probe

"behold the spot"
thinks the sexy self-loving/self-loathing young man
who has just masturbated and spurted
his cum onto a towel that he has spread
across the foot of his bed.
"behold the spurt of sport"
thinks the sexy self-loving/self-loathing young man.
"behold the spurted sporty spot"
thinks the sexy self-loving/self-loathing young man.
"behold the stuff, the stuff i've spurted
from the tip of my nice long thick smooth hard dick"
he thinks, as he stands there naked staring
down at the fresh cum spot on the towel that's
spread across the foot of his bed.
"behold my essence, my sexual fluid -- stuff of dreams,
stuff of sanity, spurted by the insane."
he stands there naked and alone staring down at
his cum spot on the towel.
"behold the sexy soup that i've just whipped up"
he thinks. "behold the spot. behold the spot
produced by the spurting of my hot smelly cum from my
big hot hard dick."
he doesn't move his lips. they are
turned down in kind of an angry scowl.
"why does something that feels this good
end up making me feel weird and wild
and kind of icky?" he thinks. "this spot
of cum. this damn spot of cum. out damn
spot, out."
he's kinda familiar with shakespeare, and
macbeth, and that lady macbeth, too, and
his mind is a whirl now, some would
even say, adrift.
"peter principle" he thinks. "shawn of
the dead."

--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem appeared in Zygote in my Coffee, Issue #95, September 2007.)