Sexual Thrills

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

Though night comes on, the rich shoot pheasants still.

The greed of riches stretches wide, more wide

Than range of gloss on colors now, though chill

The prince now brings his red coat horsey bride

To kill a brace though she was wearing white

Not long ago.  The queen lifts up her gun

And blasts away at cock–and turns to blight

His gorgeousness.  The duke forgets his hon

He ravished just the night before since she

Was fling bimbjoyment in the bed before

The zing of slaughter now.  The glee

He felt with her weighs less than with a whore.

  The blasting of the pheasants in the fields

    Feels better than the joy that shoving yields.

© Phillip Whidden