Two poems

 

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 appeared in Zygote in my Coffee, print issue #6, Winter 2009. It also appears in my book String Bean.)

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equals

wild men often have a few good years, then burn
out like a flare.
and who's to say the goal should be longevity?
who's to say that quantity trumps quality?
maybe the wild men only ever wanted a few good
years, and that was enough for them.
everything else was just a bother, nothing
to be looked forward to.
yep, a few good years, and then
well, if not death, then
something like it.
just drifting in a haze,
coping with what's left.
those few good years, though, wow!
wild men wouldn't trade 'em for anything.
not even a signet ring with superman embedded
in the clear lacquered stone.

--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem appeared in Zygote in my Coffee, print issue #6, Winter 2009. Also, this poem, "equals" by me, Carl Miller Daniels, was first published in FUCK!, Vol. 11, No. 9, September 2008.)