked sex in
the wilderness never
goes out of style),
but,
no matter what the demagogues tell you,
no matter what they preach,
and no matter what the manuals advise,
a blow job at 75 mph
always means those horses
are gonna
neigh.
--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem also appeared in FUCK!, Vol. 11, No. 2, February 2008.)
when well maintained,
cars still go quite fast even when
they're just drifting, such as when the driver's
foot is off the accelerator.
**
sometimes his car drifts; sometimes
it accelerates; but, at all times, it
is still going very very fast.
**
in fact, the cute guy driver
who is getting a blow job
says: "even when we're drifting,
we're still going really really fast."
**
and the cute guy passenger who
is giving the cute guy driver
the blow job lifts his lips
away from the cute guy driver's
great big saliva-slicked-up cock
for just a moment
and says: "yes, that's true: even
when we're drifting, we're still going
really really fast."
**
when the cute guy driver cums
and starts spurting a seemingly
endless series of cum globules
into the cute guy passenger's mouth,
and the cute guy passenger swallows and
swallows and swallows,
the car goes very very fast, then
drifts, but never moves slowly.
in fact, the momentum is always
more than adequately
maintained.
**
of course,
the best sexual adventures are often
devoid of any technological advancements
whatsoever (for example: raw naked sex in
the wilderness never
goes out of style),
but,
no matter what the demagogues tell you,
no matter what they preach,
and no matter what the manuals advise,
a blow job at 75 mph
always means those horses
are gonna
neigh.
--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem also appeared in FUCK!, Vol. 11, No. 2, February 2008.)
Saturday, June 22, 2019
a rather odd Saturday afternoon
so i'm taking a nap
and suddenly the aging Olympian Mark Spitz
crawls into bed with me
and his hands are all over me -- embarrassingly so,
actually, since i'm no spring chicken anymore myself,
and things, have well, sagged, etc., but his
hands are nonetheless all over me and i say to him
"i'm pretty much over-the-hill, body-wise, and
what do you see in me?" and Mark Spitz replies
"i really dig your poetry. it's hot. i like
your poetry a lot."
and he rubs his hands all over my skinny not-very-muscular
chest and explores my belly button with one of
his finger tips.
**
my hubby walks into the
bedroom at that moment. my hubby is not amused.
my hubby does not like Mark Spitz being
in bed with me. my hubby
says to Mark Spitz "get out of here right now!"
and to me, my hubby says, "and i'll have a LOT to say
to YOU later, buster."
my hubby has never ever called me "buster" and
his word choice is alarming.
**
Mark Spitz says to my hubby "i won 7 Olympic Gold Medals
in swimming, and this entitles me to certain
things in life, one of which is getting
to rub my hands all over Carl Miller Daniels' body
if that's what i want to do. Carl's poems are
great. i really dig Carl's poems, and I really dig Carl."
**
my hubby says "FUCK! YOU! MARK! FUCKIN! SPITZ!!! GET THE
HELL OUT OF HERE RIGHT NOW!!!!!"
**
Mark Spitz cops a feel to my aging but highly
excitable dick, and then he leaves, slamming
the front door behind him.
**
then it's just me and my hubby. "how the
HELL did Mark Spitz get in here?" he asks.
i really don't know the answer to that one.
"i really don't know," i say. "perhaps
the back door was unlocked?"
"hmmmm," says my hubby, a skeptical look
on his fuzzy face.
**
"ah well," i say. "at least he's gone
now, and it WAS kinda flattering, having
a great Olympic swimmer tell me he likes
my poetry."
**
"he's not even good-looking anymore,
is he?" says my hubby.
**
i quickly agree that Mark Spitz is
over-the-hill, and that he has not aged
at all gracefully. i say that Mark Spitz
is now flabby,
and things have sure sagged. also,
"he's put on weight" i add.
**
"we'll have to make sure to keep
that door locked," says my hubby.
"this has been a lesson to us."
**
"yes it has," i say. "yes it has."
--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem also appears in my book Saline, published by Interior Noise Press in 2014.)
so i'm taking a nap
and suddenly the aging Olympian Mark Spitz
crawls into bed with me
and his hands are all over me -- embarrassingly so,
actually, since i'm no spring chicken anymore myself,
and things, have well, sagged, etc., but his
hands are nonetheless all over me and i say to him
"i'm pretty much over-the-hill, body-wise, and
what do you see in me?" and Mark Spitz replies
"i really dig your poetry. it's hot. i like
your poetry a lot."
and he rubs his hands all over my skinny not-very-muscular
chest and explores my belly button with one of
his finger tips.
**
my hubby walks into the
bedroom at that moment. my hubby is not amused.
my hubby does not like Mark Spitz being
in bed with me. my hubby
says to Mark Spitz "get out of here right now!"
and to me, my hubby says, "and i'll have a LOT to say
to YOU later, buster."
my hubby has never ever called me "buster" and
his word choice is alarming.
