Pink Azaleas

The pink azaleas fade the fastest,

their festive petals turning a nasty brown.

All year they’ve waited for their glory moment,

the sudden burst of bloom that makes them

special among the other shrubs,

but their faces once revealed begin to crumple

and decay, so that within in a week

they’re like aging drag queens

holding out for one last show

before saying goodbye to the stage.


Copyright 2019

T. Allen Culpepper



You’re only as old as you feel, the adage states,

an appealing fantasy, but clearly untrue,

as shown by wrinkled skin and added weight,

the piper’s bills for what you used to do.

Even if your step still springs, it hurts,

though you can’t recall what made it so.

Motivation comes only in spurts;

metabolism has begun to slow.

The actors that you watched as teens on screen

have been divorced three times and have grandkids;

it’s not something you thought you’d ever see.

Basically your youth has hit the skids.

It could be worse, of course; you’re not dead yet–

but you’d better hurry with goals unmet.


Copyright 2018

T. Allen Culpepper

Theological Speculation

So what if God created Adam a top

and saw that he needed somewhere to put it

and then created Steve a bottom,

but then Steve turned out to be a slut

and took on every snake in the garden,

so God decided all that breeding

ought to produce some result,

so he whacked of off Steve’s S and T

and made him pregnant Eve?

Or maybe there’s a misprint

and God created Ada first

and noticed she kept looking

at herself in the reflecting pool

and put one and one together

and that’s how Ada and Eve

came together, and the snake

was just a sex-toy metaphor.

Because, I mean, who ever

really knows what God is up to?

Copyright 2015

T. Allen Culpepper

First Ride: Mixed Emotions [Advisory: Sexually Explicit}

Advisory: This one is sexually explicit, so please don’t read it if that bothers you. There are plenty of clean ones posted for you choose from.

Desperate and tired of depending

on others to address his needs,

he decided to do it himself,

but he needs the proper tool,

so he searched some Web sites.

The dildo he ordered online

arrived on the truck today,

and he got hyper-excited

just hearing the truck rumble up,

the driver, kind of hot,

sliding open the door.

He knows he’s dripping in his shorts

as he signs the delivery receipt,

his voice wavering as he thanks the driver,

wishing he were brave

enough to ask for company.

Ripping open the package

and stripping off his clothes,

he grabs a bottle of lube

and gets ready for a trial run

The dildo’s a rippled jelly one,

coloured translucent pink,

knobs increasing in size

from tip to base.

Rubbing it with lube

and squirting some up his hole,

he suctions the toy to the floor

and lowers into a squat

until the first of the knobs

prods his reluctant sphincter.

Imagining some handsome stud

attached to the other end,

he presses himself down,

trying to relax,

but still it hurts like hell

as it finally pops through.


But once inside, it feels

so fucking good filling

his cock-hungry ass,

rubbing against his prostate,

and though solo can be lonely,

he like being able to direct

the action without the need

to express himself in words.

Getting into it now,

he collects oozing

pre-cum on fingertips

and slowly licks them clean

as the toy slides in

all the way to its base,

and then he lubes up one hand

and starts stroking his dick

while he pumps his ass,

breeding himself faster and harder

with the plastic phallus,

raising the other hand overhead

like a barroom cowboy

riding a mechanical bull,

and then too soon it’s over,

his load of warm, white jizz

spewing over his chest and pubes.

He wipes some up with one hand

and eats it from his palm,

while the other hand massages

the rest over his belly,

and then he stretches his legs out

and leans back against the bed,

too spent to feel the shame

they all tried to teach him,

but, still, overcome by something

more like an emotional vacuum.

The tool has done the job,

but he wishes that now

it could hold him tight

in strong arms and breathe

softly on his neck.

But since he can’t,

he pulls it out of him

with a final gasp,

and climbs into bed,

curling up like a child.

Hugging a pillow to his chest

and wrapping himself in a blanket,

he falls into sleep and dreams.

Copyright 2015

T. Allen Culpepper


In the mirror, I look tired,

creeping age beginning to make me

with deepening lines of worry and laughter,

skin roughening from sun and wind,

losing its elasticity,

shadows under eyes reddened

by dropped-in medicine for glaucoma,

a few broken capillaries near the nose.


Not too bad for a man past fifty,

but no longer the thirty-something

I still picture in my head.


I can’t ask where they’ve gone,

the years that did this to me, crossing

time and space, dragging me

along on their road trip,

nor do I think I could start over,

even could I pick and choose

what to repeat and what to skip.


Still, I can help distrusting people

who claim that they have no regrets.


Copyright 2014

T. Allen Culpepper


At the kitchen table with my parents,

drinking coffee and looking out the window,

watching birds and morning sun on water,

Dad at one end in his pocket T-shirt,

Mom to the side still in her pink night dress,

We discuss the weather, nice for December.

Mom’s made me her take on French toast

after choosing yoghurt for herself;

Dad has a cigarette in lieu of food.

It’s a scene we’ve acted many times before,

its poignancy increasing as we age.

Last night, we watched a TV program

about the influence of Sherlock Holmes

on the development of forensic science;

Locard’s principle of exchange

says that with any objects making contact,

each of them leaves traces where it touches.

In me, my parents’ residue has seeded

a tolerance for difference even wider

than they could have intended, even imagined,

but what dust from me on them has settled?


Copyright 2013

T. Allen Culpepper

Breakfasting Punks

It’s early for punks, ten a.m.,

their habits usually like vampires’,

but there they are, three of them,

a trio to represent the choir.

In any group, one stands out,

with a look or persona that shouts,

“I am the magnet that attracts;

the rest, they just have my back.”

They look old enough for drinks,

but they’re not having alcohol,

and only one the coffee that you’d think;

juice, chocolate milk wash down their talk.

The star is serious about his look:
green-blond hair, T-shirt too short,

black jeans and trainers, belt with studs,

heavily tattooed arms.

Piercings are all that’s missing; I wonder

if there are some somewhere under

clothes; besides arms and face,

the only skins that shows the space

between his T-shirt and low jeans–

no ink there, completely clean.

He’s hot enough in his way,

but I’m not sure how well he’ll age.

I guess that’s not a major worry

when you’re invincibly under thirty.


Copyright 2013

T. Allen Culpepper