Punk Fag Tanka [Advisory: Sexually Explicit]

Advisory: This one is sexually explicit. Please do not view/read if you find such things offensive.


The mohawked punk lad

in black boots and chains

looks tough but takes cock

up his hairy tattooed arse,

squealing like a girl at school.

Copyright 2015

T. Allen Culpepper




So it might or might not be significant

that I happened to be riding my bike

along the rough stretch of Third Street

also known as Leon Russell Road

and had just passed the old church

where Russell did some recording once

when I saw the rainbow arching

over the street and thought: “Rainbow.

Oh, a rainbow, and a nice one.

But that’s weird because it hasn’t rained.

[Beat.] Oh shit.” And then it rained.

Hard. Big hard drops of blinding rain.

But the day had been miserably hot,

and the big hard drops of blinding rain

were cool, almost cold relatively,

and even though they kind of almost

hurt, it was in a good way, like

being in a needle shower

at a bathhouse in Hot Springs, Arkansas,

a simile which probably won’t make

much sense if you’ve never done that,

but if you have, you’ll know exactly

what I mean. But either way, it doesn’t

matter. All that matters is that the big,

hard drops of blinding rain that

pelted me like a needle shower

were cool and they felt really good,

and there was a rainbow, and the

whole thing might have been

Leon Russell’s fault.

Copyright 2015

T. Allen Culpepper

This Dude

this dude

So this dude walks into a coffee bar–

no, literarily, this dude walks in–

and looks around intently

with brown eyes that look

like portals to other worlds

before taking a seat,

putting down his backpack,

and, well, just sitting,

not ordering food or drink,

not dragging a laptop

out of the bag, not listening

to music, not playing with

a phone–doesn’t even

have one out–not talking

to anyone, just sitting.

And I’d like to know

what he’s thinking,

but have no idea how

to start that kind

of conversation with

a total  stranger who appears

disinclined toward chat,

and then he leaves,

just like that–not quickly,

not slowly–just stands,

hoists his pack to his shoulder,

and walks back out

onto the street,

and I wonder if

he was really ever here.

Copyright 2015

T. Allen Culpepper

Throwback Thinker

I guess you’d call him handsome

in a Seventies kind of way,

with wavy blond hair, not

long, but trending that way;

smooth, angular-featured face;

broad, masculine shoulders

enhanced by his choice of shirt,

a bright blue baseball jersey,

worn over mid-thigh shorts,

his sturdy tanned legs

and bare feet dangling,

his Birkenstocks having

slid off to the floor.

He’s leaning forward on

one arm with furrowed brow,

intently concentrating on

his work like a contemporary

Thinker, but it’s not his thinking

that interests me the most.

Copyright 2015

T. Allen Culpepper

Extraordinary Object

Advisory: This one is sexually explicit (and possibly disturbing). Please don’t read it if you’re squeamish about that sort of thing.


I was ordinary, but

my husband has made me hot:

had every hair lasered off

so that my body’s as smooth

as any statue in a museum;

pierced the parts I wanted,

nipples, ears, a triple guiche,

and the ones I didn’t–

I resisted the pig ring in my nose,

but now I’ve learned to love it;

had me tattooed with a

two-headed snake that

slithers all around me,

its tongues licking

my right tit and my asshole;

had my nails all brightly painted.

At home he keeps me naked, on display,

but plugged and caged

to keep me away from trouble.

He likes to take me out, though,

dressed in skimpy outfits that

always show some fresh,

a flash of midriff maybe,

one of my ringed nipples,

the bottom inch or two

of ass cheek. But, not,

never women’s clothes,

always men’s, even

if they been hacked up

with scissors; he says

he wouldn’t want anyone

to take me for a girl because

that’s socially acceptable;

he wants the world to know

I’m just a pussy boi dressing

down to please my man.

Disclaimer: The speaker is a fictional character. Please don’t assume that he is me (or any other real person) or that I share his point of view.

Copyright 2015

T. Allen Culpepper