Six poems -- all of these appeared in BareBack Magazine, September 2014, when I was a "Featured Poet" in that issue.



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.)



sparklers on the 4th of july

i'm just an old guy,
drifting into old age.
i'm thinking
back to
when i was young and sexy,
and now,
well,
i just grin at my innocence,
and smirk at my naievete.
**
all those sexy
young men today, though,
all those sexy young men with
their big sturdy dicks
and their wild eyes
and their wild dreams
of sexually representing
themselves to the world,
are still a fascinating
breed, a world unto themselves,
happy slaves to their big
beautiful erections,
fountains of cum,
their sexual scent of cum-musk
a heady and enticing brew.
they walk around
with their tight sexy sex pants
showing off what they've got,
they
feel whole and
alive
and
important.
**
me, old, and
dwindling,
and
my memory's still
pretty good though,
real good, in fact,
in some ways,
just too damn
good.

--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem also appears in my book String Bean, published by BareBackPress in 2018. The poem first appeared in BareBack Magazine, September 2014.)



the dewberry capital of america

almost nobody eats dewberries
anymore.
in fact, hardly anyone
has heard of them.
but there's a town in
north carolina that
grew rich off
dewberries. but
that happened
many years ago.
that town
still exists though,
a shadow of
its former self
as the saying
goes -- and
as the flies began gathering on the rotting dewberries,
the remains of the town sank into a chaos of antique stores
and tasty little cafes, the bamboo shoots shot up
100 feet, and the water tower rusted to a shade
of tawny blotchy brown. oh what a town it
had once been though, the pies and cakes
and tasty cookies, the envy of all those
all around, who came to soak up the goodies.
**
out in the old dewberry beds,
the sexy young men slunk into the
heart of the thorns, eyed each other
naked, and took action to commence
the spurting of cum--never took
very long, and after, the smoking
of cigarettes and the sipping
of advanced quality beer and ale,
the bluebirds cheerful as always,
as they sought solace in
the fronds of the ferns,
lapping at the edges
of where wonderous harvests
had once occurred. now, nobody
has even heard of a dewberry
anymore. things that were
once popular, no longer
are.
**
the sexy naked young men
slink from their hiding place
in the old dewberry beds,
go down to the river,
wash themselves nearly
clean. the hint
of lust hangs about
their ears, though,
and their scrotal sacs as well,
their fingertips
still delicate from
the ghostly antique blue.

--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem also appears in my book String Bean, published by BareBackPress in 2018. The poem first appeared in BareBack Magazine, September 2014.)



better pounce on it

when climbing the mountains with goats,
expect to wake from your dream
with the scent of musk clinging to
your pubic hair, the oily hair
of nannies and billies
having left a bit of residue
behind on your skin,
your fingertips,
your flared-out protesting nostrils.
you will not like these
smells clinging to you,
and the scent of
goats high in the mountains
was much more goat, and
much less mountain,
than you'd expected.
**
as the cattle cross the
road deep in the country,
and you sit there waiting
for them to hurry
up and get across, you
ask yourself why
you went for this drive
in the country in the
first place. you're in
unfamiliar territory here.
perhaps you're even lost.
the cattle take
their time, and
when finally a farmer
at the end of the line
shoos the last cow
on across, and waves
a friendly enough little
wave at you,
you are so glad
to be on your way,
that you almost
forget where you're
on your way back to.
**
later that night, sitting
down to dinner with your family,
you suddenly want to
see your
sexy teenage son completely naked,
and are almost about to
suggest that he take off his clothes,
then and there, and
show you, and everyone there,
what is surely his great big smooth
dick,
when
you stop those words,
and fill your mouth with
mashed potatoes, instead.
everyone looks at you a bit
funny,
and no, it's not just
your imagination.
**
adrift, the sky down
below you is filled with
birds -- crows, and sparrows,
and every size in between.
it's peaceful here.
you want to stay.

--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem also appears in my book Be Kind to Strangers, published by BareBackPress in 2015. Before that, it appeared in BareBack Magazine, September 2014.)



open window

on some pornographic websites, i see photographs of
guys pissing on each other.
these guys are cute young men (often
VERY cute young men),
and they seem to be having such fun pissing
on each other,
there's this look in their eyes,
kinda giddy, kinda wild, actually,
and they certainly give the impression
that pissing on each other is just
another way of having good clean sexual fun.
**
once, a long time ago,
i was in bed with a guy who asked
me to piss in his mouth.
so i did.
turns out i squirted so much pee into
his mouth that
he wasn't able to swallow it all
and
some of it dribbled down his chin,
and it was, well, sorta icky.
i was drunk and stoned at the time,
and i didn't think he was all that attractive,
and, well,
i guess the whole experience
wasn't very much fun for me,
and i kinda got the feeling
it didn't turn out to be so much
fun for him, either, since
i pissed such an unexpectedly
large volume of pee into
his mouth.
**
but the sexy good-looking naked
young men pissing on
each other in those
website photos sure look
like they're having fun.
**
sometimes i think
back about various things
i've done during my life.
various sexual things.
i'm sure most people
do that, from time to time.
think back over things
they've done.
things they wish they'd
done.
things that they'd have done
if they'd been given the chance.
things they might
still do,
perhaps in the
bathtub, so the
mattress won't get
wet.
**
not that a wet mattress is
the worst thing
in the world.
**
still, though,
i think
ya know what i mean.

--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem first appeared in BareBack Magazine, September 2014. It also appears in my book String Bean.)




plasma pilfering

zee-zuu
i am in my prime.
i am 27 years old
i am lean lithe athletic
my muscles are rippling
my shirt is off
i am sawing down a tree
that is blocking the view of
the mountains from the
back of our house
zee-zuu zee-zuu zee-zuu
the sound of my little
cross-cut saw as i saw
down a gigantic tulip poplar.
this is a big tree.
if it falls the wrong way,
it could fall on our house.
i am young, daring, foolish,
sexy.  my shirt is off
zee-zuu zee-zuu zee-zuu
the sound of my little saw
as i saw on that big
ole tree
my shirt off
my muscles rippling
sexy me as i
zee-zuu zee-zuu zee-zuu
and when the tree finally
falls, it falls in
the right direction
it doesn't hit the house
it falls down the mountain
just like i wanted
it to.
i go inside
strip off the few
clothes i'm wearing
masturbate in the shower
i feel good
really really
good
**
and now i'm 62 years old
no longer 27
no longer lean lithe athletic
no longer in the woods
suburbanized now
and just getting
older.
**
zee-zuu zee-zuu zee-zuu
hasn't anybody ever
heard a cross-cut saw, and
doesn't it really
make that sound?

--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem also appeared in BareBack Magazine, September 2014.)