A Strand of Hair

 

His slender face, angular-nosed,

capped by dark-brown hair

styled to the left, perfect but

for one dangling strand, the

tiny flaw that saves beauty

from impossibility, beard neat

but not too much so completing

the facial frame, contrasting

with clear, white skin; simply

but attractively dressed in black

Henley, buttons undone, uncuffed

grey jeans encasing long legs

dangling from the bar-height

chair, long-toed feet in flip-flops

crossed; mouth serious, mostly

focused on his work, but with

some effort—from time to time,

he raises his eyes and scans the

room, or checks his phone, smiling

only then. Not sure whether

his work is scholarly or businesslike,

his exact age also hard to call,

though he’s clearly young. At

the coffeehouse alone, but looks

likes he should be the boyfriend

of someone, whether he is or not.

But then he could be the type

who takes it all too seriously,

making long-term plans too

soon, the kind of man who

doesn’t fear commitment but

expects too much of it too soon,

and though that’s not what I need

right now or maybe ever, that

fallen strand of hair

might lasso and corral me.

 

Copyright 201

T. Allen Culpepper

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Drawing

I admit he’s rather fetching,

artist sitting by the window,

working on some pencil sketches,

pausing, then getting into the flow.

 

His hair is thick, longish, golden;

eyes the color of cornflowers.

To converse I’d be emboldened,

but someone else my plan has soured.

 

Copyright 2014

T. Allen Culpepper

Divine Abduction

Soaring away from its mountain lair, the eagle

circles broadly, until, gazing down,

a kind of magnetism pulls it toward

a temptation stretched out on the ground,

a naked youth sunning himself beside

the clear, cool brook from which he just emerged

after a refreshing dip.  He lies

reclining, propped on one flexed arm, still beardless,

body smooth, golden, hairless, sun

and trees dappling his teenage form, blond locks

long and thick, still damp, pulled back

from his perfectly sculptured face, eyes like–

no, a simile won’t do them justice–

blue sapphires they are, and deeper than

the stream in which he bathed, lips full and red.

Mid-afternoon at the height of summer,

he sips sweet wine and dozes in the warmth,

awakes feeling horny, a bit aroused,

unknowingly most beautiful of mortals,

one even the godly Zeus cannot resist,

and so the eagle spirals earthward, lands,

and the king of gods takes human form,

dark curly hair and beard, shirtless chest

broad and strong, his cock already hard.

He takes Ganymede by surprise,

flips him over, enters from behind,

rapes the youth and infuses him

with the spirit of divinity.

Afterward, they finish off the wine,

share a smoke, and then the mighty god

resumes the form of the noble bird,

snatches up the delicate Trojan boy,

now the legendary catamite,

with his eagle talons and whisks him away

to Olympus, where the boy,

nude and lovely, serves the gods golden

wine from a golden chalice, and in return

himself becomes a vessel often filled.

Whether he finds joy in his role,

who knows, happiness not being a virtue

of particular importance among the Greeks.

 

Copyright 2014

T. Allen Culpepper