Tuesday, August 27, 2019
Monday, August 26, 2019
pure pleasure, thematic musings, beautiful male flesh
when the wildebeests are upon the land
and the lure of pumpkin batter is inescapable,
there will be gnashings of teeth.
there will be spikings of hair.
blue tri-tone will rule.
beautiful young men will strip themselves
naked and stand in front of their mirrors,
agonizing. is touching a body this
beautiful, even if it's your own
body, a homosexul act? is watching yourself touch
a body this beautiful, even
if it's your own body, a homosexual act?
thoughts occur, subside, rouse.
and then they stand there naked and
big-dicked in front of their mirrors
and watch themselves masturbate, watch
themselves stroke their big smooth
purple-headed dicks, watch
themselves spurt pints of hot smelly cum that
dribble down the cold glossy surfaces
of the mirrors.
as their knees go weak and buckle from
the multi-jib-jab sparks of too much pleasure,
there's a hint of doubt that anything
that feels this good must be
trouble.
naked sexy big-dicked young men
put on their clothes and go out
roaming the planet,
licks lipped wet with their own
spit, eyelashes batting
helplessly in the face of
bitter desire. milkweed plants grow
tall and furry and release their
white puffy seeds into the breezes
that underscore the horizon.
at dusk, tears are shed, and
it is assumed that if anybody
notices, they'll pretend not
to, or say something brilliant,
or at least, something.
--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem also appears in my book Gorilla Architecture. This book is currently available at good ole' Amazon.)
when the wildebeests are upon the land
and the lure of pumpkin batter is inescapable,
there will be gnashings of teeth.
there will be spikings of hair.
blue tri-tone will rule.
beautiful young men will strip themselves
naked and stand in front of their mirrors,
agonizing. is touching a body this
beautiful, even if it's your own
body, a homosexul act? is watching yourself touch
a body this beautiful, even
if it's your own body, a homosexual act?
thoughts occur, subside, rouse.
and then they stand there naked and
big-dicked in front of their mirrors
and watch themselves masturbate, watch
themselves stroke their big smooth
purple-headed dicks, watch
themselves spurt pints of hot smelly cum that
dribble down the cold glossy surfaces
of the mirrors.
as their knees go weak and buckle from
the multi-jib-jab sparks of too much pleasure,
there's a hint of doubt that anything
that feels this good must be
trouble.
naked sexy big-dicked young men
put on their clothes and go out
roaming the planet,
licks lipped wet with their own
spit, eyelashes batting
helplessly in the face of
bitter desire. milkweed plants grow
tall and furry and release their
white puffy seeds into the breezes
that underscore the horizon.
at dusk, tears are shed, and
it is assumed that if anybody
notices, they'll pretend not
to, or say something brilliant,
or at least, something.
--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem also appears in my book Gorilla Architecture. This book is currently available at good ole' Amazon.)
Sunday, August 25, 2019
good B.J. (conceptually speaking)
i like controversial art, but
i hate controversy.
i have written stuff
on bathroom walls, and i like
to read stuff that others have written
on bathroom walls.
i like seeing outrageous stuff
put on a wall, or on paper,
or made into a 3-dimensional work
of art,
or spread across a computer screen.
but i don't want to stand face-to-face
against somebody and scream
my words at them while they
disagree with what i say.
i don't want to see
the whites of their eyes,
i don't want to be able
to focus first-hand on
the pinks of their tongues.
i'd rather they read what
i have written, read
it while hundreds of
miles away from me,
and keep that distance.
does this make me
cowardly (probably), or
is it just a way for
me to maintain
my artistic objectivity?
(whatever that is.)
geee, i like controversial art,
but i hate controversy.
you know, i would never kill a pig
myself,
but i sure love to eat pork.
there's dirty work,
and then there's DIRTY work.
i love to read about two
cute teenage boys fucking each
other up the ass,
i love to see images of two
cute teenage boys fucking
each other up the ass,
but do i want to defend
that kind of art
face-to-face
to those who hate
it and who are offended
by it?
no.
but it's fun to
imagine the offended smoldering,
and sweating,
and getting their hackles up.
it's fun to have fun.
and tougher to explain why
fun IS fun.
knowing that people
look at art and
get mad
because of what they are
seeing,
is fun for me.
having somebody standing
in my face, yelling,
um,
not so much.
some acorns grow into great big oak
trees, but most of those
acorns just rot,
or get eaten by squirrels,
before anything can happen.
all those hot sexy teenage boys
spurting all that hot gooey cum,
most of it never seen,
most of it just
goes quietly down
a bathtub drain,
never bothers a soul,
not even
a bird gets to see it
go.
