Two poems

 

 

where

sexy big-dicked boys generally
have no idea where all that jacked-off
cum of theirs eventually goes.
they think, perhaps, of sewer pipes,
traschcan liners,
garbage dumps.
i like to think it ends up
in distant little
nooks and crannies of
outer space, crystallized,
pure.
there's a feeling of extreme
purposefulness about
this astral neighborhood.
all
that jettisoned cum
spurted out with so much zeal.
passion buzzing about
the place like
opera, or punk
rock.

--Carl Miller Daniels (September 23, 2010)


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veins and arteries

until the flowers bloom, his garden looks dead.
at least, that's the way he feels about
the situation.
what good is a garden if there are no flowers
blooming in it?
sexy, lonely, and big-dicked, this young man
bends down in his garden, pulling a few
weeds from around the bottoms of his
non-blooming flowers. when will they
bloom? when will his garden look alive,
instead of dead?
the sexy lonely big-dicked young man
pulls up a few more weeds.
he is naked.
it is dawn.
it is the middle of the country,
and no one is around to see him
as he starts tugging on his big hard
dick until he spurts cum onto
the non-blooming zinnias.
it drips and oozes down their
dark green foliage. no flowers yet.
not even any flower buds.
sexy naked lonely big-dicked young man
stands there, his fingers still wrapped
around his hard throbbing dick.
ah dawn,
birth,
renewal,
perhaps a bloom, or two? when? when??

--Carl Miller Daniels (October 6, 2010)