Pear-leaf blood-drops spilt 

Mark autumn pavement sacred

In chill holy light.


Copyright 2018

T. Allen Culpepper



Fairy Tail

Advisory:Sexually explicit


Once under a time out of the water nearby,

rode a knight with a shiner, armoured,

on his lusty steed, seeking a handsome young prince,

bored and expiring, to bore some spirit into.


Everyone he met, he questioned,

“Where can I find a handsome young prince,

bored and expiring, whose hungry hole

needs some liberation?”


And always they answered the same:

“There’s a prince, just like you describe him,

kept in a dungeon under the castle,

and rumored to take all comers.”


So off to that dungeon rode our knight,

the motion of his steed, along with the

anticipated action, making him more

than a little bit horny.


Arriving at the castle and barging

into the dungeon, the knight saw

the young prince, handsome as promised,

naked and shaved and tied to the bed.


“Well, fuck!” said the knight. “Everything’s

just as they said! “What’s your story,

my ravishing young prince? How did

you get yourself into this predicament?”


“Simple enough,” the prince responded,

“My royal parents grounded me here

to keep me from being promiscuous,

but it hasn’t quite worked out as planned.


“They always forget to lock the door,

so every night a new knight shows up

to fuck me and leave me—and leave

me unsatisfied, because all their cocks

are just average, and I need a lot of lance.

Will you kiss me, untie me and take me away?

I am ravishingly handsome, after all,

and you look a little lonely yourself.”


“Eventually,” said the knight, but first

I’m going to ravish you, handsome,

and liberate your slutty ass with a lot

of my lance, which I think you will find

more than adequate, but if you’re still

unsatisfied, we can have a three-way

with my steed, who’s hung like a horse

and always up for anything.”


No doubt the knight with a shiner,

will fulfill all the desires of the

bored young prince, and they’ll kiss

and ride the steed off together.

But, right now, it seems

they’re still going at it.


Copyright 2018

T. Allen Culpepper



After reading of Damien Echols–wrongly imprisoned, saved by magick


In a dim and narrow space,

it can be difficult to distinguish

the dark angels from the light ones,

their terrors being equal and taking

precedence over their politics–

the massive triangularity

of their blank and staring faces,

the wind rush of their horrifying wings.

“Be not afraid,” they say,

but in a voice of fearsome thunder

that shakes belief down to its core.

“There is a magick that we know,

that can with practice  save you.”

Then, as suddenly as come,

their hulking shapes and

thunderous noise are gone,

you left hanging precariously

by white-knuckled fingers

from the window ledge.


Copyright 2018

T. Allen Culpepper

And Then?

Beside the squat, square tower

of the red-brick church, up which

the ivy cannot commit to climb,

an oak has begun its autumnal rite,

one quadrant turned to gold–

not yet glory, but the promise of it.


Truth that, yet a falsehood as well,

for the trooping of the colours precedes

the dead march toward the brown rot

that winter will freeze and try

to mask with dirty snow.


Eternal expectation that the compost

will feed new growth in spring,

but still also the persistent doubts–

Who are the elect, who the elector,

what if the plan should fail?


Copyright 2018

T. Allen Culpepper



The Bluejay of Fear

The jay was beautiful once, in his feathered garb of regal blue,

but now he’s only dead, gone the way of all flesh and fowl,

and though I’m not the assassin–the cat has brought him in,

as nature-programmed hunters do–yet still I feel the guilt

for this handsome creature unjustly slain. So runs the elegy

I’m composing in my head as I pick up a couple of feathers

dropped, and the cat, having grown bored with the game,

leaves the scene.

But then I realize the bird remains alive,

perched on the kitchen curtain-rod, first thinking he’s badly hurt,

de-winged, unable to flay and stuck in purgatory,

but when I approach, he takes flight, heading every which way

but out; with doors and windows open wide, the bird flies

into the wall, and I marvel at the lack of brains that

often accompanies unearned beauty.

I cannot catch him,

or shoot him, or guide him; the attempt goes on for hours,

until, like Poe’s raven or the mariner’s albatross, his presence

dooms me to the memory of regret. Having provoked me

into agitation, he settles and grows quiet, spends the night

on his perch, head tucked under wing, in the way of birds,

as I toss in troubled dream state, and not until the next

midmorning, when the cat’s interest returns, does my

blue-winged demon depart with a raucous squawk

by the obvious escape right previously unseen.

He’ll have

a story to tell his avian cronies of his traumatic, near-death

experience, and I’ll be haunted by his image, with half-open

beak and the same stupid, black-eyed terror that I

sometimes feel myself.


Copyright 2018

T. Allen Culpepper


Summer, I love you once and doubtless will again;

for sure I’ll miss your warm and humid breath some months from now,

during the short, cold days and frigid nights of February.

But at the moment, on this your last day with me for a while,

I have to say I think some time apart will do us good,

let us cool down from our heated altercations

so we can start afresh next time.


Copyright 2018

T. Allen Culpepper