Peter Cullen

Peter Cullen Feb 2014

Bad Fruit. Sochi 2014.

So you can't be gay in Russia,
though one in ten its said to be.
A state of lost repression
where there's a price a bitter fee.
To pay for liberation.
A price to pay to be yourself.
No just deliberation.
A bad fruit on a dusty shelf.

Peter Cullen Feb 2014

Whips and Pain and Daisy Chains.

Whips and pain and daisy chains
are swimming through her mind.
Vanilla mixed with passion fruit
Sweet flavours of all kind.

Trying to grasp a rope of sand
to tie herself to him.
Whips and pain and daisy chains
deep in her mind still swim.

Through currents of emotion
tides and storms of lust and rage.
She searches mind and body
A crazed bird in an open cage.

Peter Cullen Feb 2014

Some Kind of Velvet.

She was like some kind of velvet
pulsating underneath my touch.
Those sweet reverberations.
Both searching for a mane to clutch.
Bound by lust
and bound by yearning.
The soothing of the carnal beast.
She wraps her legs around my smile
then quivers as I start to feast.

Peter Cullen Feb 2014

The Rat Race.

That chill is in the air again.
****, its like standing in the frozen-food aisle
looking for something cheap to eat.
Gnawing at you in the morning rush,
looking for that vacant seat.
On crowded buses that enter cities.
Where the rat-race ebbs and flows
As it carries vacant faces that sit rushing
to and fro.
Lost to themselves and to a life
that just seems out of reach.
Reading headlines about men who know,
who really shouldn't preach.
Overloaded with whats right and wrong,
they carry weary frames.
I wonder will they ever see?
This rat-race is a game!

Peter Cullen Feb 2014

To My Sister Marie. Amsterdam 2005 .

Search inside a little while,
smile and frown,
and pass the day.
So when then,
your eyes get tired,
close them tight and fade away.
And when on you, a dream descends,
I hope it brings you joy.
Brings you back to happy days,
where there's no sad goodbyes.

I know
thinking bout the future's,
sometimes hard, when in the past.
Mercy holds no shelter,
for the shadows that were cast.
We wonder what we're doing here,
and is it all a game?
Sometimes it seems a cruel world,
and there's no one there to blame.

Where do we find the pieces?,
in this theatre called life.
Or are we just a tiny spec
in the realms of time.

Im sure you'll meet again someday.
In the realms of time.

Peter Cullen Feb 2014

A Chair By The Sea.

Those long hot summer days where all was easy.
"Man", those days that barely give way to night.
There's an energy on the greasy streets.
And the feeling that my heart is free.

Free and buzzing like a bumble bee,
making my way down to the salty quay.
To the mouth of the river,
where land meets sea and sea kisses land.
And one thousand billion grains of sand.
Churned over and over and over again.
As light burns my eyes and paper meets pen.
Churned over and over and over again.

- suddenly an urge to swim.

Peter Cullen Jan 2014

The Cape of Hope.

Standing in a queue that never moves.
Where people while away there time
and queerhawks always sing the blues.
Songs they churn like echoes in the wind.
About ghost-ships lost without a course
that never should have sailed.
Never should have ventured
out past the Cape of Hope.
As the Sun that lit the way went out
to watch the Moon and Stars elope.