Two poems



head

a good-looking big-dicked sexy young man
is always aware that he is a sexual presence
in the universe, always aware that he is
a good-looking big-dicked sexy and sexual young man.
**
he is always aware of his dick. he is always aware
of his chest, his nipples, his
smooth muscular butt. he is always aware
of his balls, his asshole,
his lips, his teeth, his
wet pink tongue.
**
he
is always aware of his sexual
presence in the universe. walking around
in his apartment naked with
a hardon, he is it, the center,
the place of places; his dick
is the dick of dicks.
**
and oh how he twitches and gyrates
and perhaps even
makes animal-like
sounds as he gives himself over
entirely to
tugging on his own
great big smooth thick cock. he feels
entirely completely wholly
A TOTALLY SEXUAL BEING as he stands there
a vision of hot sexy-looking
masculine sensate demonstration, and
when he starts spurting
cum, he stands
transfixed even as his cum
splats against the mirror,
and begins to drip, oozing
toward the floor, which,
eventually, will get wiped
up, along with the surface
of the mirror.
**
sexy sexy sexy
young man--sometimes he
writhes naked on his unmade bed;
he writhes and writhes,
overwhelmed, torrid, knowing
what he knows, being what
he is: a sexual event
that is always happening.

--Carl Miller Daniels

============================

early winter

the bones in the school yard are mine.
they are what is left of me.
human bones.
my bones.
i know this makes no sense.
very little does. that's the
trouble with expecting stuff
to make sense when it doesn't.
have you ever watched a sexy big-dicked
teenage boy jerk off and then
watched him spurt his cum?
he just knows it feels good,
what he is doing. it doesn't
need to make sense that it
feels good. it just needs
to feel good. that's all
the "making sense" that is required.
perhaps this sexy big-dicked teenage boy
wants to stop masturbating, feels like
he does it too much. but he can't stop.
because it just feels too good
to give up.
one day he'll be a pile of
bones in the bottom of a box.
or a scattered pick-up sticks
of bones lying around in a school yard,
with a few vultures hovering
around, perhaps
hoping for a few scraps of flesh
that might still be clinging.
hope is a funny thing.
you can't really explain it, other
than sometimes when you want
things to turn out a certain way,
they sometimes do, and that
gets you to have expectations
for the future. good expectations.
good expectations for the future.
that ain't a bad definition of hope.
listen, my bones are bleaching
snow-white in that school yard,
while a sexy naked big-dicked teenage boy
spurts cum. he wishes things
could always be this way:
cum-spurting and cum-spurting
and cum-spurting, world without
end. but there are
clouds on the horizon,
funny twisty things
that go bump in the night,
squirrels that eat brains
instead of
peanuts.
or should that be the other
way around? as a matter of fact,
maybe everything should be
flipped over,
and tasted for authenticity.
lord knows,
a few good olives,
can make a good day
even better.

--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem also appears in my book Gorilla Architecture, published by Interior Noise Press in 2011 and currently available at Amazon. The poem first appeared in Zygote in my Coffee, online issue 133, June 2011.)