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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?

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