Juan Fernandez el Labrador (Spanish, c. 1629-1700)
(via dappledwithshadow.com)
Tuesday, March 31, 2020
the dignity of cloth napkins
the sexy naked big-dicked boys are
out roaming the forests. their eyes are
praeternaturally bright and their teeth
are so white that they're dazzling.
the sexy naked big-dicked boys attack
wild animals and tear them into pieces and
swallow them raw. they are having the
time of their lives, these sexy naked
big-dicked boys, roaming around
wild and wild-eyed, taking what they want.
nothing can stop them.
after a successful day in which they
fell 3 deer and 2 wild pigs, as well as an elk, a moose,
and a mountain lion,
the sexy naked big-dicked boys
are lounging around beside a stream,
all of them masturbating
while they eat,
their big dicks hard
and throbbing and
periodically spurting out
big gooey plumes of hot runny cum.
then, after dining
and spurting cum,
a relatively peaceful mood hovers about the place,
and they settle down for conversation.
the sexy naked big-dicked boy who's
kinda in charge tonight -- they took a vote -- he also happens
to be the cutest guy there -- maybe effected the outcome
of the vote, maybe not -- anyhow, this guy gets to
select the topic for this evening's
discussion. when he announces it is "the history
of bipolar disorder and its treatment," at first
everyone has a real good chuckle, until they
realize he's goddamn serious.
then, out come the textbooks,
and it's right down to business.
--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem first appeared in The Commonline Journal, February 9, 2015.)
the sexy naked big-dicked boys are
out roaming the forests. their eyes are
praeternaturally bright and their teeth
are so white that they're dazzling.
the sexy naked big-dicked boys attack
wild animals and tear them into pieces and
swallow them raw. they are having the
time of their lives, these sexy naked
big-dicked boys, roaming around
wild and wild-eyed, taking what they want.
nothing can stop them.
after a successful day in which they
fell 3 deer and 2 wild pigs, as well as an elk, a moose,
and a mountain lion,
the sexy naked big-dicked boys
are lounging around beside a stream,
all of them masturbating
while they eat,
their big dicks hard
and throbbing and
periodically spurting out
big gooey plumes of hot runny cum.
then, after dining
and spurting cum,
a relatively peaceful mood hovers about the place,
and they settle down for conversation.
the sexy naked big-dicked boy who's
kinda in charge tonight -- they took a vote -- he also happens
to be the cutest guy there -- maybe effected the outcome
of the vote, maybe not -- anyhow, this guy gets to
select the topic for this evening's
discussion. when he announces it is "the history
of bipolar disorder and its treatment," at first
everyone has a real good chuckle, until they
realize he's goddamn serious.
then, out come the textbooks,
and it's right down to business.
--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem first appeared in The Commonline Journal, February 9, 2015.)
Monday, March 30, 2020
Sunday, March 29, 2020
just the thumbs
cute guys who writhe --
ah cute guys who writhe --
cute guys who really truly WRITHE,
cute guys who roll around naked
on top of the sheets and WRITHE,
really WRITHE, well, they are nothing short of
wonderful. twisting and
turning and rolling and extending
and flexing and well, WRITHING,
god, they are HOT.
cute guys who strip off all
their clothes and writhe,
who roll around naked
and exhibit paroxysms of ecstasy,
who stretch & wriggle & contort themselves
with the pleasure
and passion of being cute and naked
and sexual and alive and sensate
and who writhe and writhe
and writhe as the world
turns slowly: ah, cute guys who
writhe! ah! cute guys who really WRITHE,
and mean it! "contortion" doesn't
begin to describe what they do.
"extreme stretching and flexing" --
that doesn't do it justice either.
"twisting and turning and
displaying themselves passionately and
exuberantly" comes close. but
what these guys do is WRITHE. and
when you see them writhe, you'll
know that what you've seen is writhing, and
you'll know that you want to
see it again. by the way,
people also writhe in
the grips of pain, instead of
in the throes of joy. the
similarity of facial gestures can be
unsettling, and, to some, it is
quite troubling. saints.
ah the tears and screams of the saints.
echoing into the night,
old church walls
shedding their paint.
--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem first appeared in Zygote in My Coffee, print issue #6, Winter 2009. It also appears in my book String Bean.)
cute guys who writhe --
ah cute guys who writhe --
cute guys who really truly WRITHE,
cute guys who roll around naked
on top of the sheets and WRITHE,
really WRITHE, well, they are nothing short of
wonderful. twisting and
turning and rolling and extending
and flexing and well, WRITHING,
god, they are HOT.
cute guys who strip off all
their clothes and writhe,
who roll around naked
and exhibit paroxysms of ecstasy,
who stretch & wriggle & contort themselves
with the pleasure
and passion of being cute and naked
and sexual and alive and sensate
and who writhe and writhe
and writhe as the world
turns slowly: ah, cute guys who
writhe! ah! cute guys who really WRITHE,
and mean it! "contortion" doesn't
begin to describe what they do.
