Monthly Archives: October 2014

What Would Sigmund Freud Say?

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Passing through a glass-beaded curtain,

I enter an old-school porn shop and see

one of my exes, unaged, selecting plaster

figurines in the tradition of Priapus,

with a shirtless, tanned blond boy behind,

learning forward, hands on knees.

I, unnoticed, circle around racks

of vintage vinyl punk records

but then run into them at the earring

display and exchange rather awkward

greetings, interrupted by a friendly-seeming

stranger, who strikes up a conversation,

only to attempt a scam involving a

supposedly starving friend twenty pounds

from death, seeking monetary contributions.

Recognizing the dream state,

I attempt to practice my assertiveness

training, but ineffectually, so that

the ex comes to my rescue by

depositing marbles in the pocket

of the alleged victim.

 

Copyright 2014

T. Allen Culpepper

Plato’s Kitchen

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While sitting at the kitchen table eating a pear,

my lazy gaze drifts to a window on the back yard,

with its leafy canopy still greenly shading patches

of scruffy lawn highlighted by autumnal midday sun;

and then, through a trick of light and glass, still

looking toward the back, I see, mirrored through

the dusty panes, the view from the picture window

roughly opposite, facing the street, and thus the

texting drivers, the creaky rusting pickup, the runners

and stroller, and the walkers of multiple dogs

pass as phantom figures crossing reflective air,

so close, yet untouchably distant, un-smelled even by cats.

 

Copyright 2014

T. Allen Culpepper

Unanswered Questions

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Looking into his bright grey eyes again

as he lies quietly against dampened sheets

afterward, his left hand resting lightly

across his sternum, his smooth square chin

turned toward me at an easy angle, slender

neck arching toward collarbone, I wonder,

without certainty whether I desire the knowledge,

what thoughts circulate behind those eyes.

Does he evaluate his experiences on a scale

from disappointment to ecstasy, with this

one ranking somewhere around half-satisfied,

or take comfort in present company, recall

with nostalgia or regret incidents from his

relatively brief past, or more likely, whether

he’ll stay for breakfast, what time his work

shift starts, whether he has a clean shirt,

where he put his car keys.

 

Copyright 2014

T. Allen Culpepper

Versace Duo

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The market for crotchless leather trousers

priced in the thousands cannot be large,

nor, one hopes, will cheap knock-offs

of them soon be trending in the high street.

But Versace has chosen them for its fall

menswear ad campaign, and there

in striking sculpted beauty stand models

Daan and Filip, wide grommeted belts

cinched tight around their hips, from

which hang the unlikely garments, useless

but exquisitely tailored from the finest

pebble-grained hide of some sacrificial

beast, the open center displaying paisley-

patterned briefs, which, unlike the trousers,

might actually sell in the shops, Daan’s

black ones well-filled, Filip’s white ones

revealing the outline of his penis. Above

the chaplike trousers, Filip, shirtless, wears

a studded leather moto jacket hanging

open to show his musculature and one

partly shadowed nipple. Standing tall,

he wraps his right arm around Daan’s

neck and shoulder in a pose that might

be that of brothers or best friends, except

that Filip’s hand pulls up Daan’s printed

black sleeveless T-shirt as if beginning

to undress him, in the process showing

off the smooth, taut abs of Daan, who’s

slouching a touch to the right. Daan’s

bare left arm hangs straight down

the center of the photo, drawing the

viewer’s eye toward the chaps and

Filip’s package, but his right, bent

at the elbow, crosses his chest underneath

his T-shirt, hand resting lightly on his

own left shoulder. Filip tilts his head

forward, platinum hair in a carefully

constructed mess, sporting his trademark

slightly menacing look, with smouldering

eyes and sneering mouth suggesting

his dominance in whatever kind of

relationship is being portrayed, while

Daan looks up into the camera, head

angled a little back and left, so that

the razor-cut edges of his hair, just

a shade or two darker than his mate’s,

dangle freely, but not looking at Filip,

who also faces forward. Daan’s face looks

brooding,vulnerable, and slightly troubled,

as if he’s not sure he’s really into what he’s

doing. The photograph itself, shot in

classic black and white against a neutral

ground, takes a strong vertical perspective,

emphasizing the models’ slender height,

elongating their straight-hanging left arms,

tracing the center line of their torsos, with

only the belts and Daan’s just-noticeable

twist to the right lining up horizontally.

Though the models’ pose does not look

forced, the photographers obviously

have a penchant for formal composition,

evident in the triangulation of lines, with

the enfolding right arms of both young men

and the shape of Daan’s pulled-up shirt

replicating with softer edges the sharp

angles of the leather jacket’s lapels

and the cotton-cloaked wedges between

the models’ legs. Only the name of the

fashion house, superimposed in yellow

capitals at bottom right, identifies the

vendor of whatever’s up for sale.

 

Note: The poem references a photograph by Mert Alas and Marcus Piggott, featuring models Daan van der Deen and Filip Hrivnak, used in the advertising campaign for Versace’s AW 2014 menswear line. The ad appeared in various publications, including the September 2014 issue of Out.

 

Copyright 2014

T. Allen Culpepper