To the Artist's Page To our home page
To Shane Allison's previous piece To Shane Allison's next piece
Your Poems Are the Poems that Make Me Shoot Loads: A Tribute To Antler When I read What Every Boy Knows for the first time my cock grew like a weed. I had the Seattle Space Needle in my jeans while reading about boys dismissing themselves to their rooms for a good whack-off workout. That's the poem that speaks to me in tongues. I sucked the pricks of all the teenage boys YOU write about. Slurp the semen through their snake-like urethras. They chuck their boycum in my face and mouth like a semen depository in that cold piss-stinched junior high bathroom. I am no magazine centerfold or a gay porno star. YOUR poems make me bring my legs up and over, bend my body like a pretzel to take a sip on my own dick. Because of YOU ANTLER, I want to feast on my cum, feel its gelatin texture rocket down my throat. When I read Berrygathering vs. Semengathering in a 1995 issue of Michael Hathaway's Chiron Review, I was that farmboy with balls and cock ripe as raspberries. I was that farmboy's daddy watching from bails of hay as his son ejaculates farmboy gism in buckets of milk. Farmboy eases himself naked beneath a cow, denim overalls rest to his ankles as he suckles the cock-like udders for a mouth of semen-like milk. Horny farmboy imagines that udders are the hard cocks of big city sons belonging to Wallstreet fathers that jerk their manmeat in marble partitions. When I read Sweetcorn vs. Sweetcome, something rose in me like a Russian missile. And thanks to YOU, there is sure to be pre-cum like cream corn. Whip it around piss slit into a smooth, thick, cream with index finger. I'm gonna gush gallons of gism in the abysmal creases of YOUR poems. Think of YOUR mouth of infinity with every gay black poet splirt. Can I ask YOU something ANTLER? Can I shoot hot spunk on YOUR flannel shirt? Can I spray it in YOUR rough palms cupped below my prick of steel? I make faces while waiting for precious ejaculate. Waves of wrinkles across forehead. Bubbles of perspiration form and glide down this unshaven face. Legs spreading like the wings of birds for body oils and lotions as I think of YOUR head nuzzling family jewels. Let me douse YOUR faded jeans with blackboy spunk. I want to cum on the chest of sexual liberation. I want to eat semen of boylove inspiration. Boys use your towel of hair like a cum rag. We return to nature in the nude, my head planted between YOUR snowy thighs. We lie like lovers, bare buttocks in blades of grass as I grab YOUR cock pulling and tugging like a farmboys hung dick. Ejaculates in YOUR heavenly beard? YOUR elevating prick grows like a milk thistle, disappearing in mouth. Can I send YOU naked Polaroidís of me? See what a black poet's dick looks like. I point my black butt to YOUR universe, fingers exploring places no man has ever explored before. I'm YOUR slut sweating on your living-room floor waiting for YOUR exquisite mouth. As I recited the words of Moon Lips, I was just about to give myself a good handjob. Reaching for the Vaseline was like reaching for YOUR poems. Going for the baby oil to make foreskin gleam, was like going for YOUR poems. I floss my teeth with YOUR golden pubes, bury my face in them. Rim YOUR angelic ass on the kitchen floor. Can I, please, please MASTER? Can I my bearded LORD get drunk off YOUR manboy love? Blackboy spunk floods YOUR eyes. Can I watch YOU ejaculate YOUR raindrops of semen on my supple bubble bum? Use it as lube on my own prick. Lick it from your gism-smudged sneakers. I sniff YOUR underwear that rides like cowboys in the hot crack of YOUR bone toned ass. I dance seductively in front of YOU, cock bouncing in mid-air. I fuck YOUR face with my ass turned to YOUR TV of CNN. Hands press evenly across my booty. Shove all of me in YOUR beautiful face. Can I call you sometime and read poems to YOU over the phone, long distance? Will YOU recite YOUR cockloving, cocksucking love poems about boycock to me, because YOUR poems are the poems that make me shoot loads?
To the top of this page