Three 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.)

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

enter at your own risk

the spell was cast over the empty parking lot
as he stood peeing beside his car.
toads on the outskirts of the pavement
were twittering and clicking and clacking,
making all kinds of eerie amphibian sounds
as he stood peeing beside his car.
the pavement was hot, and his pee
splatted, almost hissed, and splashed
onto his tennis shoes while he peed
and listened to the little toads
in the distance.
he was sad and lonely, sexy and 17, his
big dick hanging out meaty and substantial
as he peed alone in the parking
lot, in the middle of that hot summer
night. after he'd done,
he pushed his dick back into
his pants, zipped up,
and got back into his car.
he started the engine,
but didn't put the car into
DRIVE. sad and lonely, sexy and 17,
he just sat there and listened
to the sound of the engine.
his thoughts were spinning around
kind of mish-mash inside
his head, and there was
nothing in particular he wanted to do.
so he just sat there
and listened to the sound
of his car engine,
the parking lot pavement hot,
and the night all around.
he listened to the sound
of the engine, strong
and dependable:
there was nothing else to do, so
that's pretty much just what he did
until the big cop drove over
and asked him to move on along,
so then that's just what he did,
the windows open, and him
breathing in the
steamy night air, swallowing
it as if it were
nourishment, tasty as
beer breath on the lips
of the one that he'd thought
he had loved.

--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem appeared in Underground Voices, October 1, 2010.)