Sunday, May 31, 2020
my money's on the t-shirt he keeps under the front seat
the testosterone trucks, pickups, with one two three or four men
inside,
zoom by in the mornings on my way to work.
i picture all these men as
sex-hungry studs. i picture them going home to
their wives or girl friends after work, and just fucking those women
non-stop; and, on top of that, the women really really like it.
they yip and squeak and writhe as those big-dicked men
slide and glide and pump and push and shove their big dicks into
the vaginae of the their juicy sex-loving women. it goes on
half the night, the women yelping, the men pumping,
the men spurting near an entire pint of cum into their
women before the night is done. then the morning arrives,
they fuck their women one more time to do something
about their regular clockwork-dependable morning-hardons,
the sex-loving women moan and groan and cum as their big-dicked
men moan and groan and cum, and then those men are outa there,
on the road, in their pickup trucks, driving mean, or
riding mean, zooming in and out of traffic, on their way to work.
they don't seem calmed by their night of fucking. they
seem charged, energized, electrified, post-fuck mean.
i picture their big thick dicks still hard against
the insides of their stiff pants. i picture
them sitting there in the cabs unabashed showing
hardon and not another one of the men in the
cabs even takes a peek. they all sit there swearing
and work-thoughts-directed and thinking of the fucking
they did last night and the fucking they'll do tonight,
and those testosterone-filled pickups zoom between
cars and between 18-wheelers, zoom toward work and muscle-flexing
muscle-taxing mechanical electric chores. sometimes
i do wonder about the pickup trucks that contain only
a driver, and nobody else. those trucks move pretty
mean, too. i can almost never see the driver's face,
but it generally looks hard, stern; sometimes the driver
is kinda young, cute, sexy. but the eyes are cold.
i think he's thinking of his well-fucked girlfriend;
she was well-fucked last night, and she'll be well-fucked
tonight. his dick is hard. he's alone in the truck.
one hand is on the wheel. i'm pretty sure where
the other hand is. maybe: his pants are unzipped
entirely, his big cock jutting out of them, and with
that
free hand he is jerking himself off. zooming in and
out of traffic, one hand on the wheel, the other
hand on his big cock; he moves skillfully along
negotiating all obstacles. i wonder where the
cum goes when he spurts it. and i'm sure he
spurts it; he couldn't just sit there stroking his dick
thinking of the fucking he's done and the fucking
he's about to do, and then not spurt--just
zip it back up hard into his pants. nah, he spurts all right.
but into what? and where does it go. ah, the mysteries
of the road, the wonders of the highway.
--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem first appeared in FUCK!, Vol 7, No 11, November 2004. It also appears in my book Gorilla Architecture, published by Interior Noise Press in 2011.)
the testosterone trucks, pickups, with one two three or four men
inside,
zoom by in the mornings on my way to work.
i picture all these men as
sex-hungry studs. i picture them going home to
their wives or girl friends after work, and just fucking those women
non-stop; and, on top of that, the women really really like it.
they yip and squeak and writhe as those big-dicked men
slide and glide and pump and push and shove their big dicks into
the vaginae of the their juicy sex-loving women. it goes on
half the night, the women yelping, the men pumping,
the men spurting near an entire pint of cum into their
women before the night is done. then the morning arrives,
they fuck their women one more time to do something
about their regular clockwork-dependable morning-hardons,
the sex-loving women moan and groan and cum as their big-dicked
men moan and groan and cum, and then those men are outa there,
on the road, in their pickup trucks, driving mean, or
riding mean, zooming in and out of traffic, on their way to work.
they don't seem calmed by their night of fucking. they
seem charged, energized, electrified, post-fuck mean.
i picture their big thick dicks still hard against
the insides of their stiff pants. i picture
them sitting there in the cabs unabashed showing
hardon and not another one of the men in the
cabs even takes a peek. they all sit there swearing
and work-thoughts-directed and thinking of the fucking
they did last night and the fucking they'll do tonight,
and those testosterone-filled pickups zoom between
cars and between 18-wheelers, zoom toward work and muscle-flexing
muscle-taxing mechanical electric chores. sometimes
i do wonder about the pickup trucks that contain only
a driver, and nobody else. those trucks move pretty
mean, too. i can almost never see the driver's face,
but it generally looks hard, stern; sometimes the driver
is kinda young, cute, sexy. but the eyes are cold.
