“I’m a Top! Tell Me What a Top I Am!”

top

Inevitably narcissistic

masculine top seeks

constant re-validation

of his self-proclaimed

masculine topness.

Only bottoms need apply.

Be good-looking

and under thirty.

You host.

(I live with Mom.)

Negative as of 4 p.m.

Copyright 2015

T. Allen Culpepper

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Last Days

Usual table, but I’ve shifted to the right

by an inch or two so that today

the park click on its red pole’s just in sight,

bathed in sun and seen through square glass plates

that en employee’s cleaning.

A dog and his human do the Beatles cover,

crossing the white-striped street, the dog barefoot.

I sip iced coffee thinking summer’s over,

pondering what I’ve done and what I could’ve

with work and less daydreaming.

The too-large glass of gin I drank at bedtime

has dulled my brain; I knew it was a mistake,

but I had to quell the anxious ache

of knowing that from free days of this kind

myself I must be weanig.

But I go up despite my mild depression

to restore balance with a yoga session.

A few days yet

ro hope and regret.

Copyright 2015

T. Allen Culpepper

Nine

His order number’s nine,

and, damn, he’s looking fine:

black jeans, boots, white shirt

jyst tight enough for his pert

nipples to be outlined.

Black hair that’s stylishly cut,

short beard, slim build, tight butt.

Eyes glued to his computer,

but if I did my duty,

I could break that rut.

Copyright 2015

T. Allen Culpepper

Shag Me at the Door

Advisory: This one is sexually explicit. Please don’t read it if that bothers you.

For F. W., whose encouraging comments have kept me motivated to write the new erotic series this week.

I hear the door open and rush toward it;

he’s coming home from the gym,

and I want to intercept him

before he makes it to the shower

so I can lick the salty sweat

off his just-pumped muscles,

so I arrest him with a hard-tongued kiss

and hands firmly planted on his hips

down inside the dampened fabric of his shorts,

and before he has a chance to argue,

I begin to like my way down his chest,

tonguing the juice off every hair

as I move one hand to his cock and squeeze

while a finger of the other moves toward

his hole, and the shorts slide off,

and soon we are both naked on the floor,

flip-fucking on the cold, hard tile of the entryway

until he’s all sweaty again and I am covered

in cum. And then we take a shower.

Copyright 2015

T. Allen Culpepper

Modern Prints: A Haiku Series

Race (1)

Horses abstracted

to their motion, thus stretching

jockeys into track.

Tube Train (2)

An elasticised

throat lozenge by mishap sucked

down esophagus.

Stairs (3)

Big rippled dildo

erect and masturbated

by a spiral hand.

Lines (4)

Unexpectedly

poetic in their motion,

linemen far aloft

among salt-shaker

insulators risk the shock

of High-Modern life.

Service (5)

Waiters learn forward

in a yoga fold over

trays of flat dishes.

Tour des Tournants (6)

Pedaled wheels cycling

around a tight spiral bend

through ribbons of fence.

 

Copyright 2015

T. Allen Culpepper

 

Note: The poems are based on Modern Times: British Prints of the 1920s and 1930s, which was on show at the Philbrook Museum of Art.  Each haiku corresponds to a print specific print, as indicated:

(1) Racing by Sybil Andrews

(2) Tube Station by Cyril Power

(3) Tube Staircase by Cyril Power

(4) Fixing the Wires by Lill Tschudi

(5) Waiters by Lill Tschudi

(6) Tour de Suisse by Lill Tschudi