An enticing-looking Halloween drink -- I found this photograph at sexmencake on newTumbl. (Yes, this photograph also appears on my own newTumbl blog -- that's https://cmd2019.newtumbl.com/.)
different paths, same destination
when the mire, murk, and fog oozes out of the sky
and seeps into every micro-millimeter of his skin,
including that slightly ragged stuff right at
the edges of his big blocky toe nails,
he waxes nostalgic, undresses, observes
the reflection of his big sexy nicely-honed body in the
surface of the dark water. he likes the
night, being out here naked amongst the
night sounds and the fog chill. and he likes
it the best when the moon is full, which
it most certainly is tonight. he inhales the
darkness that encircles both himself,
and the full distant white-hot moon.
the thought that he might really be
a werewolf excites him. his dick gets hard.
his nipples tingle. the tight curly hair
that covers his perineum gets moist and oily with
sweat. he walks naked in the forest, shivering,
hot, alive, eager, sad. he thinks tonight
he might find another who is similar to
himself, and who is in a circumstance similar
to his own. if he found such a
creature, the two of them would copulate like
wild beasts on the dry leaves, their skin
scratched and blotchy with the encounter
of serrated leaf tips and scratchy fallen
twigs. he sits down on a smooth flat
rock, waits, jerks off, spurts his cum
off to the side and smells it as it
dribbles oozy and slow down the cool
night-darkened rockface. the moon is relentless,
shining down on him, turning his sexiness
blue and textured and alarming in the night.
later, he walks back to the pond,
finds his clothes, dresses, goes on
back home to his
astonishingly tidy little
apartment: a quiet place, where
nothing much ever really happens. it is
then that he discovers the muddy
footprints on the carpet, human,
but not quite. caressing happens,
as if from a shadow in the only dark corner.
he's confused, counts the sleep he gets, and
the dreams that he has. also, in the
morning, when he wakes, he has
a bite mark on his shoulder; it
doesn't look human, but close.
there's a memory of alcohol
somewhere in there, and when
the circuit breaker snaps itself
on, the cum he spurts
smells different, and kind
of like a wet furry dog. not
only that, there's a lot
of hair in the bathtub, black,
and matted against the drain.
his memory, normally so reliable,
needs a good talking to, and
a box of oatmeal lies ruined on the floor.
as for them --
the great "out there" --
the next time there's a full moon,
mosquitos are gonna be the least
of their problem. he grabs
a handful of halloween candy
and eats it, "devours" is more
like it -- and even when
pieces of it fall wet, orange, gooey, and
sticky onto his chest and
into his pubic hair, he still
refuses to put on his goddamn
clothes. "clothes are for
the civilians" he says, into
the wall-to-wall carpet
of his ironic little existence.
--Carl Miller Daniels (2005)
has one of those elongated faces;
a big sexy nose
and eyes spread wide apart
dark blue-gray irises a cold
a hot heart
is long and tall;
is boy crazy,
wolf boy REALLY wants
a boy, but hasn't had one
has a few ideas about how to
get one --
current great idea is
to head out alone at
the country woods
and just wait for a sexy boy
to suddenly appear, and so there
wolf boy is,
alone in the woods,
strips off his clothes,
sits there naked growling
he's loud, too,
loud enough to arouse suspicion
loud enough to arouse interest
loud enough to get noticed
but nobody's noticed so far --
he just sits there and growls naked
drinks beer all alone
his eyes blaze way too bright
he's a little too hungry
gathers on the tip of
his tongue and at the edges of
the wind whipping through the branches
tree bark clattering and crackly,
there sits the
in the woods,
his big cock long and thick and hard as a
he jerks himself off
half a dozen times before the night
goes on home
sliced apart by the
zizzing back & forth
sky, his lips
from the marks of his
--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem appeared in Chiron Review, Issue #66, Autumn 2001.)
Hi. Many years ago, I read Scott Heim's poem "The Collector". This is a wondrous and disturbing and beautiful poem. The poem appears in the chapbook Saved from Drowning by Scott Heim, published by Chiron Review Press in 1993. I loved the poem when I first read it in 1993, and I love the poem now. I've thought about this poem many times over the years. The imagery is vivid, and the topics addressed could be considered to be "taboo". In short, exactly the kind of poetry I love best! I am glad to be able to share this poem with you here. I suspect you'll find it just as memorable and disturbing as I do. Best wishes and Happy Halloween! --Carl Miller Daniels
Tonight, I feel life's downward spiral
reversing. I've waited years
for something like this. No doubt they were smiling
when they died, returning from another win,
the ice cream truck speeding from the bridge's curve
to smash the side of the bus. Three
stars of the football team, gone.
Monday will fill the halls with pool-eyed girls,
teachers thumbing yearbooks, a stupid throng
sniffling beside lockers bedecked
with Polaroids and jersey numbers.
But all that's hours away.
Tonight is mine.
After three, I leave my room.
I abandon these comic books and stamps;
these butterflies and beetles soaked with alcohol.
I walk the darkest avenues of this worthless town.
Hymns from crickets: they know what's happened.
It's the only sound as I head for the funeral home,
gripping the brick wrapped in the towel
I used to wipe my stomach after I worked off
my dreams of them. When I'm there
I throw it through the window; crawl inside.