**
Mark Spitz says to my hubby "i won 7 Olympic Gold Medals
in swimming, and this entitles me to certain
things in life, one of which is getting
to rub my hands all over Carl Miller Daniels' body
if that's what i want to do. Carl's poems are
great. i really dig Carl's poems, and I really dig Carl."
**
my hubby says "FUCK! YOU! MARK! FUCKIN! SPITZ!!! GET THE
HELL OUT OF HERE RIGHT NOW!!!!!"
**
Mark Spitz cops a feel to my aging but highly
excitable dick, and then he leaves, slamming
the front door behind him.
**
then it's just me and my hubby. "how the
HELL did Mark Spitz get in here?" he asks.
i really don't know the answer to that one.
"i really don't know," i say. "perhaps
the back door was unlocked?"
"hmmmm," says my hubby, a skeptical look
on his fuzzy face.
**
"ah well," i say. "at least he's gone
now, and it WAS kinda flattering, having
a great Olympic swimmer tell me he likes
my poetry."
**
"he's not even good-looking anymore,
is he?" says my hubby.
**
i quickly agree that Mark Spitz is
over-the-hill, and that he has not aged
at all gracefully. i say that Mark Spitz
is now flabby,
and things have sure sagged. also,
"he's put on weight" i add.
**
"we'll have to make sure to keep
that door locked," says my hubby.
"this has been a lesson to us."
**
"yes it has," i say. "yes it has."
--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem also appears in my book Saline, published by Interior Noise Press in 2014.)
Friday, June 21, 2019
ullage*
all the pretty flowers dipped their heads
in the rain, as if worshipping, or
afraid, or cold.
it was difficult for him to tell which
was their main emotion,
as he stood amongst them, wet,
cold, and shivering,
wearing only a t-shirt and
blue jeans, and nothing else. he was
barefooted.
he had just recently turned 26 years old.
he was 6 feet 4 inches
tall, skinny, handsome,
soaking wet and cold. oh, yes,
how well he knew:
spring rains can be very
cold. and this was one of them.
so he stood there shivering,
looking down at the wet bent dripping
flowers. he addressed one of
the daffodils: "i'm thinking
of quitting my job, moving
to a tropical island,
running around naked all
the time, fucking every
boy who wants me."
the daffodil replied: "but,
alas, when
the rain stops, you'll
still be standing here,
won't you? waiting
for me to tell you
what to do."
the 6-foot-4-inch-
tall-skinny-handsome young man
said: "that would be just
like me, wouldn't it?"
"yes, indeed, it certainly
would," said the wet, smug
daffodil.
the rain continued.
all the flowers
dripped, bent,
looking toward the
earth, as if there
lay the final answer.
"or perhaps i should
just go back inside
and have a drink?"
said the 6-foot-4-inch-
tall-skinny-handsome young man.
"yes, do," said the
daffodil. "and then you
should play with yourself:
but don't stick anything
up your butt this time.
that's just gross."
"i promise," said
the 6-foot-4-inch-
tall-skinny-handsome young man,
a twinkle in his eye--for he had
lied before, and
not to just
some goddamned flower.
he left the garden,
and
his footprints quickly filled
up with water,
even his toeprints,
even the prints left
by his little toes, yes,
even those,
as well.
*the amount of liquid within a container that
is lost during shipment or storage.
--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem appears in my book String Bean, published by BareBackPress in 2018. And the poem first appeared in The Commonline Journal, March 10, 2016.)
all the pretty flowers dipped their heads
in the rain, as if worshipping, or
afraid, or cold.
it was difficult for him to tell which
was their main emotion,
as he stood amongst them, wet,
cold, and shivering,
wearing only a t-shirt and
blue jeans, and nothing else. he was
barefooted.
he had just recently turned 26 years old.
he was 6 feet 4 inches
tall, skinny, handsome,
soaking wet and cold. oh, yes,
how well he knew:
spring rains can be very
cold. and this was one of them.
so he stood there shivering,
looking down at the wet bent dripping
flowers. he addressed one of
the daffodils: "i'm thinking
of quitting my job, moving
to a tropical island,
running around naked all
the time, fucking every
boy who wants me."
the daffodil replied: "but,
alas, when
the rain stops, you'll
still be standing here,
won't you? waiting
for me to tell you
what to do."
the 6-foot-4-inch-
tall-skinny-handsome young man
said: "that would be just
like me, wouldn't it?"
"yes, indeed, it certainly
would," said the wet, smug
daffodil.
the rain continued.
all the flowers
dripped, bent,
looking toward the
earth, as if there
lay the final answer.
"or perhaps i should
just go back inside
and have a drink?"
said the 6-foot-4-inch-
tall-skinny-handsome young man.
