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week of December 12 - 18, 2005



Terence Doyle and Carl Miller Daniels




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Death of a Mauve Bat! | Sinzibuckwud! | We Put Things In Our Mouths | A Man With No Teeth Serves Us Breakfast
I'd Like to Bake Your Good | Stolen Mummies| Brendan Constantine is My Kind of Town | Up Liberty's Skirt | Feeding Holy Cats | Mowing Fargo
I'm a Jew, Are You
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| I Am My Own Orange County | Paris: It's The Cheese | Poetry Super Highway
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Terence Doyle
tddoyle33@hotmail.com

Bio (auto)

My name is Terence Doyle I live in Cork, Ireland and I have been writing poetry now for over half my lifetime and I‚m 36! My work has not been published in any form but then again my submissions to date are minimal.
My background is not artistic I sell cars! Currently I am studying purchasing management materials again totally unrelated but I am an avid reader of poetry.

The following work is Copyright © 2005, and owned by Terence Doyle and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

Wallpenny Freckle

I had a soft nose and you would squidge it
Against your your tongue,lips sliding mouth over mouth
And I was only ten
Your name was Alison
I used to pay you a penny for you to kiss me
and in sunshine.
Up until you
I played football and wheezed
Phantom prains,ingrown toe-nails,
Gallybanders across my back garden blazed.
There wasn't much growing at ten
But we got there.
How many lives did we collect
In our faded jeans at the knees
Armies we led,matchbox spiders we bled.

All we did was kiss.
My wallpenny freckle and I went back home
Your face in front of me
Growing and growing.


Like Ptolemy

Weather pitched against us in your dark ninth heaven,
we sailed for islands more peaceful,
No commotion...........
When the traders came
We bought tan lotion
To block out the information
the details and revelations.
Kept deep within the earth
For that is where you hide your
Angels of trajectory
Spearing from fear targeting,tracking killing.
We have created so much
In life there is time for that
Our genes in mathematical compilation
Pulsed out across vacuums
Your face crimson in no sky but your own.
We're alone with ourselves
Man on the moon.


And there shall come

I have seen your enlightenment
In the ferment at hand,
Microscopic dust from the burning fields of your eye
Import across the land, measured in tears

I have experienced your awakening
Succumbed to your languor and lush
A world emerging previously hidden from me
The seals broken, a new voice talking.

My girl propped by thrillers,
Spectacles misted from the Loire region
Of your throat, drifting into memory,
You, on your way there.


Carl Miller Daniels
cmdaniels@poetrybiz.net

Bio

Carl Miller Daniels is almost 54 years old. He currently lives in ruggedly masculine Homerun, VA. Over the years, his poems have appeared in lots of nice places: Cedar Hill Review; Chiron Review; a couple of Future Tense Books anthologies; FUCK!; Nerve Cowboy; Pearl; Slipstream; Wormwood Review; and 5AM, to name a few. Daniels has had two chapbooks published in the past dozen years or so: Shy Boys at Home (published by Chiron Review Press), and Museum Quality Orgasm (published by Future Tense Books). The poet Antler wrote the following comment for Daniels' chapbook Shy Boys at Home, and Antler's comment appears on the cover of that chapbook: "Carl Miller Daniels' poems incarnate youthful gay sexuality with gentleness, passion and delight. Shy Boys at Home is a unique contribution to the renaissance of gay poetry in America at the beginning of the new Millennium." (Nice comment, huh?) On three separate occasions, Daniels has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. He and his lover, Jon (aka "the sweetest man in the world"), have lived together for just over 25 years.

The following work is Copyright © 2005, and owned by Carl Miller Daniels and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

getting down to business

perhaps the federation of adult sophisticates
will address the problem of cute naked young men
masturbating in the restrooms.
**
perhaps the society for the edification of
gradiose principles will address the problem
of cute naked young men falling in love with
each other.
**
perhaps the united faction of virtuous factors
will address the problem of cute naked young
men touching each other's big smooth hot cocks.
**
perhaps the great big amalgamation of united
mistake-menders unlimited will address the
problem of cute naked young men spurting
cum into each other's hands.
**
perhaps the legion of purified humanities proponents
will address the problem of cute naked young men
pairing off and moving in together and acting
just like they are married.
**
perhaps the plotics espousing the politics of social
and cultural propriety will address the problem
of cute naked young men sleeping together in
their warm soft beds and hugging each other all
night long until they kiss each other awake in the
mornings.
**
perhaps the bastions of bulwark societal excellence
will address the problem of cute naked young men
lying on a secluded beach, on their backs,
looking up at the clear blue sky while they
jerk themselves off, happily, peacefully,
passion and penises their raison d'etre.
**
perhaps the forces of federal, state, and locality
municipates will address the problem of cute
naked young men kneeling in well-lit rooms,
watching each other spurt cum toward the
hat in the middle of the circle.
**
perhaps cute naked sexy
young men walking hand-in-hand, in love,
at ease, at peace, is the
answer without a riddler, the solution
without a problem-stater. perhaps the
magnaminous marmots of the greater
metrolopolitan area should just
plant strawberries, eat all they
can, and sell the surplus. better
the busy bustler than the bustling busy.
**
with their smooth skin and their tiny nipples,
they just can't keep their hands off
of each other. sunlight on meadow
picnics spread in celebration of
joy, primal grace, flesh with
passion imbued throughout.
**
perhaps the problem
isn't as severe as was previously suspected.
perhaps only 1 in 10 are involved.
and surely perspective is the essence of
whitewater rafting.


americana, pop-cultured at last

it's classic tv:
when the walton brothers are upstairs fucking each
other, and john boy himself (the ring
leader) is squealing
like a big ole happy pig,
there will be a telephone call.
everybody will troop downstairs
naked. the phone call will be serious.
there will be a discussion.
brothers and sisters, mom and dad,
grandpa and grandma, will all have
their say.
it will be nearly 10 p.m. when they
get back to bed.
things will pick up pretty much where
they left off. again, they promise to
quit this sort of thing. the moonshine
trade is lucrative. mileage on the
truck is purty low. points in between
the merrier. everybody in that
house has an orgasm that night.
john boy has 9, that big show-off.

Death of a Mauve Bat! | Sinzibuckwud! | We Put Things In Our Mouths | A Man With No Teeth Serves Us Breakfast
I'd Like to Bake Your Good | Stolen Mummies| Brendan Constantine is My Kind of Town | Up Liberty's Skirt | Feeding Holy Cats | Mowing Fargo
I'm a Jew, Are You
| Lizard King of the Laundromat
| I Am My Own Orange County | Paris: It's The Cheese | Poetry Super Highway
Rick's Bookmarks |
Cobalt Poets | E-mail Rick | Upcoming Readings | Who The Hell Is Rick