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Modern poetry modern verse contemporary poetry contemporary verse modern poem contemporary poem 

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A rose of semen crossed with iron contains

The thrust of every man which he creates.

The force is made with colors of the manes

Of stallions.  Men then also will the gates

They open and the gates they close.  The swell

Of man is made of flesh that poets set

Against machine guns.  Hardenings foretell

Their thumps and triumphs.  Men do not forget

The need of death.  This knowledge is their strength.

It smells of self.   It always stinks of bass

Above the tenor love.  It stinks of length

That searches deeply flaunting sweat’s disgrace.

  Force never is of fountain wetness.  Stone

    Contains his essence, more a form of throne.

~ Phillip Whidden

by phillipw | Mar 5, 2025 | MA | 0 comments