Friday, January 31, 2020
https://cmd2019.newtumbl.com/
But you won't be able to see everything on my newTumbl blog unless you have a newTumbl blog 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 you don't have your own newTumbl blog.
in certain situations toes begin to sweat
tall and slender,
blonde and good-looking,
the big-dicked blue-eyed boy
sometimes beats off 3 or 4 times a day,
maybe more.
this seems like a lot to him, and he wonders
if other boys beat off that much.
but he's too shy to ask anybody.
he washes the washrag he spurts his
cum into at the sink in the bathroom that
adjoins his room,
and often the washrag has
no time to dry out between uses,
and is still damp
when he spurts fresh cum into it.
3 or 4 times a day sure seems like a lot to him.
now,
he sits in his desk at school
in algebra ii class
and he thinks about
being at home in his room lying on his back
on his bed on top of his smooth soft light blue bedspread
beating off
and while he's thinking about
that,
his dick gets hard, and as he
sits there in algebra ii class aware
that his dick is hard and waiting for it to get
soft,
he is looking at the back
of the neck
of bruce macheson the star swimmer on the high
school swim team,
looking at the broad shoulders of bruce macheson,
looking at the backs of the ears of bruce macheson
he sits there looking at bruce macheson,
listens to formulae and the scrape of chalk,
wishing he were home in his own bedroom
on top of his light blue bedspread,
a little bothered by the thought
that bruce macheson might be
there in his bedroom, too,
a bit troubled to find his thoughts tentatively
prodding the possibility of bruce macheson, naked,
sitting on top of the soft blue bedspread,
bruce macheson naked and smooth beyond any sensible
expectation for smoothness,
bruce macheson's smooth muscular butt pressed tight
against the soft blue bedspread,
the smooth, little-nippled bruce macheson chest waiting
to be gently and
brazenly
licked.
he is disturbed by thoughts
of this nature in regard
to bruce macheson.
he stares at the pink
backs of bruce macheson's
sexy compact ears.
he wonders just how many times a day
bruce macheson
beats off.
at that instant, bruce macheson turns around,
looks at him
squarely in the eyes,
and softly says
"three." then,
bruce macheson
winks
knowledgeably, with
genuine
affection,
and that's when all those
toes really
begin to sweat.
--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem appeared in FUCK!, Vol 2, No 12, December 1999.)
tall and slender,
blonde and good-looking,
the big-dicked blue-eyed boy
sometimes beats off 3 or 4 times a day,
maybe more.
this seems like a lot to him, and he wonders
if other boys beat off that much.
but he's too shy to ask anybody.
he washes the washrag he spurts his
cum into at the sink in the bathroom that
adjoins his room,
and often the washrag has
no time to dry out between uses,
and is still damp
when he spurts fresh cum into it.
3 or 4 times a day sure seems like a lot to him.
now,
he sits in his desk at school
in algebra ii class
and he thinks about
being at home in his room lying on his back
on his bed on top of his smooth soft light blue bedspread
beating off
and while he's thinking about
that,
his dick gets hard, and as he
sits there in algebra ii class aware
that his dick is hard and waiting for it to get
soft,
he is looking at the back
of the neck
of bruce macheson the star swimmer on the high
school swim team,
looking at the broad shoulders of bruce macheson,
looking at the backs of the ears of bruce macheson
he sits there looking at bruce macheson,
listens to formulae and the scrape of chalk,
wishing he were home in his own bedroom
on top of his light blue bedspread,
a little bothered by the thought
that bruce macheson might be
there in his bedroom, too,
a bit troubled to find his thoughts tentatively
prodding the possibility of bruce macheson, naked,
sitting on top of the soft blue bedspread,
bruce macheson naked and smooth beyond any sensible
expectation for smoothness,
bruce macheson's smooth muscular butt pressed tight
against the soft blue bedspread,
the smooth, little-nippled bruce macheson chest waiting
to be gently and
brazenly
licked.
he is disturbed by thoughts
of this nature in regard
to bruce macheson.
he stares at the pink
backs of bruce macheson's
sexy compact ears.
he wonders just how many times a day
bruce macheson
beats off.
at that instant, bruce macheson turns around,
looks at him
squarely in the eyes,
and softly says
"three." then,
bruce macheson
winks
knowledgeably, with
genuine
affection,
and that's when all those
toes really
begin to sweat.