"extreme stretching and flexing" --
that doesn't do it justice either.
"twisting and turning and
displaying themselves passionately and
exuberantly" comes close. but
what these guys do is WRITHE. and
when you see them writhe, you'll
know that what you've seen is writhing, and
you'll know that you want to
see it again. by the way,
people also writhe in
the grips of pain, instead of
in the throes of joy. the
similarity of facial gestures can be
unsettling, and, to some, it is
quite troubling. saints.
ah the tears and screams of the saints.
echoing into the night,
old church walls
shedding their paint.
--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem first appeared in Zygote in My Coffee, print issue #6, Winter 2009. It also appears in my book String Bean.)
jupiter oil
in the heat of the afternoon
when the record player is playing on loud
and the sound of the shroud that
descends from the sky is
a beer-batter mix of joy and sorrow
and plans that will never be carried out,
that is when the two sexy naked big-dicked
teenage boys
suck on each other's hard pulsating dicks
and gulp down each other's hot
gooey sloppy cum
and inhale the scent of each
other's lightly curly musky pubic hair
and the record player plays really
loud
old-fashioned
a turntable and
everything that
goes along with
the spin of sunlight
on a disk of shiny plastic,
rotating at a constant speed,
for purity of sound,
maximum listening
pleasure, as the
two sexy naked big-dicked teenage boys
kiss each other's lips
and
appreciate everything else
that goes along with doing
that. the smell of
cum. the taste of
crackerjacks, true, an old-fashioned
snack food, but still
consumed at
various times
throughout the
vagaries of
just a regularly honest
live-long day.
--Carl Miller Daniels (2015)
in the heat of the afternoon
when the record player is playing on loud
and the sound of the shroud that
descends from the sky is
a beer-batter mix of joy and sorrow
and plans that will never be carried out,
that is when the two sexy naked big-dicked
teenage boys
suck on each other's hard pulsating dicks
and gulp down each other's hot
gooey sloppy cum
and inhale the scent of each
other's lightly curly musky pubic hair
and the record player plays really
loud
old-fashioned
a turntable and
everything that
goes along with
the spin of sunlight
on a disk of shiny plastic,
rotating at a constant speed,
for purity of sound,
maximum listening
pleasure, as the
two sexy naked big-dicked teenage boys
kiss each other's lips
and
appreciate everything else
that goes along with doing
that. the smell of
cum. the taste of
crackerjacks, true, an old-fashioned
snack food, but still
consumed at
various times
throughout the
vagaries of
just a regularly honest
live-long day.
--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.
Saturday, March 28, 2020
Friday, March 27, 2020
what if
specifically,
the green of the car wash,
the lurch of the drunken man.
these kinds of things are meaningless
unless you love the car wash,
unless you love the drunken man.
**
i once rode through a car wash
whose soft green liquid glow was so
exotic that i still remember it.
i once loved a drunken man
who never drank.
he was just drunk on life
all the fuckin' time.
i'd have fucked him in an
instant, though it never came
to that. though we did
take lots of long hot
showers together,
in the college dorm,
a magical environment where
darn near anything could have
happened,
like in the car wash,
when
the green glow of happiness
could have
stained the
skin
of the strongest man,
made little boys
weep
with giddy bubbly
excess.
--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem also appears in my book Gorilla Architecture, published by Interior Noise Press in 2011. It first appeared in My Favorite Bullet, Volume 11, Issue 1, January 2012. My Favorite Bullet is an online magazine, and this issue may be found here: http://www.myfavoritebullet.com/2012-1-Main.html.)
specifically,
the green of the car wash,
the lurch of the drunken man.
these kinds of things are meaningless
unless you love the car wash,
unless you love the drunken man.
**
i once rode through a car wash
whose soft green liquid glow was so
exotic that i still remember it.
i once loved a drunken man
who never drank.
he was just drunk on life
all the fuckin' time.
i'd have fucked him in an
instant, though it never came
to that. though we did
take lots of long hot
showers together,
in the college dorm,
a magical environment where
darn near anything could have
happened,
like in the car wash,
when
the green glow of happiness
could have
stained the
skin
of the strongest man,
made little boys
weep
with giddy bubbly
excess.
--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem also appears in my book Gorilla Architecture, published by Interior Noise Press in 2011. It first appeared in My Favorite Bullet, Volume 11, Issue 1, January 2012. My Favorite Bullet is an online magazine, and this issue may be found here: http://www.myfavoritebullet.com/2012-1-Main.html.)
