Suppose this business was inspired by gods.
What then can we mere mortals hope to do,
with our lesser nature, foolish sods,
but surrender to their capricious coup?
We stand exposed to lightning bolts from heaven,
shot down like bottles lined up on a shelf,
in rapid sequence, five and six and seven,
without means to defend ourselves.
Note: From Robert Bagg’s translation of Antigone, published by Harper Perennial.
Copyright 2018
T. Allen Culpepper
It’s always very stylish, of course,
preceded by hair and makeup,
manscaping and pedicures,
the soundtrack from a Paris runway,
expensive designer garments artfully shed,
the Hermes scarf maybe left on,
the pleasure definitely faked,
the mess cleaned up immediately.
Copyright 2018
T. Allen Culpepper
Skies overcast, humidity climbing,
and the dregs of summer hang
static in the smothering air,
like swimmers tired of the water
but still too far from shore,
nearly sucked under by dull inertia.
Copyright 2018
T. Allen Culpepper
I could not stay behind you, my Desire,
though my failing was not for want of love.
Your ambition I admired, your fire,
but for both of us it wasn’t enough.
We began on equal terms, two hearts,
partners in a balanced relationship,
but I was cut as you became the star;
you gulped the wine that I could only sip.
Sometimes I was content to hold the ladder
steady as you climbed up to the roof,
but, always left behind, I grew sadder,
lonely—not, as assumed, aloof.
When, against my will, you set me free,
I tried to climb, but fell, without you to help me.
Copyright 2018
T. Allen Culpepper
Notes: The line is from Twelfth Night, but the punctuation, capitalization, and context have been altered to change the meaning. The poem is also partially a response to the song “The Good Side,” by Troye Sivan, imagined from the opposite point of view.
Advisory: Sexually explicit
So many of them won’t show their faces,
but the Canadian dude has the balls,
even if he’s a slutty bottom by his own
description, to stare defiantly into the cam
as he impales his hole on an enormous
dildo and rides it, moaning, until he cums,
and, yeah, it’s hot when it’s in progress,
but afterward, awkward questions
trouble the viewer: Who’s exploiting
and who’s exploited? Who’s happy
and who’s reaching out for help?
Is this harmless pleasure or some
kind of sad perversion? Has the
bottom boy actualized his desires
or only limited his future options?
If he’s headed for a fall, how much
responsibility does the viewer share?
Does this exchange reflect the beauty
of sexual diversity acknowledged,
or does it merely show lust run rampant,
devoid of love, without connection
to a soul-mate, isolated even
from human touch?
Copyright 2018
T. Allen Culpepper
At home, sequestered in his room,
ears headphoned, eyes fixed on
his laptop computer screen; in his
classes at the community college,
getting his basics out of the way;
at work, waiting tables for tips—
in so much of life, he’s merely
human, if even that–but in the gay
club after hours, when the DJ cranks
the music, a little drunk, a little high,
he sheds his mortality along with
his shirt and dances his way
through the glittering lights
into the realm of gods.
Copyright 2018
T. Allen Culpepper
There once was a poet in Limerick
who was quite eager but very thick.
He tried hard to rhyme,
but failed every time,
’til he ran off to Derry in panic.
Copyright 2018
T. Allen Culpepper