--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem appeared in FUCK!, Vol 2, No 12, December 1999.)
the hopscotch of philosophy
nowhere are the cattle bigger and more full of milk
than in that barn with the sexy naked big-dicked teenage boy.
oh how he wraps his fingers around their swollen teats
and fills buckets and jars and glasses with
their warm sweet milk. oh how he gives himself
over to absolute pleasure and bends down
and sucks their fresh milk right out of
their warm pink teats. the smell of their
warm hair, the smell of their hide,
the hay, the
crispy corn kernels upon which
they munch and work their jaws as
the sexy naked big-dicked teenage boy is
sitting on a little wooden 3-legged stool
in the sweet hay-smelling barn,
and he is milking all the cows that
are waiting for the loving touch of
his fingers on their teats, the loving
touch of his lips on their teats,
and as he sits there naked
big-dicked and happily horny
on the little 3-legged stool
in the hay-sweet-smelling barn,
he milks the big warm cows and he
drinks their
sweet warm milk
and he feels really really good
as his hot thick dick starts spurting
cum
he's not even touching his dick,
not touching his dick at all, but
he's touching all those teats, instead,
as he sits there on
the little 3-legged stool
the cow he has his hands on
at this moment now has his
freshly-spurted cum dripping
down her hot hairy
flank, and he
swallows, and
blinks, and goes
right on touching her
warm pink teats with
his hot eager fingers.
**
later, at the refrigerator
in the kitchen with
his mom,
he looks at the ice-cold cartons
of milk, but he can't
touch the stuff.
he just can't do it.
can't say what he means,
but if he could, though, it
would be something
about violating the sanctity of
worship, and
defiling the purity
of
joy.
**
"drink yer milk,"
she says.
"or it's gonna be the
paddle on your
sweet little butt."
**
at school that day,
the musky smell
of the other boys
tightens his own
scrotum,
puts a film
on his teeth.
--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem also appears in my book Be Kind to Strangers, published by BareBackPress in 2015.)
nowhere are the cattle bigger and more full of milk
than in that barn with the sexy naked big-dicked teenage boy.
oh how he wraps his fingers around their swollen teats
and fills buckets and jars and glasses with
their warm sweet milk. oh how he gives himself
over to absolute pleasure and bends down
and sucks their fresh milk right out of
their warm pink teats. the smell of their
warm hair, the smell of their hide,
the hay, the
crispy corn kernels upon which
they munch and work their jaws as
the sexy naked big-dicked teenage boy is
sitting on a little wooden 3-legged stool
in the sweet hay-smelling barn,
and he is milking all the cows that
are waiting for the loving touch of
his fingers on their teats, the loving
touch of his lips on their teats,
and as he sits there naked
big-dicked and happily horny
on the little 3-legged stool
in the hay-sweet-smelling barn,
he milks the big warm cows and he
drinks their
sweet warm milk
and he feels really really good
as his hot thick dick starts spurting
cum
he's not even touching his dick,
not touching his dick at all, but
he's touching all those teats, instead,
as he sits there on
the little 3-legged stool
the cow he has his hands on
at this moment now has his
freshly-spurted cum dripping
down her hot hairy
flank, and he
swallows, and
blinks, and goes
right on touching her
warm pink teats with
his hot eager fingers.
**
later, at the refrigerator
in the kitchen with
his mom,
he looks at the ice-cold cartons
of milk, but he can't
touch the stuff.
he just can't do it.
can't say what he means,
but if he could, though, it
would be something
about violating the sanctity of
worship, and
defiling the purity
of
joy.
**
"drink yer milk,"
she says.
"or it's gonna be the
paddle on your
sweet little butt."
**
at school that day,
the musky smell
of the other boys
tightens his own
scrotum,
puts a film
on his teeth.
--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem also appears in my book Be Kind to Strangers, published by BareBackPress in 2015.)
Thursday, January 30, 2020
more, please
one night an attractive
17-yr-old boy knocked
on his parents' bedroom door.
his mother, dressed in a long white
overly-fluffy bathrobe, opened the door.
his father lay in bed with the
covers up to his nipples
and waved in a friendly manner.
the sexy 17-yr-old boy
said, "i'm going out to
have sex for the first time
in my whole entire life,
hopefully with a tall
muscular good-looking guy."
the mother and father nodded
warmly, and smiled. the mother said
"ok but be sure and
pick somebody as nice and good-hearted
and sweet as you are. i hear
that that tommy schmidt down on 4th and Humbolt
is real nice. maybe you should go talk to
him."
the son nodded and said that he would.
the father nodded cheerfully.
the mother beamed.
she gently closed the bedroom door.
and so it was that the son left his parents' house
and went directly to the
apartment building on 4th and Humbolt.
with no hesitation at all, he
knocked on tommy schmidt's door.
tommy schmidt answered immediately.
he was 19. he was wearing only a towel.