i think he's thinking of his well-fucked girlfriend;
she was well-fucked last night, and she'll be well-fucked
tonight. his dick is hard. he's alone in the truck.
one hand is on the wheel. i'm pretty sure where
the other hand is. maybe: his pants are unzipped
entirely, his big cock jutting out of them, and with
that
free hand he is jerking himself off. zooming in and
out of traffic, one hand on the wheel, the other
hand on his big cock; he moves skillfully along
negotiating all obstacles. i wonder where the
cum goes when he spurts it. and i'm sure he
spurts it; he couldn't just sit there stroking his dick
thinking of the fucking he's done and the fucking
he's about to do, and then not spurt--just
zip it back up hard into his pants. nah, he spurts all right.
but into what? and where does it go. ah, the mysteries
of the road, the wonders of the highway.
--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem first appeared in FUCK!, Vol 7, No 11, November 2004. It also appears in my book Gorilla Architecture, published by Interior Noise Press in 2011.)
Saturday, May 30, 2020
Two poems
distressing
after a long cold winter
a cute boy
on a warm day
takes off all his clothes
and lies down naked
on his back
in the sunshine in a
secluded woodland clearing.
he has a big smooth erection.
he wants to touch it
but is determined not to.
he thinks he's already
done entirely enough
of that kind of thing
during his life, thank
you --
his hands are
clasped
behind his
neck
he stares
determinedly
up at the
bright blue sky and
when his
cock jounces and spurts
cums all
by itself
he softly
says
"damn"
--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem appeared in Chiron Review, Issue #64, Spring 2001.)
========================================
what i know
i know about my dick
i know about some other dicks too
i know that when i see a guy's picture somewhere
and i say whoa this is a really REALLY great-looking guy that
a lot of people will agree with me
i know about being 44 yrs old
i know about being all the other
yrs old before that and 44 doesn't
exactly seem like the best age to be
i know about seeing my own poems in some cool zines
i know that it doen't always feel really good or really awful
or anything real extreme just oddly sad and
a little hot at the tips of my ears when i see my own poems
in print
i know that this poem sounds a little like
it might turn out to be crap but sometimes
it's hard to tell definitively what's crap
and what's not so ya gotta have a little patience
i know that one of the most beautiful things on
the planet is a lean lithe athletic boy who is
lying naked on his back on his bed
furiously stroking his great big cock
i know about bitching and moaning and groaning because
i do a lot of it
i know about bullshit because it's everywhere (gasp,
even here?)
i know about bourbon because i've tasted it once or twice (under-
statement i know about too)
i know about semen because i've seen a
lot of it and since i also know about honesty i know i should
tell you that a lot of the semen i've seen is my own
sometimes i even know
when to shut the hell up
but goddamn sometimes
i just don't
and as i try desperately to wind this thing
down, i'm wondering exactly
what that great-looking
movie star sexy boy/man Leonardo DiCaprio looks
like naked, he's rather skinny but
he's tall and has nice wide shoulders and
a nice little butt and
god what a wonderful face and
i suspect his great big cock
really is
i don't know that though, that's just a guess
--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem appeared in Lucid Moon, February 1997.)
distressing
after a long cold winter
a cute boy
on a warm day
takes off all his clothes
and lies down naked
on his back
in the sunshine in a
secluded woodland clearing.
he has a big smooth erection.
he wants to touch it
but is determined not to.
he thinks he's already
done entirely enough
of that kind of thing
during his life, thank
you --
his hands are
clasped
behind his
neck
he stares
determinedly
up at the
bright blue sky and
when his
cock jounces and spurts
cums all
by itself
he softly
says
"damn"
--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem appeared in Chiron Review, Issue #64, Spring 2001.)
