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Poems By Poet Anthony Weir  11/22/2014 6:51:03 PM
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  Best Poems From
  ANTHONY WEIR (13th September 1941)
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Asperger meets Alzheimer

Every army is edible -
just fry or boil or bake.
In the Bar des Abattoirs
we talk about Fast Food
and churches, the mindless
wondrousness and relentless
logical absurdity of nature,
and pubic-genital tattoos.
I, le chien manquι, never lie
and never lock my house.
Nearing my demise,
the dirty emptiness of life behind me,
the pure nothingness of death in front,
the inexpensive Bar des Abattoirs
is my chosen nursing-home.

I don't know what age
I am, am of -
I share nothing with women or men
and dislike cities, loathe pubs.
Thinking of death and the error
of being human, I am the bearer
of unwelcome wisdom,
an angry ghost among the shrubs.

God's name is Frankenstein.
We are his monsters.
Anthony Weir




The sea constantly
ceaselessly conjugates
the verb 'to murmur'
sometimes very loudly
sometimes so quietly
that it's barely a rumour

And the white juices
from black forces
and it conjugates 'to murmur'
lovingly and cold
cold and passionate
violent and cold

So we are told
who only dream the sea
desiring it dreamingly
seeming to be awake
and just out of reach
on the small fragile beach

where the shadows flap and shake.
Anthony Weir



Beauty and Despair

The forest's lovely, dark and deep,
But I, unlovely human, have pale and
shallow promises to keep
to well-kept humans.
There is no gain but hurt
as we turn the planet called Earth
to the planet called Dirt,
the planet of pain.
And we are vanity & all in vain.

Every girl and every boy
is born with and robbed of
the secret of joy.
And not a thing will satisfy
Because we all are cut away
from our innate capacity
to be appropriate, attuned.

are pus from that terrible wound,
wound of wanting, dark and deep.
The woods are lovely…We explain
and turn experience to pain,
turn pain to planetary experience,
and we are vanity, and all in vain.
Anthony Weir



'Blood is the belly of logic' - in memoriam Ted Hughes

Farming is more swords
than earth-savaging, earth-exhausting ploughshares:
exile from Eden,
starvation and infection,
hacking and sacking of the growing green,
overpopulation and empire,
power and glory,
restlessness and greed and vivisection,
savage fear of what is animal,
guilt and comfort and uneasy self-satisfaction.
Anthony Weir
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Poems By Poet Anthony Weir