Ne Plus Ultra

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

You might well say that Truth (whatever), Zen,

(Whatever), spoils those things you care about.

More likely it is women, husbands, men

(Who spread their thighs on trains) who make us pout.

A beauty passes us, but then we see

A pimple on the nose.  The noblest mind

Lives, monk-like, intellectuality

Its tower, but then comes tRUMP, his fat behind

And little dick which forces him to grab

At money and at women’s crotches, furred

Or otherwise.  There’s always some hard scab

To ruin all, with morals always slurred.

  Ideals are always flattened, banged down, burst.

    Religions, though, are absolutely worst.

~ Phillip Whidden