my own private SIDEWAYS

Wow is it time:
the rising of the dawn
on the
sexy naked young men, their arms
and legs tangled together
in the sheer biomorphic joy-bliss of
human contact,
the concomitant laughter
guttural, sensual,
sexual, and overtly light-hearted, yea
even giddy, the conversation vino-centric,
and actually quite horticulturally savvy,
the sunlight dapple-patterned upon skin,
wine of both colors splashed
and swallowed and spilled
liberally about. sexually, emotionally,
spiritually, and politically, much happens. wholistic
images triumph over close-ups. near the
end of the day, Bacchus himself makes
a surprise appearance--surprisingly
young and boy-virile is he, surprisingly
free of distracting leaves of
any kind, fig, grape, or any of
that kind of pseudo-clothing; these are
artistic choices, made with knowledge, founded
in certainty.  well, what else can all those sexy young
men do but resume the festivities?
flesh being what it is, the will being
notoriously willy-nilly,
the cabernet spirit of the day easily
translating itself into the pinot noir spirit
of the night --> special bonus features:
behind-the-scenes-revelations:
first, interviews with the stars:
all the sexy young men are warm and friendly,
as if they've known each other far longer
than the modest span of all
their tender young years.
you can see it in their eyes. you can
hear it in their voices.
next: application
of body makeup--
Bacchus is
warm and cuddly, his flesh willing,
his lips supple, gently stained as they are,
with the tinge of their most primitive red.

--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem appeared in FUCK!, Vol 9, Num 2, February 2006.)