he was hot and sexy-looking and he
had sweet, gentle, kind, human eyes.
the son said to tommy schmidt, "i want
to have sex with you. and then i want
you to come home with me and meet
my parents. is that okay with you?"
tommy schmidt said "why yes, i do
believe it is"
and the son went inside and
tommy schmidt closed the door
and they talked and fell in love
and had many hours of hot
varied sex. and so it was
that the son brought tommy schmidt home
to meet his parents. it happened
the very next day, shortly before dinnertime.
the parents liked tommy schmidt
instantly. they invited
him to stay for dinner. for dinner, there was
home-made parsnip soup, with
a crisp tossed garden salad, & crackers.
everyone talked and carried on
like they'd known each other for
ages. "i like your parents" said
tommy schmidt. "let's chew
real slow and savor
everything."
it was a lovely meal. it was
all simply too, too delicious.
--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem appeared in FUCK!, Vol 2, No 12, December 1999.)
one night an attractive
17-yr-old boy knocked
on his parents' bedroom door.
his mother, dressed in a long white
overly-fluffy bathrobe, opened the door.
his father lay in bed with the
covers up to his nipples
and waved in a friendly manner.
the sexy 17-yr-old boy
said, "i'm going out to
have sex for the first time
in my whole entire life,
hopefully with a tall
muscular good-looking guy."
the mother and father nodded
warmly, and smiled. the mother said
"ok but be sure and
pick somebody as nice and good-hearted
and sweet as you are. i hear
that that tommy schmidt down on 4th and Humbolt
is real nice. maybe you should go talk to
him."
the son nodded and said that he would.
the father nodded cheerfully.
the mother beamed.
she gently closed the bedroom door.
and so it was that the son left his parents' house
and went directly to the
apartment building on 4th and Humbolt.
with no hesitation at all, he
knocked on tommy schmidt's door.
tommy schmidt answered immediately.
he was 19. he was wearing only a towel.
he was hot and sexy-looking and he
had sweet, gentle, kind, human eyes.
the son said to tommy schmidt, "i want
to have sex with you. and then i want
you to come home with me and meet
my parents. is that okay with you?"
tommy schmidt said "why yes, i do
believe it is"
and the son went inside and
tommy schmidt closed the door
and they talked and fell in love
and had many hours of hot
varied sex. and so it was
that the son brought tommy schmidt home
to meet his parents. it happened
the very next day, shortly before dinnertime.
the parents liked tommy schmidt
instantly. they invited
him to stay for dinner. for dinner, there was
home-made parsnip soup, with
a crisp tossed garden salad, & crackers.
everyone talked and carried on
like they'd known each other for
ages. "i like your parents" said
tommy schmidt. "let's chew
real slow and savor
everything."
it was a lovely meal. it was
all simply too, too delicious.
--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem appeared in FUCK!, Vol 2, No 12, December 1999.)
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.)
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.)
Wednesday, January 29, 2020
Two poems
greco-roman wrestling
a car in the rain,
with two people inside it -- it is
a dark and gloomy rain, still daylight,
but fading toward dusk.
the driver is a man. the woman is his wife.
rain falls loudly on
their car,
makes the windows appear slick and
almost slimy.
the windshield wipers are on
full-speed.
**
the car moves on through
the rain, and, as the dusk arrives,
the man says "it'll be nice to
be home." "i'll say," says his wife.
**
it continues raining.
**
the man says something else to his
wife. but the rain is
so loud she can't hear what he said
but she nods agreement anyway.
**
the air in the car
smells wet,
and the rain is
so loud,
the radio is
franz kafka
without the
sardines.
--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem also appears in my book String Bean, published by BareBackPress in 2018.)
======================
trends and tendencies
concrete applications of mortar principles by
sexy shirtless big-dicked young men,
the building of a wall, stone by stone,
the sexy shirtless big-dicked young men
lifting stones, and applying mortar
between the stones, building
sexy beautiful rough young wall,
the sunshine on the
broad sexy backs
of
the sexy shirtless big-dicked young men
building a wall of
stones and mortar
and the sweat runs from
the armpits of
the sexy shirtless big-dicked young men
and the sweat drips down
their chests
the sexy shirtless big-dicked young men
build the stone wall
and apply the mortar
and
the sexy shirtless big-dicked young men
talk in gruff, throaty, low and gentle
voices
their
dicks bulge against the fronts
of their trousers
there
in the sunshine
among the rocks and mortar
and the sweat dripping off
hard pointy wet little nipples.