"yes, do," said the
daffodil. "and then you
should play with yourself:
but don't stick anything
up your butt this time.
that's just gross."
"i promise," said
the 6-foot-4-inch-
tall-skinny-handsome young man,
a twinkle in his eye--for he had
lied before, and
not to just
some goddamned flower.
he left the garden,
and
his footprints quickly filled
up with water,
even his toeprints,
even the prints left
by his little toes, yes,
even those,
as well.
*the amount of liquid within a container that
is lost during shipment or storage.
--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem appears in my book String Bean, published by BareBackPress in 2018. And the poem first appeared in The Commonline Journal, March 10, 2016.)
individual rights in the time of crisis
at the height of
the midatlantic drift,
the smiling mermen began pairing
off with one another most
charmingly,
and, attesting eagerly to their
masculine aquatic beauty,
gradually finding solace in
the soft fronds of kelp,
hundreds of yards long,
drifting like wedding gowns,
but even better.
**
when it began to rain
on the sexy lonely naked teenage boy,
he cussed everything he could
think of,
and the trees around him blushed,
and dropped all their leaves.
autumn had never in the history
of time been known to fall
this fast or
this hard.
**
while the mermen were fucking
each other with their mysteriously aligned
but highly functioning genitalia,
the sexy lonely naked teenage boy
began raking up all the fallen leaves,
and sweeping them out
to sea. it wasn't a pretty solution
to the problem, but sometimes elegance
is the first thing to go.
--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem also appears in my book String Bean, published by BareBackPress in 2018. The poem first appeared in Chiron Review, Issue #101, Fall 2015.)
at the height of
the midatlantic drift,
the smiling mermen began pairing
off with one another most
charmingly,
and, attesting eagerly to their
masculine aquatic beauty,
gradually finding solace in
the soft fronds of kelp,
hundreds of yards long,
drifting like wedding gowns,
but even better.
**
when it began to rain
on the sexy lonely naked teenage boy,
he cussed everything he could
think of,
and the trees around him blushed,
and dropped all their leaves.
autumn had never in the history
of time been known to fall
this fast or
this hard.
**
while the mermen were fucking
each other with their mysteriously aligned
but highly functioning genitalia,
the sexy lonely naked teenage boy
began raking up all the fallen leaves,
and sweeping them out
to sea. it wasn't a pretty solution
to the problem, but sometimes elegance
is the first thing to go.
--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem also appears in my book String Bean, published by BareBackPress in 2018. The poem first appeared in Chiron Review, Issue #101, Fall 2015.)
Thursday, June 20, 2019
the good ship lollipop
dead pigs are certainly tasty, aren't
they? except you're not supposed
to say you're eating a dead pig.
you're supposed to call it "ham" or
"pork". even though everyone
knows it's a dead pig:
spices up the nose,
and perhaps a hot dog up its
pink little piggy ass.
"if you think some of the boys in
LORD OF THE FLIES didn't
fuck some of the other boys
up their tight little asses,
well then,
you've just got no understanding
of great literature,"
thinks
the sexy naked big-dicked teenage boy
as
he watches himself jerk off
in front of the bathroom
mirror --
habits are such hard things
to break.
--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem also appears in my book Be Kind to Strangers, published by BareBackPress in 2015.)
dead pigs are certainly tasty, aren't
they? except you're not supposed
to say you're eating a dead pig.
you're supposed to call it "ham" or
"pork". even though everyone
knows it's a dead pig:
spices up the nose,
and perhaps a hot dog up its
pink little piggy ass.
"if you think some of the boys in
LORD OF THE FLIES didn't
fuck some of the other boys
up their tight little asses,
well then,
you've just got no understanding
of great literature,"
thinks
the sexy naked big-dicked teenage boy
as
he watches himself jerk off
in front of the bathroom
mirror --
habits are such hard things
to break.
--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem also appears in my book Be Kind to Strangers, published by BareBackPress in 2015.)
combo
the sexy naked big-dicked teenage boy was
eating a sandwich, savoring
his favorite part, the thick rich layer of mayonnaise.
his mayonnaise-induced euphoria lasted only a short while,
however, and then another species went extinct. but, just
a couple minutes after that,
a previously unknown species was discovered somewhere
in the lushness of the tropics. so he figured that made it okay.
**
the sexy naked big-dicked teenage boy
went back to eating his mayonnaise-slathered
sandwich. everything else was secondary: meat,
tomato, cheese. the mayonnaise was the
important element, the most desired flavor.
**
that night,
the sexy naked big-dicked teenage boy
heard on the news that
at least TWO HUNDRED brand-new deep-sea species
had just been discovered.
TWO HUNDRED!
this news made him smile.
he liked the idea that the earth was teeming
with life, all kinds of it.