========================================
what i know
i know about my dick
i know about some other dicks too
i know that when i see a guy's picture somewhere
and i say whoa this is a really REALLY great-looking guy that
a lot of people will agree with me
i know about being 44 yrs old
i know about being all the other
yrs old before that and 44 doesn't
exactly seem like the best age to be
i know about seeing my own poems in some cool zines
i know that it doen't always feel really good or really awful
or anything real extreme just oddly sad and
a little hot at the tips of my ears when i see my own poems
in print
i know that this poem sounds a little like
it might turn out to be crap but sometimes
it's hard to tell definitively what's crap
and what's not so ya gotta have a little patience
i know that one of the most beautiful things on
the planet is a lean lithe athletic boy who is
lying naked on his back on his bed
furiously stroking his great big cock
i know about bitching and moaning and groaning because
i do a lot of it
i know about bullshit because it's everywhere (gasp,
even here?)
i know about bourbon because i've tasted it once or twice (under-
statement i know about too)
i know about semen because i've seen a
lot of it and since i also know about honesty i know i should
tell you that a lot of the semen i've seen is my own
sometimes i even know
when to shut the hell up
but goddamn sometimes
i just don't
and as i try desperately to wind this thing
down, i'm wondering exactly
what that great-looking
movie star sexy boy/man Leonardo DiCaprio looks
like naked, he's rather skinny but
he's tall and has nice wide shoulders and
a nice little butt and
god what a wonderful face and
i suspect his great big cock
really is
i don't know that though, that's just a guess
--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem appeared in Lucid Moon, February 1997.)
Friday, May 29, 2020
Thursday, May 28, 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.
Touchers
I see you in small, state-supported
art museums where there aren't
enough guards to watch your every move.
You touch things.
You stealthily sidle up to a nice
bright Renoir, and extend your
index finger until its pink pad just
touches a rosy cheek or
dimpled chin of the painted surface.
You withdraw your finger quickly, and then
you tilt your head
slightly backwards and off to one side.
You seem very pleased at the boldness of your act,
as if you'd just touched old man Renoir himself,
and gotten away with it.
He was sitting in his wheelchair and his
nurse was dozing. You poked his fat bloated belly
and whispered in his ear. You told him
you'd like to
piss on him if you could get him alone,
and stain his fame, and wet
whatever luck it was that garnered him all this
attention, a place on this hallowed wall.
You step back from the canvas.
Your eyes are hard; they glow
with the secret triumph of
having touched
what you have every right to touch.
After all, you're a citizen. You pay
your taxes and
they helped pay for this thing.
There is sometimes genuine admiration
in your eyes,
as if you truly like the
painting and wouldn't mind
owning it yourself.
Generally you are nicely
dressed, prosperous-looking;
sometimes, after the touching of
a canvas, or the tapping of a
marble statue with your manicured
nail, you pause and
lift your finger to your nose,
sniffing delicately, as if
to assure yourself that
you actually did it -- just like, long ago,
you got your finger part-way into a
nice juicy back-seat vagina, and the proof
was right there for you to smell,
and savor, and take home to bed with you.
Sometimes a guard is lurking nearby.
Sometimes it might appear that
you're not being sneaky enough --
but I suspect that
you're just checking out
boundaries, testing borders,
making sure there's still
order throughout the land.
Perhaps you're even showing off
for the guard who observes you
as you move close to a painting,
then closer, very close, acting as if you
just want to see the texture better, perhaps,
or study a subtle detail.
You extend your finger as
if to point out something
to a friend, but the guard
knows you're touching the painting
before you're hardly sure of it yourself.
"Please don't touch," he says quickly.
And then you look at each other,
each with the same
semi-apologetic flicker of recognition
that does not judge or accuse,
but simply acknowledges
that each of you is here, existing, doing
what you must.
--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem appeared in Chiron Review, Vol XII, #3, Autumn 1993)
I see you in small, state-supported
art museums where there aren't
enough guards to watch your every move.
You touch things.
You stealthily sidle up to a nice
bright Renoir, and extend your
index finger until its pink pad just
touches a rosy cheek or
dimpled chin of the painted surface.
You withdraw your finger quickly, and then
you tilt your head
slightly backwards and off to one side.
You seem very pleased at the boldness of your act,
as if you'd just touched old man Renoir himself,
and gotten away with it.