Thursday, March 26, 2020
Wednesday, March 25, 2020
insomnia
of course,
some of the sounds that you hear in the night
are house-settling, wall-expanding, wall-contraction sounds,
but others are more difficult to place, harder to
classify, by far stranger and
more emotionally charged and anxious-feeling. such as:
good-looking broad-shouldered tight-backed young men
sit alone at night naked in
their hard chairs, the hard shiny wood sticking to their skin,
the backs of their legs; the curve of their smooth naked butts flattens only
slightly aginst
the slick, shiny, sweat-slick varnish.
they sit bent over, their chins almost touching the backs of their big-fingered hands,
writing their secret poems that they won't
show to anyone not even you
not even me
and
they swill a bit more beer and scratch their handsome heads
and touch their ample balls, apply fingertips to nipples,
scrawl a few more words of
beautiful-naked-young-man secret verse onto crinkled
bits of sweat-grimy paper.
suddenly they'll
stand up and
rush out,
they'll stuff their secret poems into hidden crevices,
they'll drill holes into sheer rock cliffs, stuff in the poems, cram them
deep into the deepest opening they can make, glob on layers
of syrupy and secretive gray cement. as they
slink naked through the darkness, they'll make
digging sounds with their fingernails and with other handy-dandy
sharp instruments, they'll make mixing sounds
in grimy metallic cement pots, their bare feet
moving gravel-against-gravel over night-blackened ground,
and what's more they'll growl their odd
pathetic sad little whispery croaking growls into
the big swirling mess of the
hidden night-black sky.
oh yes without a doubt, that's what some of those night-sounds are:
beautiful naked young men slinking through the
darkness, hiding their secret poems in dark empty
spaces, sliding things around, digging, mixing,
growling oddly and hauntingly, why good golly, it's almost a song.
late at night the house may settle and pop and
groan alarmingly and sometimes
sound like it's angry and in torment and
is going to eat you for supper, but those kinds of
sounds are neither sad enough nor desperate enough, nor
as seemingly doomed and lost and lonely, as the
sounds of young men
naked prowling the night hiding their poems -- but, once the difference
has been pointed out to you,
and with just a little bit more attention to detail on your part, you should easily
be able to
tell the
difference.
--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem appeared in FUCK!, Vol 3, Number 1, January 2000.)
of course,
some of the sounds that you hear in the night
are house-settling, wall-expanding, wall-contraction sounds,
but others are more difficult to place, harder to
classify, by far stranger and
more emotionally charged and anxious-feeling. such as:
good-looking broad-shouldered tight-backed young men
sit alone at night naked in
their hard chairs, the hard shiny wood sticking to their skin,
the backs of their legs; the curve of their smooth naked butts flattens only
slightly aginst
the slick, shiny, sweat-slick varnish.
they sit bent over, their chins almost touching the backs of their big-fingered hands,
writing their secret poems that they won't
show to anyone not even you
not even me
and
they swill a bit more beer and scratch their handsome heads
and touch their ample balls, apply fingertips to nipples,
scrawl a few more words of
beautiful-naked-young-man secret verse onto crinkled
bits of sweat-grimy paper.
suddenly they'll
stand up and
rush out,
they'll stuff their secret poems into hidden crevices,
they'll drill holes into sheer rock cliffs, stuff in the poems, cram them
deep into the deepest opening they can make, glob on layers
of syrupy and secretive gray cement. as they
slink naked through the darkness, they'll make
digging sounds with their fingernails and with other handy-dandy
sharp instruments, they'll make mixing sounds
in grimy metallic cement pots, their bare feet
moving gravel-against-gravel over night-blackened ground,
and what's more they'll growl their odd
pathetic sad little whispery croaking growls into
the big swirling mess of the
hidden night-black sky.
oh yes without a doubt, that's what some of those night-sounds are:
beautiful naked young men slinking through the
darkness, hiding their secret poems in dark empty
spaces, sliding things around, digging, mixing,
growling oddly and hauntingly, why good golly, it's almost a song.
late at night the house may settle and pop and
groan alarmingly and sometimes
sound like it's angry and in torment and
is going to eat you for supper, but those kinds of
sounds are neither sad enough nor desperate enough, nor
as seemingly doomed and lost and lonely, as the
sounds of young men
naked prowling the night hiding their poems -- but, once the difference
has been pointed out to you,
and with just a little bit more attention to detail on your part, you should easily
be able to
tell the
difference.
--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem appeared in FUCK!, Vol 3, Number 1, January 2000.)
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.
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