--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem also appears in my book String Bean, published by BareBackPress in March 2018. The poem first appeared in Chiron Review, Issue #96, Autumn 2011.)
i like controversial art, but
i hate controversy.
i have written stuff
on bathroom walls, and i like
to read stuff that others have written
on bathroom walls.
i like seeing outrageous stuff
put on a wall, or on paper,
or made into a 3-dimensional work
of art,
or spread across a computer screen.
but i don't want to stand face-to-face
against somebody and scream
my words at them while they
disagree with what i say.
i don't want to see
the whites of their eyes,
i don't want to be able
to focus first-hand on
the pinks of their tongues.
i'd rather they read what
i have written, read
it while hundreds of
miles away from me,
and keep that distance.
does this make me
cowardly (probably), or
is it just a way for
me to maintain
my artistic objectivity?
(whatever that is.)
geee, i like controversial art,
but i hate controversy.
you know, i would never kill a pig
myself,
but i sure love to eat pork.
there's dirty work,
and then there's DIRTY work.
i love to read about two
cute teenage boys fucking each
other up the ass,
i love to see images of two
cute teenage boys fucking
each other up the ass,
but do i want to defend
that kind of art
face-to-face
to those who hate
it and who are offended
by it?
no.
but it's fun to
imagine the offended smoldering,
and sweating,
and getting their hackles up.
it's fun to have fun.
and tougher to explain why
fun IS fun.
knowing that people
look at art and
get mad
because of what they are
seeing,
is fun for me.
having somebody standing
in my face, yelling,
um,
not so much.
some acorns grow into great big oak
trees, but most of those
acorns just rot,
or get eaten by squirrels,
before anything can happen.
all those hot sexy teenage boys
spurting all that hot gooey cum,
most of it never seen,
most of it just
goes quietly down
a bathtub drain,
never bothers a soul,
not even
a bird gets to see it
go.
--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem also appears in my book String Bean, published by BareBackPress in March 2018. The poem first appeared in Chiron Review, Issue #96, Autumn 2011.)
Saturday, August 24, 2019
saline
"green peppers and pickles can be remarkably satisfying,"
he thinks, sitting there in the screened-in porch,
the waves crashing onto the beach. he's wearing
only a towel, wrapped loosely around his waist.
sexy young and unkempt, he's discarded his
wet swimsuit, his legs
are spread, and he's enjoying the feel
of the sea breeze on his balls.
he's picking up slices of green pepper and
little green cucumber pickles from
a plate that's sitting in the middle
of the table. he's chewing the pepper slices
and the little cucumber pickles
slowly and methodically, and swallowing
them with great enthusiasm. some people
eat fish and shrimp and oysters and
scallops and things of this nature
while at the beach, but not him. never.
bits of vegetation is what he craves.
bits of vegetation is what he wants.
so he sits there, his legs spread,
the towel loosely draped, the
sea breeze on his balls, a mouthful
of sliced green peppers -- and
the fish that frolic in the waves,
the crabs that pick at bits of
mysterious debris, the oysters and
scallops filtering the water for
mightily nutritious bits of floating
algae, are safe from him.
he yawns and stretches
and when the towel parts
to reveal his smooth pink
genitalia in a totally calm
and relaxed state of non-arousal,
his lips smack just a bit,
and the sea breeze feels
so wonderful, a whole
well-spring of emotion
best described as "elevation"
forms in his chest, and
he just goes on chewing,
crunch crunch crunch.
–Carl Miller Daniels (This poem – "saline" – is the title poem from my book Saline; the book was published by Interior Noise Press in 2014. And the poem "saline" first appeared in My Favorite Bullet, Vol. 9, Issue 1, July 2009.)
"green peppers and pickles can be remarkably satisfying,"
he thinks, sitting there in the screened-in porch,
the waves crashing onto the beach. he's wearing
only a towel, wrapped loosely around his waist.
sexy young and unkempt, he's discarded his
wet swimsuit, his legs
are spread, and he's enjoying the feel
of the sea breeze on his balls.
he's picking up slices of green pepper and
little green cucumber pickles from
a plate that's sitting in the middle
of the table. he's chewing the pepper slices
and the little cucumber pickles
slowly and methodically, and swallowing
them with great enthusiasm. some people
eat fish and shrimp and oysters and
scallops and things of this nature
while at the beach, but not him. never.
bits of vegetation is what he craves.
bits of vegetation is what he wants.
so he sits there, his legs spread,
the towel loosely draped, the
sea breeze on his balls, a mouthful
of sliced green peppers -- and
the fish that frolic in the waves,
the crabs that pick at bits of
mysterious debris, the oysters and
scallops filtering the water for
mightily nutritious bits of floating
algae, are safe from him.
he yawns and stretches
and when the towel parts
to reveal his smooth pink
genitalia in a totally calm
and relaxed state of non-arousal,
his lips smack just a bit,
and the sea breeze feels
so wonderful, a whole
well-spring of emotion
best described as "elevation"
forms in his chest, and
he just goes on chewing,
crunch crunch crunch.
–Carl Miller Daniels (This poem – "saline" – is the title poem from my book Saline; the book was published by Interior Noise Press in 2014. And the poem "saline" first appeared in My Favorite Bullet, Vol. 9, Issue 1, July 2009.)
Friday, August 23, 2019
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)