--Carl Miller Daniels (2015)
greco-roman wrestling
a car in the rain,
with two people inside it -- it is
a dark and gloomy rain, still daylight,
but fading toward dusk.
the driver is a man. the woman is his wife.
rain falls loudly on
their car,
makes the windows appear slick and
almost slimy.
the windshield wipers are on
full-speed.
**
the car moves on through
the rain, and, as the dusk arrives,
the man says "it'll be nice to
be home." "i'll say," says his wife.
**
it continues raining.
**
the man says something else to his
wife. but the rain is
so loud she can't hear what he said
but she nods agreement anyway.
**
the air in the car
smells wet,
and the rain is
so loud,
the radio is
franz kafka
without the
sardines.
--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem also appears in my book String Bean, published by BareBackPress in 2018.)
======================
trends and tendencies
concrete applications of mortar principles by
sexy shirtless big-dicked young men,
the building of a wall, stone by stone,
the sexy shirtless big-dicked young men
lifting stones, and applying mortar
between the stones, building
sexy beautiful rough young wall,
the sunshine on the
broad sexy backs
of
the sexy shirtless big-dicked young men
building a wall of
stones and mortar
and the sweat runs from
the armpits of
the sexy shirtless big-dicked young men
and the sweat drips down
their chests
the sexy shirtless big-dicked young men
build the stone wall
and apply the mortar
and
the sexy shirtless big-dicked young men
talk in gruff, throaty, low and gentle
voices
their
dicks bulge against the fronts
of their trousers
there
in the sunshine
among the rocks and mortar
and the sweat dripping off
hard pointy wet little nipples.
--Carl Miller Daniels (2015)
https://cmd2019.newtumbl.com/
But you won't be able to see everything on my newTumbl blog unless you have a newTumbl blog 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 you don't have your own newTumbl blog.
Two poems
borrowed not stolen
the characteristics of a grown-up young man include
independence, dependability, responsibility,
accountability, ability-to-love, ability-to-be-loved,
ability to both accept and give criticism graciously,
and, certainly, the successful
regulation of the frequency of his
masturbatory behavior.
of course he masturbates occasionally,
but never more than twice a day, and, when
the time arrives for him to
turn out the lights and
go to bed, he falls
asleep at once, and
dreams of garlic, but not
too much, sprinkled
skillfully and judiciously over
the pizza before it's pushed
deep into the bowels of the
red-hot oven.
--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem appeared in Underground Voices, January 2011.)
=======================================
punctuating
the supposition that
life here on earth
is a few punctuation marks
of pure bliss
marking passages of
otherwise limitless boredom
and despair
is
built on a sexual model.
**
i mean, take a cute naked
big-dicked young man.
he is physically able
to spurt cum, in his
prime, 5 maybe 6 times
a day.
**
assumption: these (let's
be generous) 6 episodes
of cum-spurting in any
single given day all
occur as a result of acts of
solitary masturbation.
**
nonetheless: these 6 bouts
of cum-spurting feel
incredibly incredibly
good. he stands there
naked hot and sweaty,
blood pounding, working
his big hard smooth cock
until it spurts a few
globs of cum, and during
those seconds of cum-spurting,
he's the happiest most blissful
guy in the world.
**
then, that punctuation mark
having been laid down, the rest of
the day continues, i.e., the rest of
the passage, continues --
drearily and drearily on until
he's ready to bare his
big smooth cock and spurt
some more hot gooey drippy cum.
**
i'm just saying that
the highs of life, the
moments of pure unfettered &
passionate joy, are few
and far between.
**
if you think those are
the only things that make
a day worthwhile, for instance,
then, by comparison, the
rest of each and every day
is just one big blah expanse
of blahness.
**
people who want joy all
the time, every moment
of every day, often
go crazy hoping that
life will eventually
be that way. they often
go crazy hoping that
joy of the kind
exemplified in a
sexy good-looking
naked young man having a really
great orgasm and spurting
big gooey droplets of cum,
that kind of joy will
be permanent, all the time,
day in and day out.
**
some people are
just
wishing and wishing
and wishing life could
be like that, one extended
cum-spurt, one jolt of
pure white-hot pleasure,
every moment.
every day.
**
wishing n wishing n wishing.
**
too much wishing, that'll
drive ya crazy, too.
**
sometimes he lies on his
back, pulls his knees over
his head, aims the tip
of his dick toward his
mouth, and tries to
hit his tongue when he
cums. variety is important,
but some things, well,
they remain pretty much constant.
