Two poems



there

the ghosts of dead guppies floated over his bed and
dropped their ghostly fish-shit onto him.
he lay there sweaty, big-dicked, young, good-looking, and
geeky. he had raised hundreds of guppies; actually, the
guppies he raised were a whole separate grouping of guppies
known as "fancy guppies" -- some of the fancy guppies that
he had raised
were so good-looking that he had sold them to a pet shop
for dozens of dollars per fish.
along the way, there was the culling of the
misfit guppies to make room for the good ones.
culling guppies involved dropping the rejects
into scalding water.  they died quickly. but
it wasn't pretty to see. he'd tried dropping
them into glasses of ice water instead of
into scalding water. but they seemed to linger
so long in the ice water that he switched back
to the scalding. they died fast in there,
and they looked as if they suffered
for a only few seconds while dying in the
scalding water, but they seemed to suffer
for minutes and minutes and minutes in
the ice water.
**
now, in his bedroom, lying in
his bed in the dark, surrounded by his dozen-or-so
aquariums, the bubbles bubbling constantly
from all the constant filtration, he threw
the covers off of himself and contemplated the
ghosts of dead guppies that floated over
him and the ghostly fish-shit that
dropped onto him.  he lay there
hot and horny, his big smooth cock
bulging against his white underpants,
and he wanted to masturbate so bad it
hurt, but the ghosts troubled him.
**
so he got out of bed and put on his robe
and went to the bathroom and stood in front
of the sink and masturbated there -- he
spurted his cum onto a glob of toilet paper
he'd laid across the sink, and then
he flushed it in a couple-three segments
down the toilet.  he felt better.
**
back in his room, lying in his bed,
bubbles bubbling from the fish tanks,
the only word that came to his mind
was "slimy" -- it flopped around
inside his head over and over
and "slimy" and "slimy" and
he went to sleep surrounded
by ghosts and ghostly fish-shit
and the sure sense of sliminess
that cast a pall on even the
sweetest of his dreams.

--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem appeared in Zygote in my Coffee, the special 100th Commemorative Edition, published in 2008.)

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

oh.

and just where DID those ancient Greeks get
their ideas about the desirability of
male-on-male butt fucking?
was it a companionship kind of a thing?
a dominance-submission kind of thing?
or just a pure sex thing--if it feels
good, do it. that sort of reasoning.
or perhaps there was no reasoning
involved at all--just going on pure
hot emotion and sexual frenzy. that's
all it took--two big beefy soldiers
out standing watch all alone, hot,
horny, needing to stay awake--why
not just a sturdy butt-fuck to help
pass the night? why not do it slick
and utterly silently, no moans, no
groans, eyes open and scanning
for any sort of danger, as they
slowly slip it to each other out
there on the outskirts of the
encampment?  in the morning,
there's no comment made about
the smiles on their faces,
the ruddy glow of their cheeks,
the sparkle in their eyes--
those who are observant
have seen these signs before,
exhibited many of these signs themselves
as a matter of fact, and more
than once--now re
the actual inception of
male-on-male butt fucking--
who was the very first to
suggest sticking it THERE?
"you wanna stick it WHERE?"
one of them may have said. or
perhaps, no words were uttered.
perhaps they just
perceived the possible & went
with it. complex is history.
certain the vagueries of
the pink & lonely flesh.

--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem appeared in Zygote in my Coffee, the special 100th Commemorative Edition, published in 2008.)