The French Oscar Wilde

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

His soul is cancer’s breath, gray groaning, screams

Of falsity.  His sleeping slickened snores

Of evil fill the room like lava streams

In hell, an imp’s complaint.  His sleek silk drawers

Can hardly hide his horniness.  A spew

Of diarrhea comes to mind.  The stink

Of him reveals the teeth of Montesquiou

As stained Satan’s sin.  He makes men want to slink

To anywhere not near him—and through teeth

Of black he sends out gargled giggles though

He hides his oral cavity with sheath

Of midnight leather on his hand (no show!).

  An ugliness that you can almost hear

    Comes spouting out like laughter as a sneer.

© Phillip Whidden