--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem appeared in Zen Baby, Issue #20, alas the final issue, 2009.)
borrowed not stolen
the characteristics of a grown-up young man include
independence, dependability, responsibility,
accountability, ability-to-love, ability-to-be-loved,
ability to both accept and give criticism graciously,
and, certainly, the successful
regulation of the frequency of his
masturbatory behavior.
of course he masturbates occasionally,
but never more than twice a day, and, when
the time arrives for him to
turn out the lights and
go to bed, he falls
asleep at once, and
dreams of garlic, but not
too much, sprinkled
skillfully and judiciously over
the pizza before it's pushed
deep into the bowels of the
red-hot oven.
--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem appeared in Underground Voices, January 2011.)
=======================================
punctuating
the supposition that
life here on earth
is a few punctuation marks
of pure bliss
marking passages of
otherwise limitless boredom
and despair
is
built on a sexual model.
**
i mean, take a cute naked
big-dicked young man.
he is physically able
to spurt cum, in his
prime, 5 maybe 6 times
a day.
**
assumption: these (let's
be generous) 6 episodes
of cum-spurting in any
single given day all
occur as a result of acts of
solitary masturbation.
**
nonetheless: these 6 bouts
of cum-spurting feel
incredibly incredibly
good. he stands there
naked hot and sweaty,
blood pounding, working
his big hard smooth cock
until it spurts a few
globs of cum, and during
those seconds of cum-spurting,
he's the happiest most blissful
guy in the world.
**
then, that punctuation mark
having been laid down, the rest of
the day continues, i.e., the rest of
the passage, continues --
drearily and drearily on until
he's ready to bare his
big smooth cock and spurt
some more hot gooey drippy cum.
**
i'm just saying that
the highs of life, the
moments of pure unfettered &
passionate joy, are few
and far between.
**
if you think those are
the only things that make
a day worthwhile, for instance,
then, by comparison, the
rest of each and every day
is just one big blah expanse
of blahness.
**
people who want joy all
the time, every moment
of every day, often
go crazy hoping that
life will eventually
be that way. they often
go crazy hoping that
joy of the kind
exemplified in a
sexy good-looking
naked young man having a really
great orgasm and spurting
big gooey droplets of cum,
that kind of joy will
be permanent, all the time,
day in and day out.
**
some people are
just
wishing and wishing
and wishing life could
be like that, one extended
cum-spurt, one jolt of
pure white-hot pleasure,
every moment.
every day.
**
wishing n wishing n wishing.
**
too much wishing, that'll
drive ya crazy, too.
**
sometimes he lies on his
back, pulls his knees over
his head, aims the tip
of his dick toward his
mouth, and tries to
hit his tongue when he
cums. variety is important,
but some things, well,
they remain pretty much constant.
--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem appeared in Zen Baby, Issue #20, alas the final issue, 2009.)
Tuesday, January 28, 2020
green
cute boys who paint pictures with their dicks
are the bee's knees. cute boys who dip
the tips of their big dicks into paint,
and then paint pictures with their dicks,
are god's gift to the universe.
these cute boys work with big canvases,
mounted low on the easel.
their days are spent copious, surrounded
by beauty, enveloped in the scent
of their oily pubic hair.
sometimes these cute boys get so
excited while they are painting, their
dicks get so stiff, that their
hot freshly-spurted cum gets
mixed in with the paint on their
canvases, and dries there,
along with the paint. after
a day spent painting with
their dicks, the cute boys
who paint paintings with
their dicks settle into
a nice sudsy bath, and
try to get their hardworking
dicks clean, but, truth be
told, their dicks are
never really clean ever
again, but retain the
sheen, the tinge,
of rampant creativity.
as they get older,
these dyed-dick
boys never think of
themselves as tainted, or dirty,
but just, perhaps,
as gently used.
--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem also appears in my book Be Kind to Strangers, published by BareBackPress in 2015.)
cute boys who paint pictures with their dicks
are the bee's knees. cute boys who dip
the tips of their big dicks into paint,
and then paint pictures with their dicks,
are god's gift to the universe.
these cute boys work with big canvases,
mounted low on the easel.
their days are spent copious, surrounded
by beauty, enveloped in the scent
of their oily pubic hair.
sometimes these cute boys get so
excited while they are painting, their
dicks get so stiff, that their
hot freshly-spurted cum gets
mixed in with the paint on their
canvases, and dries there,
along with the paint. after
a day spent painting with
their dicks, the cute boys
who paint paintings with
their dicks settle into
a nice sudsy bath, and
try to get their hardworking
dicks clean, but, truth be
told, their dicks are
never really clean ever
again, but retain the
sheen, the tinge,
of rampant creativity.
as they get older,
these dyed-dick
boys never think of
themselves as tainted, or dirty,
but just, perhaps,
as gently used.
--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem also appears in my book Be Kind to Strangers, published by BareBackPress in 2015.)
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