synapse

and when the mire and muck of quintessential sadness have
indeed lifted for the moment,
the skinny little blonde manic-depressive teenage boy
strips off his clothes and lies down naked
on his back on his bed and jerks off and
jerks off and jerks off and jerks off for at least
half the warm summer big-ole empty-house enjoy-it-while-u-can
afternoon--he spurts cum and spurts cum
and spurts cum and does it again and again and again
and spurts cum and spurts cum
until he lies there naked on his back spent and
tired and sagging like a wet blonde rag, and
then he stands up, wraps a towel
around his waist, unlocks his
bedroom door, walks across the
hall into the bathroom and takes a long
long long hot shower and he breathes
in the steam and he breathes in the
shampoo vapors and he breathes in the
soap vapors and he feels good and high
and sexy and sexual, a sexual sexy
good-looking erotico-male-boy
multi-orgasmo-cum-spurting big-dicked wonder
in the heart of the universe, and he wants to feel
this good all the time, he really
wants to feel this good all
the time, as the hot water begins
to run low, and he turns off the shower,
and he stands there wet and droopy,
the opaque ooziness of the
plastic curtain hanging there like a combination
of gossamer and pink-streaked yellow mucus.
he throws back the curtain. those
brittle little white plastic shower-curtain rings
make a clacking sound against the metal
shower rod. the bright little lights
that seemed to be shining from inside his eyeballs
go out. this all happens pretty fast.  when he
pees into the toilet, the splash hurts his ears.

--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem appeared in neo lampshadian outpost, Volume Y, Issue Three, July 30th, 2007.)