He was sitting in his wheelchair and his
nurse was dozing. You poked his fat bloated belly
and whispered in his ear. You told him
you'd like to
piss on him if you could get him alone,
and stain his fame, and wet
whatever luck it was that garnered him all this
attention, a place on this hallowed wall.
You step back from the canvas.
Your eyes are hard; they glow
with the secret triumph of
having touched
what you have every right to touch.
After all, you're a citizen. You pay
your taxes and
they helped pay for this thing.
There is sometimes genuine admiration
in your eyes,
as if you truly like the
painting and wouldn't mind
owning it yourself.
Generally you are nicely
dressed, prosperous-looking;
sometimes, after the touching of
a canvas, or the tapping of a
marble statue with your manicured
nail, you pause and
lift your finger to your nose,
sniffing delicately, as if
to assure yourself that
you actually did it -- just like, long ago,
you got your finger part-way into a
nice juicy back-seat vagina, and the proof
was right there for you to smell,
and savor, and take home to bed with you.
Sometimes a guard is lurking nearby.
Sometimes it might appear that
you're not being sneaky enough --
but I suspect that
you're just checking out
boundaries, testing borders,
making sure there's still
order throughout the land.
Perhaps you're even showing off
for the guard who observes you
as you move close to a painting,
then closer, very close, acting as if you
just want to see the texture better, perhaps,
or study a subtle detail.
You extend your finger as
if to point out something
to a friend, but the guard
knows you're touching the painting
before you're hardly sure of it yourself.
"Please don't touch," he says quickly.
And then you look at each other,
each with the same
semi-apologetic flicker of recognition
that does not judge or accuse,
but simply acknowledges
that each of you is here, existing, doing
what you must.
--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem appeared in Chiron Review, Vol XII, #3, Autumn 1993)
Wednesday, May 27, 2020
Tuesday, May 26, 2020
fashion statement
the sexy naked big-dicked teenage boy
stood in front of the bathroom sink.
there was a goofy grin on his
handsome face.
"splishy splashy," said
the sexy naked big-dicked teenage boy
as he stood in front of
the mirror that was
mounted over the sink,
and splashed hot water into both of
his lightly-furred armpits.
"splishy splashy," said
the sexy naked big-dicked teenage boy,
once again.
**
he stuck out his tongue.
**
then he turned off the water,
dried his armpits,
went to his bedroom,
and lay down fetal position
on his big rumpled bed.
**
the sexy naked big-dicked teenage boy
slept. when he awoke, it
was morning,
the cows were eating the
grass in his front yard,
the dinosaurs were
picking off a few
of the slower cows
and gobbling them
down as the bloodied cows bellowed
horribly. the sexy naked big-dicked teenage boy
could see all of this as
the sunshine poured
in through
his open bedroom window right
onto his big hard
dick, making
it feel wonderfully
warm and potent.
the sexy naked big-dicked teenage boy
rolled onto his back,
spread his legs, aired
his balls, and tugged on
his big hard dick at quite a pleasant and
leisurely pace until
he spurted out a nice hot plume of
cum that was instantly
devoured by a swarm of hovering
dragonflies.
**
then,
the sexy naked big-dicked teenage boy
got out of bed, and, still
naked, walked out
into his yard
and picked up bits and pieces
of dead cow shards which
the dinosaurs had left behind.
he put those little shards of cow flesh
directly into his mouth,
and, after a bit of chewing,
swallowed them right on down.
**
then, he went back
into the house, locked
the door behind him,
and headed for the bathroom.
he brushed his teeth.
he brushed them for a long time.
the sexy naked big-dicked teenage boy
really wanted some answers.
he felt he was entitled to
some answers. he
really thought the world owed
him some answers.
this mint-flavor, for
instance. put some of
it on the tips of his nipples,
why the pleasure? why
the tiny hint of pain.
**
he thought he heard screams coming
from the back yard.
**
there was catnip in the
back yard, but oddly
enough, no cats.
--Carl Miller Daniels (2015)
the sexy naked big-dicked teenage boy
stood in front of the bathroom sink.
there was a goofy grin on his
handsome face.
