Disturbance

On unstable days, the atmosphere

bears down, humid and oppressive, pressing

tightly in, constricting breath and movement,

scrambling thoughts, intensifying moods

gloomy and depressing, building up

tensions and minor irritations until

anxiety renders me dysfunctional,

and I can neither focus on a task,

nor sit still with my constant jitters.

It happens often enough that it can’t be

mere coincidence, and yet I don’t

know what to call effect and cause, whether

emotions take a barometric turn,

or the same gods’ grip shakes and strangles both.

 

Copyright 2019

T. Allen Culpepper

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Never or Now?

Cutting his eyes over his shoulder,

he checks whose gaze burns him from behind,

lusting after his youthful beauty, which smolders

as he raises eyebrow in an inviting sign.

Muscles ripple along his lean, smooth back,

neck arching gracefully as his head turns

and both imagine adventures in the sack,

the hot sex for which they  hotly yearn.

But will lips touch and hands fondle flesh,

each the other invite to come inside

as their bodies and souls intermesh,

or will they miss the moment, let it slide?

The moment lost, their chances to regain it diminish,

but if they seize it, they could take it to the finish.

 

Copyright 2019

T. Allen Culpepper

It’s Not My Fault: A Drinking Song

Verse 1

It wasn’t exactly love at first sight,

but there was something, and we got on well,

co-travelers through the days and nights

until it turned sour and went to hell

for reasons that remain unclear…

 

Chorus

Oh, it’s a motherfucking shame

that our lives are such a bloody mess,

but don’t even try to cast the blame,

‘cause there are no crimes for me to confess.

 

Verse 2

No doubt the therapists would claim

that there are lessons to be learned

about when to shut up and when to say

what’s really on your mind, what hurts,

and, yeah, mental health was not our strength…

 

Chorus

Oh, it’s a motherfucking shame

that our lives are such a bloody mess,

but don’t even try to cast the blame,

‘cause there are no crimes for me to confess.

 

Bridge

I guess fucked up love is better than no fucking love at all;

it takes two to play the game, but a lucky draw for both to win.

 

Verse 3

Sure, I failed, but Lord knows I tried

to heal the wounds and make things whole,

to wipe away the tears you cried

and bring comfort to your soul,

and so it hurt when you sent me away…

 

Chorus

Oh, it’s a motherfucking shame

that our lives are such a bloody mess,

but don’t even try to cast the blame,

‘cause there are no crimes for me to confess.

 

Repeat and fade slowly and quietly into despair

 

Copyright 2019

T. Allen Culpepper

 

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