Slowly, my eyes adjust
and their beautiful shapes solidify. They're spread
on tables lined with velvet
so smooth, touching it would feel like
touching a beating heart. They've been stitched
like the opponent's bullpup mascot, that dummy
they beat and burned at yesterday's pep rally.
The street light draws haloes
against faces that would have graduated this May.
Now, they're precise and still
as butterflies I pin behind glass in my room.
They're only a little dead.
I ask who's first, remembering strides
between yesterday's classes, jeans tight
against their asses like peelings on ripe globes of fruit.
Their skins still smell like the field's chalked grass;
like soap flakes from the after-game shower.
One at a time, I slide against them.
Rick's shoulders swell beneath his thin
cotton shirt, muscles solid as unripe apples.
Last week, I spied through binoculars,
his head tilting toward the car window as his girlfriend
left marks on his neck. Even in tonight's dark
the violet hints still show. I move my mouth
from bruise to bruise, whispering
love, love on the skin. When finished
I switch tables. This linebacker's body
that made Dave famous: here,
in the palms of my hands. Between his legs
he is soft and round, like the finger he jammed
in the hollow of my throat to shut off my yell
when he hammered me in the stomach last March.
I push myself into him,
easy as the pin into insect, holding him close
until I'm through. Only the quarterback
remains. I delicately trace the curve of Kevin's cheek
with my tongue. I hover over
his mouth like a moth against light.
My tongue catches on the blue stitches
that join his lips. I let this moment
linger, the room falling away around us, then step back
to look at them. This is the final memory
I will collect, the final kisses
that will unite us forever, their bodies filled
with the knowledge of my love.
--Scott Heim (This poem appears in Scott Heim's book Saved from Drowning, published by Chiron Review Press in 1993. The poem is posted here with the author's permission.)
THIS PLACE IS HAUNTED thinks the
beautiful big-dicked boy, his
big dick as hard as a shiny steel pipe.
chains are rattling in the background.
there are moans and sighs. a big
dog, more like a wolf, really,
stands shivering in the middle of
the room, blinks,
squints, then trots off into
nothingness. THIS PLACE IS
FUCKING HAUNTED! thinks the
beautiful big-dicked boy. he is
standing naked in the middle
of a big smooth room. there
is a large rumpled bed, and a few
over-stuffed chairs. the light
is dim. he doesn't know
how he got here, why he's
here, how long he's been
here, but his big hot dick
is hard and throbbing, and shiny
like steel, in the strange
phosphorescence of the light,
whose source he is unable
to discern. the room is
just strangely glowing. he
himself is shiny like
metal--beautiful and big-dicked
and horny as hell as chains
rattle, voices moan and groan
all around him, and the big
dog, yes, it is a wolf! no
doubt about it, the wolf
returns, growls, then
breaks into sobs and moans
that sound very much human.
the beautiful big-dicked
boy walks over to the wolf,
pats it on the head, and
the wolf's eyes turn white-hot,
and sugared cherries fall out
of its open mouth. the
beautiful big-dicked boy
bends down and eats,
starving for food,
--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem -- "undomesticated" -- also appears in my book Gorilla Architecture, published by Interior Noise Press in 2011. Before that, "undomesticated" appeared in Thieves Jargon, June 4, 2009.)
Happy Halloween -- the tongue-and-bed scene is by Graham Groans (aka grahamgroans), and the Mummy is by Michael Breyette.
i think he said his name was "lucky"
for his halloween costume,
the sexy big-dicked young man decided
to go naked. in other words, he decided he'd
"dress up" as a nudist.
this thought amused the sexy big-dicked young man
and, the first door he knocked on,
a young woman answered.
"trick or treat," said
the sexy naked big-dicked young man.
he held out a little brown paper sack,
and waited for his treat.
the young woman slammed the door in his face.
he turned and walked down the sidewalk.
very soon, a police car showed up.
two cops hurried over to the
sexy naked big-dicked young man,
and one of the cops wrapped a blanket
"you're under arrest," said the cop who
had wrapped him up with the blanket.
"but it's halloween," said the
sexy naked big-dicked young man,
"and this is my costume. i'm 'dressed
up' as a nudist. get it?"
and then the young man
laughed, quite charmingly.
"yeah yeah," said the other cop. "very funny.
but you're STILL under arrest for indecent exposure."
and so the two cops and the sexy big-dicked young man
who was wrapped up in the blanket
drove to the police station/jail.
they booked the sexy big-dicked young man
and issued him some jail clothes and
put him a cell and told him to
the sexy big-dicked young man
refused. in fact, he threw off the blanket,
and stood there sexy, naked, big-dicked,
with a full horny erection that suddenly looked,
in fact, like it was made entirely out of
bone, and then encrusted with
brittle knobby chunks of tortoise shell.
there then ensued what seemed to be
a general melting and fusing of flesh,
and the creature that
the sexy naked big-dicked young man
had become kicked out the bars
of the cell's window, unfurled
a pair of wings, and flew off into the
starry night-time sky.
"happy halloween," were the parting words
the two cops heard, as the goosebumps
seized them, and covered their
pale municipal flesh.
--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem was originally published in the book Last Train to Noir City . It also appears in my book Saline [Interior Noise Press, 2014]. And, it also appeared in The Commonline Journal, October 30, 2015.)