"splishy splashy," said
the sexy naked big-dicked teenage boy
as he stood in front of
the mirror that was
mounted over the sink,
and splashed hot water into both of
his lightly-furred armpits.
"splishy splashy," said
the sexy naked big-dicked teenage boy,
once again.
**
he stuck out his tongue.
**
then he turned off the water,
dried his armpits,
went to his bedroom,
and lay down fetal position
on his big rumpled bed.
**
the sexy naked big-dicked teenage boy
slept. when he awoke, it
was morning,
the cows were eating the
grass in his front yard,
the dinosaurs were
picking off a few
of the slower cows
and gobbling them
down as the bloodied cows bellowed
horribly. the sexy naked big-dicked teenage boy
could see all of this as
the sunshine poured
in through
his open bedroom window right
onto his big hard
dick, making
it feel wonderfully
warm and potent.
the sexy naked big-dicked teenage boy
rolled onto his back,
spread his legs, aired
his balls, and tugged on
his big hard dick at quite a pleasant and
leisurely pace until
he spurted out a nice hot plume of
cum that was instantly
devoured by a swarm of hovering
dragonflies.
**
then,
the sexy naked big-dicked teenage boy
got out of bed, and, still
naked, walked out
into his yard
and picked up bits and pieces
of dead cow shards which
the dinosaurs had left behind.
he put those little shards of cow flesh
directly into his mouth,
and, after a bit of chewing,
swallowed them right on down.
**
then, he went back
into the house, locked
the door behind him,
and headed for the bathroom.
he brushed his teeth.
he brushed them for a long time.
the sexy naked big-dicked teenage boy
really wanted some answers.
he felt he was entitled to
some answers. he
really thought the world owed
him some answers.
this mint-flavor, for
instance. put some of
it on the tips of his nipples,
why the pleasure? why
the tiny hint of pain.
**
he thought he heard screams coming
from the back yard.
**
there was catnip in the
back yard, but oddly
enough, no cats.
--Carl Miller Daniels (2015)
quieting the weasels
as the banshees flew over the water,
jack the beautiful big-dicked boy
fucked his sexy boyfriend ray.
ray groaned and moaned with
great good pleasure, and jack
the beautiful big-dicked boy
kept on fucking ray's tight
pink little asshole until
ray yelped with joy
and jack shot about
40 big gooey wads of
hot wet slippery cum
right up ray's tight
little ass.
then, jack flipped ray
over and sucked on ray's
big tight cock until
ray filled jack's mouth
with hot smelly cum, and jack swallowed
it right on down, just like
a good boy.
**
then, still stark naked
and beautiful and sweaty,
jack and ray went walking
out on the moors,
as the stars burned bright,
and the banshees flew
over the water,
the sky a delicate
shade of slate-green,
perhaps with just a hint of truth,
the fingers of jack's right hand
wrapped tightly amongst
those of ray's left hand,
to ward off fear
of banshees
to ward off fear of
restless twigs on the ground
to ward off fear of
all sorts of things that
go bing and bang and
bump in
the night.
--Carl Miller Daniels (2014)
as the banshees flew over the water,
jack the beautiful big-dicked boy
fucked his sexy boyfriend ray.
ray groaned and moaned with
great good pleasure, and jack
the beautiful big-dicked boy
kept on fucking ray's tight
pink little asshole until
ray yelped with joy
and jack shot about
40 big gooey wads of
hot wet slippery cum
right up ray's tight
little ass.
then, jack flipped ray
over and sucked on ray's
big tight cock until
ray filled jack's mouth
with hot smelly cum, and jack swallowed
it right on down, just like
a good boy.
**
then, still stark naked
and beautiful and sweaty,
jack and ray went walking
out on the moors,
as the stars burned bright,
and the banshees flew
over the water,
the sky a delicate
shade of slate-green,
perhaps with just a hint of truth,
the fingers of jack's right hand
wrapped tightly amongst
those of ray's left hand,
to ward off fear
of banshees
to ward off fear of
restless twigs on the ground
to ward off fear of
all sorts of things that
go bing and bang and
bump in
the night.
--Carl Miller Daniels (2014)
Monday, May 25, 2020
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