On this page, I wanted to share some of my poems. I don't have much room, but if you like what you see, just
email me. I'll be happy to send you more.
Ode To Samantha

Samantha,
my dear,
You are my one true love.
You remind me
of dew on a blade of grass
during the middle of a rainstorm.
You make me feel
as if I were five feet tall.
Your smile reminds me
of a mouth with teeth in it.
I cannot get enough of you --
even though there is definitely
enough of you for me to get.
My heart feels something
that can’t be denied.
I think it's gas.
You make me feel so special.

I love you,
Samantha,
But do you love me?
You remind me
of a woman.
Samantha,
When I look at you,
I become nauseous -
I mean nervous!
Your eyes
are like two round objects
that can be found in the eye sockets
of a human being.
Your breath
is like a lethal gas bomb
that could kill me in my sleep.
When I think of you,
Samantha,
I think of a beautiful woman
With great personality,
but, then I am brought back to reality.
You are too beautiful for me.

I hope you love me,
Samantha,
For you know that I love you.
When you are around,
My heart beats faster,
and faster,
and faster,
and faster.
But then I realize that it's only you
and not some big, horrible, ugly monster
with big fangs.
Then I am relieved.
Somewhat.
Your thighs
are like bones with layers
and layers,
and layers,
and layers
of skin surrounding them.
Your nose
is like a protruding piece of cartilage
covered with skin and containing
enough hair to strangle a person
to death.
Your neck is like,
well, actually, I have no idea what your
neck is like,
since I can't even find it!
Your chin
is like a round, flabby hunk of skin
located beneath your mouth.
And so is the other one,
and the other one,
and the other one.

When I see you,
Samantha,
I want to run and hide,
But I don't, because I love you,
and because you are loaded with money
and you will die soon, anyway.
So I say to you,
Samantha,
"You're special --
you're not like the other girls!"
Beauty

There once lived a girl with a lovely perfume,
With a scent that reminds you of roses in bloom,
And the boys dropped like flies
When they looked in her eyes,
And caught the scent of her lovely perfume.

But, at the same time,
There was a horrible crime,
Caused by the man called "The Beholder!"
He shot five people dead in the head,
And the sixth, he shot in the shoulder.

But, this girl, she was strolling along
As the boys passed out all around her.
They smelt her perfume,
And they started to swoon
From the "Beauty" that surrounds her.

"Beauty," I assume, is the name of the perfume
That she used almost every day.
But as she walked down the street,
She was headed to meet
The man with the purple beret.

The police, it seems, had arrived at the scene
Where the five people had been shot in the head.
The one who survived,
Though barely alive,
Said the killer had a hat on his head.

A purple beret, the woman came to say,
Was the hat that the killer had worn.
The one who’d shot her in the shoulder
Had said his name was "The Beholder!"
And she wished he had never been born.

But the man with the purple beret
Decided that he would kill again that day.
So he attacked the girl with the lovely perfume,
But, unfortunately for him, he attacked her too soon,
And she was able to hit him away.

She reached in her purse for something to use,
A can of “Mace,” or something else to do the duty.
But all she could find
In her frantic state of mind,
Was her can of perfume called "Beauty."

She kicked him in the groin, once, maybe twice,
Then she punched him in the shoulder.
Then she sprayed him in the face
With her substitute Mace,
And now "Beauty" is in the eye of "The Beholder!"
Abandoned

abandoned           in a random
act of apathetic,      lack of feeling,
change of heart, and unappealing slap
of truth and  all-revealing false excuses,
never calls, bullshit lies, and lack of balls
to say the truth that times have changed
and love is lost,  and all we’ve shared
is tossed away like shattered glass
in picture frames and, though
you  may  not  feel  the
same,  I’m still in
love  with
you…
Black Death and Puppy Love

Team Captain . smile forced . blue eyes closed . makeup caked . unnatural .
Brown hair wavy . stapled down . undertaker . smelling of formaldehyde .
Buried with a ball in hand . letter jacket . mother crying . macho daddy on his
knees . pompom girls wail endlessly . “I love you” and “I miss you lots” .
Letters on his grave . flowers weeping in despair . an open gash within the
ground . a wound of dirt and grass . Little brother getting bored . too young to
understand . a Labrador Retriever . whimpers . sighs . wets the ground . barely
six months old . tiny drops of misty grey . cold and chilly sky . Pastor
preaching . Jesus Christ . forgiveness . sin . amen . casket lowered . brown
and brass . Taps is playing . shrill and soft . a shovel-full of dirt . Thump .
Thump thump . banging on the door . No answer . No one home . In the
casket . In the ground . a shell . no person . mind as dark as the space around
him . Underneath the stapled hair . behind the pasty pancake . an open gash
within his skull . a wound of blood and bone . Six feet tall and six feet under .
Unhappy and alone . a howl from above . a Labrador in mourning . Father tries
to shut him up but the dog continues wailing . A boy in black is far away . nose
ring . red hair . outcast . watching from a distance . moments shared . kisses
felt . a tear invades his eye . Black death and puppy love . he howls to the sky .
Cold

“So?”
I say, unsympathetically.
“Who cares if your
mother died?”
The corned beef
on the table smells
like pie. An angry look,
a bitter stare. I hate the saffron
daisies on her shirt. I take the silver-
bladed kitchen knife and drive it deep
into the meat. I offer her a slice. “I hate
the taste of corned beef,” is her reply.
“Is that why you’re so frigid?”
I feel the sting
of fingers on my face,
and her hand
retracting in an instant.
We share a look of bitter angst,
of mutual disgust.  I bite into a greasy
slice and find myself erect.  The hotness
of my cheek where she just slapped,  and
the hotness of the greasy beef contradict
the coldness  of my tone.  She tells me
to go fuck myself  and I find the
irony  amusing.  I  never
liked  her  mother.
POEMS
by
Daniel Guyton
Mary’s Song

The window blinds have lost the war against
The rising morn.  The amber hue has shattered
Through and slain the curtains drawn.
The shadows in my darkened room erode before
The dawn.  Then, slowly disappearing,
They evoke a tender yawn.  My eyes arise
In faint surprise to hear the denouement.
And there beside me sleeping lies a naked
Debutante.  Her skin the flesh of angels
And her color as the swan.  And in
Triumphant morning rays which graze upon
Her arm, like brave courageous antelope,
Or brazen hungry fawn, her face remains
A strange melange of innocence and calm.
So, I taste her freckled shoulders, and lace
My fingers in her palm.  For though the blaze
Of evening fades, our flame shall linger on...
Waking Up Abandoned


Waking
up  abandoned,
standing in an empty
bathroom, staring at
myself and asking,
“What is wrong with me?”
The toilet
reeks of urine
and my skin of your
infected sexual secretions
and my mind deletes the
seconds that we rolled
into abandon and it
centers on the
lesions I
imagine
that I’ll find.
Splashing water on
my face, attempting to
erase the one-night stands and
empty love without protection like
a glove without a hand,  and I feel the
brisk and cool sensation on my closed and
weary eyes, bleary with the lack of sleep from
plowing deep inside your every night is someone
new religion as I hunger like a pigeon for a crumb of
something more.  I let you come, but still you go.  You
fucked me like a whore. I touch my eye, and feel the dry
and cracking skin beneath my touch.  I don’t know why I
do this to myself.  My reflection plays it cool and answers,
“Stud, the golden rule is never let a woman get you down.”