**
lying naked in bed that night, on his back,
all the covers thrown off,
jerking off,
the sexy naked big-dicked teenage boy
smeared mayonnaise on his dick
and spurted cum all over his chest and
belly. he could practically feel
all those little spermatozoans wriggling
around on his skin, trapped in the
blobs of mayo that still clung to his
fingers and dick shaft. he could
sense their
wriggliness wane, however,
and quickly accepted the
knowledge that today
was their day
to die.
--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem also appeared in Chiron Review, Issue 102, Winter 2015. And it also appears in my book String Bean, published by BareBackPress in 2018.)
the sexy naked big-dicked teenage boy was
eating a sandwich, savoring
his favorite part, the thick rich layer of mayonnaise.
his mayonnaise-induced euphoria lasted only a short while,
however, and then another species went extinct. but, just
a couple minutes after that,
a previously unknown species was discovered somewhere
in the lushness of the tropics. so he figured that made it okay.
**
the sexy naked big-dicked teenage boy
went back to eating his mayonnaise-slathered
sandwich. everything else was secondary: meat,
tomato, cheese. the mayonnaise was the
important element, the most desired flavor.
**
that night,
the sexy naked big-dicked teenage boy
heard on the news that
at least TWO HUNDRED brand-new deep-sea species
had just been discovered.
TWO HUNDRED!
this news made him smile.
he liked the idea that the earth was teeming
with life, all kinds of it.
**
lying naked in bed that night, on his back,
all the covers thrown off,
jerking off,
the sexy naked big-dicked teenage boy
smeared mayonnaise on his dick
and spurted cum all over his chest and
belly. he could practically feel
all those little spermatozoans wriggling
around on his skin, trapped in the
blobs of mayo that still clung to his
fingers and dick shaft. he could
sense their
wriggliness wane, however,
and quickly accepted the
knowledge that today
was their day
to die.
--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem also appeared in Chiron Review, Issue 102, Winter 2015. And it also appears in my book String Bean, published by BareBackPress in 2018.)
Tuesday, June 18, 2019
formal thank-you letter not necessary for this gift
all the leaves fell off,
and their branches looked like
naked reaching arms, grabbing
for the sky. the tree bark
was cold and scratchy, and
the moss that was perched upon it
was brittle and
wispy, not soft
and green, but gray,
and harsh in texture,
as well as in tone.
oh how the sexy naked big-dicked teenage boy
longed for summer,
as he stood in the forest,
in the sunniest spot he could
find, but the air was still chilly
as he stood there in
the glow of the late-autumn sun,
tugging on his big hard dick,
tugging
with less enthusiasm than
he tugged on it in the summer,
when the sweat ran down
his back and butt
and dripped off his
balls and ran down his lean
muscular legs.
now, the bare branches
above him,
and all the leaves down on the ground,
the sexy naked big-dicked teenage boy
tugged on his dick
and waited for the electro-jolt of
wet sloppy orgasm,
and,
when it hit,
he spurted about 18 cum spurts
up against the bark of a nearby
tree, and watched the blotches of
his cum drip
down the filaments of
the crispy gray moss.
then, he began to shiver,
and got dressed quickly,
the chilly breath of
insistent winter
poking around inside
his nostrils,
licking the
lust right out
of his lungs.
--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem also appears in my book Saline, published by Interior Noise Press in 2014.)
all the leaves fell off,
and their branches looked like
naked reaching arms, grabbing
for the sky. the tree bark
was cold and scratchy, and
the moss that was perched upon it
was brittle and
wispy, not soft
and green, but gray,
and harsh in texture,
as well as in tone.
oh how the sexy naked big-dicked teenage boy
longed for summer,
as he stood in the forest,
in the sunniest spot he could
find, but the air was still chilly
as he stood there in
the glow of the late-autumn sun,
tugging on his big hard dick,
tugging
with less enthusiasm than
he tugged on it in the summer,
when the sweat ran down
his back and butt
and dripped off his
balls and ran down his lean
muscular legs.
now, the bare branches
above him,
and all the leaves down on the ground,
the sexy naked big-dicked teenage boy
tugged on his dick
and waited for the electro-jolt of
wet sloppy orgasm,
and,
when it hit,
he spurted about 18 cum spurts
up against the bark of a nearby
tree, and watched the blotches of
his cum drip
down the filaments of
the crispy gray moss.
then, he began to shiver,
and got dressed quickly,
the chilly breath of
insistent winter
poking around inside
his nostrils,
licking the
lust right out
of his lungs.
--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem also appears in my book Saline, published by Interior Noise Press in 2014.)
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
tense.
--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem also appears in my book String Bean, published by BareBackPress in 2018.)
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
tense.
--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem also appears in my book String Bean, published by BareBackPress in 2018.)
Monday, June 17, 2019
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