Two "squid-themed" poems ---



different

squid ink on the tabletops.
squid ink on the sheets.
squid ink on the showerroom walls.
yes, for some reason unknown to medical science,
the sexy big-dicked teenage boy
spurted cum that looked like squid ink.
black and oily.
even just a tiny bit gritty.
embarrassed, the sexy big-dicked teenage boy
had gone to the doctor for examination.
after several tests,
the doctor had declared both
the sexy big-dicked teenage boy
and the sexy big-dicked teenage boy's
cum
"normal." "with just an atypical pigmentation."
"nothing to worry about."
still, though,
the sexy big-dicked teenage boy felt odd,
and strange.
he knew from pictures in dirty books,
and from pictures on computer screens,
and from the testaments of his friends,
that human male cum
was just not supposed to look like squid ink.
one afternoon, jerking off with
several of his cute male friends,
everyone just kept talking about
that "squid-ink" cum of his.
comparisons to each other's
cum were inevitable.
his was the only cum that looked like that.
there were smirks and chuckles.
at night,
the sexy big-dicked teenage boy
often dreamed of life underneath
the sea. in his dreams,
far below the ocean waves,
he sprouted tentacles, and,
when danger threatened, he
hid himself in clouds of squid-ink cum.
in the morning,
his sheets looked like a Jackson Pollock
painting,
or a Motherwell oil,
free and wild and uninhibited--exactly the
same emotions that
he wished
he felt, but didn't.
squid ink on the tabletops.
squid ink on the sheets.
squid ink on the showerroom walls.
it was all just kind of creepy.

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



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

squid fuckers

the big-dicked sexy naked boys killed
the squid by fucking it to death.
it made odd rubbery gurgling
sounds while they were
fucking it. they made slits
in its big gray body with
knives, and then they
inserted their dicks
into the slits, and fucked
away.  the squid didn't
bleed, not conventionally
anyway. it kind of oozed
grayish-green-yellow slippery
fluids, which made a sensual
lubricant for their big dicks
as these boys jammed their
hardened ramrod-stiff dicks into
the holes they'd made in
the squid flesh. a few times,
before it died, the squid
did seem to be in pain.
its flesh kind of quivered
as though an electric charge
were sizzling through it,
and a couple of big tentacles
flailed about helplessly. one
or two of them grazed the
naked backs and butts of
three or four of the hot
sexy sexually-frenzied boys
who were fucking it, but
mainly, it just lay there
and took it, a big squid,
too, its being-fucked body
at least 30 feet long, not even
counting the near-languid
tentacles; the number of boys
was 14 or so, all
fucking away at once,
slobber draining from their
open mouths, watching the
squid die, watching their
peers fuck with wild and
near-angry youthful frenzy,
the big gray body of
the dying squid.  after it
was dead, after the last
boy had spurted the last
of his big gooey wads
of cum into it,
the sexy big-dicked
broad-shouldered, ripple-
bellied boys stood around
naked staring at it.
then they waded into
the water, washed the
strange squid juices
off of their dicks
and bellies and hands
and feet. in fact, they
pretty much submerged
and just rinsed around
out there in the water,
the blazing sun beating
down on their broad shoulders
and wide backs and hair-plastered
heads and faces as
they popped up
out of the water
and exchanged looks that were boyishly
quizzical, even slightly naive and
goofy -- and yet there was an edge,
too, to the looks they gave each
other.  the looks they
exchanged were
confident, cocky
as it were;
there was a sense of pride,
there was a sense of accomplishment:
there was a sense that
they'd gotten away with it
this time,
and, that, next time, by golly,
they'd get away with it
again.

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