Two poems



twist and shout

the muscles at the back of his neck
were so sexy they were practically like
his genitalia. i watched him
drying off from his shower.
my roommate. a swimmer on
the college swim team.
a sweet sexy guy.
we were both 19.
we were both good-looking,
him better than me, but
still, both.
now, at the age of 58,
looking back, and
back, i understand
that i was gay,
and wanted to be
straight. and that,
nonetheless,
i was in love
with him:
college swim team
swimmer with a great
body and wonderful
smile
and that, he,
no doubt, was straight.
there was nothing
he could do about
being so sexy,
though, nothing
he could do about
my secret lust
for him.
sometimes stuff
happened.  like
when we went camping
together, we rolled
together for warmth
on cold winter nights,
the snow pelting the
outside of the tent,
us huddled together
for comfort,
and warmth, our
voices low and
soft, seduction
could have been
in the air,
sex pumping
heart pumping
his voice deep
my voice not
as deep, together,
our two voices,
a gently throaty
rumble as
the snow fell
and fell
and fell.

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


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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.)