Gay Porn: A Triolet Sequence

Advisory: Sexually explicit. Skip this one if that’s not your thing.

1

A shaven twink on display,

with a pink dildo and a pretty hole,

going on cam for some hot assplay.

A shaven twink on display—

don’t ask him what his mom would say;

he’s just spreading his legs, not selling his coul.

A shave twink on display,

with a pink dildo and a pretty hole.

 

2

Two sweaty jocks, after playing soccer,

horny as hell on the way to the showers,

strip off and fuck on the bench by the lockers,

pumped up and fit, their cocks rock-hard,

ramming asses up to the bowels.

Two sweaty jocks, after playing soccer,

horny as hell on the way to the showers.

 

3

A sloth of bears, bearded and stocky,

gathering in a cabin out in the woods,

rotund and hairy, sucking cocks.

A sloth of bears, bearded and stocky,

after a day of fishing on the rocks

and wrestling naked in the mud.

A sloth of bears, bearded and stocky,

gathered in a cabin out in the woods.

 

4

A sex slave spread-eagle suspended from ropes

winces as the flogger slaps his balls,

but he loves being stripped a groped,

a sex slave spread-eagle, suspended from ropes.

This is the treatment for which he hopes;

he never says no when his master calls.

A sex slave spread-eagle, suspended from ropes,

winces as the flogger slaps his balls.

 

5

Fresh-faced twenty-somethings, like from next door,

if you happen to live in the Czech countryside;

hiking about, enjoying nature.

Fresh-faced twenty-somethings, like from next door,

in short denim cutoffs, dicks flopping lower;

they’ll end up fucking, one taking a ride.

Fresh-faced twenty-somethings, like from next door,

if you happen to live in the Czech countryside.

 

6

Men claiming they’re straight, fucking for money,

and they probably are, but “straight-acting” they’re not,

down on their knees, tasting the honey,

men claiming their straight, fucking for money,

in scenarios so contrived they’re almost funny,

bad camera work and worse dialogue.

Men claiming they’re straight, fucking for money,

and they probably are, but “straight-acting” they’re not.

 

7

Out at the club for a public orgy,

with drugs and booze and loud dance music,

with his pants at his ankles—our little Georgie.

Out at the club for a public orgy,

with drugs and booze and loud dance music,

getting fucked, sucking cock, totally used.

Out at the club for a public orgy,

with drugs and booze and loud dance music.

 

8

On the kitchen counter, legs spread wide,

boyfriend pounding his exposed hole,

he’s taking the cock deep inside.

On the kitchen counter, legs spread wide;

when he claimed he’s a top, he obviously lied:

That ass was made for a long, hard pole.

On the kitchen counter, legs spread wide,

boyfriend pounding his exposed hole.

 

Copyright 2019

T. Allen Culpepper

 

Secret Rivers

At the conflux of secret rivers,

lie portals sacred and mystical,

where bones rise with the spirits—

unseen, but sometimes heard, jangling and moaning;

and felt, their magnetic motion always felt, as the waters

flow under our feet, through our consciousness, over our souls.

Hidden, these rivers, concealed,

sometimes restricted, but never contained, never completely contained.

The fisher king angles among them, the sailor drowns

where they deepen and whirl without warning.

At the conflux of secret rivers,

the old gods, pagan but wise, demand

the old rituals, the sacrifice of blood that appeases

their lustful, capricious appetites,

troubling, but necessary, always necessary

for firing human passion.

 

Copyright 2019

T. Allen Culpepper

 

The Gardenia Blooms and Fades

The photographs don’t lie;

southern beauty in perpetual decline.

The gardenia blooms;

its blossoms scent the air,

but then the whiteness of its petals browns,

and they drop,

decay in the dirt.

 

Likewise, the columns of the mansions stand,

but their white paint peels, houses without lands.

The gardenia blooms;

its blossoms scent the air,

but then the whiteness of its petals browns,

and they drop,

decay in the dirt.

 

There was a land, a mythic one,

but the legends ignore the damages done.

The gardenia blooms;

its blossoms scent the air,

but then the whiteness of its petals browns,

and they drop,

decay in the dirt.

 

Honeysuckle, wisteria, and sweet shrub wait

on the queen of summer in regal state.

The gardenia blooms;

its blossoms scent the air,

but then the whiteness of its petals browns,

and they drop,

decay in the dirt.

 

Sunhats and prom gowns, cutoffs and tuxes,

all the social rituals in redux.

The gardenia blooms;

its blossoms scent the air,

but then the whiteness of its petals browns,

and they drop,

decay in the dirt.

 

The dreams are mostly in retrospect,

futures mired in past regrets.

The gardenia blooms;

its blossoms scent the air,

but then the whiteness of its petals browns,

and they drop,

decay in the dirt.

 

Copyright 2019

T. Allen Culpepper

 

 

Vancouver

The natural beauty reigns, of charms the queen,

in this western city alive and teeming,

           between the mountains and the sea.

The beauty queen’s Crown rises along with Seymour,

the route to the royal court across the Lion’s Gate beams,

           between the mountains and the sea.

Staking its claim over the Harbour, like that opera house down under,

Canada Place spreads its white and sail-like wings,

           between the mountains and the sea.

Burrard vistas from the winding seawall circling Stanley Park,

with its Lost Lagoon, and English Bay sunsets from the beach,

           between the mountains and the sea.

Ferry rides over blue waters to Granville and Victoria islands;

on foot or bike or boat, its sights gleam, its air so clean,

           between the mountains and the sea.

Copyright 2019

T. Allen Culpepper 

You Say Gazelle, I Say Ghazal

Like the graceful leap of the wild gazelle,

the thoughts bound high that the stanzas tell in this ghazal.

 

Like the ambitions of Prometheus reaching for fire,

the poet aims his lofty goal to assail in this ghazal.

 

Like the prophets and philosophers of days long past,

the poet calls for revolution but prepares to fail in this ghazal.

 

Like the epics of those legendary ancient bards,

the poem employs figures, each word a sail in this ghazal.

 

If writing poetry is pretentious, even dangerous,

then poems about poetry are the unholy grail—hence this ghazal.

Copyright 2019

T. Allen Culpepper