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Poems By Poet Anthony Weir  8/23/2014 2:28:34 AM
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  ANTHONY WEIR (13th September 1941)
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In just one respect they tend to deviate.
In other ways they earnestly collaborate,
conform depressingly.
The same is true of dissidents and poets.

Almost every day I feel that I'm
the only person who's awake,
while other people are sleepwalking
the world to nightmare:
the long, bad time for poetry
now born of its dung.

The trickle of blood is time
('O ancient, crimson curse! ')
Surviving birth was my third crime.

Although the 'Nuclear Winter'
would have been the gentler way
to kill the world we fundamentally resent,
the Bible-blood of history
and very recent history has shown
that war is justifiable
only to unreason and testosterone.
Anthony Weir



Doors of Estrangement - a song for the Ghost of Jacques Brel

When you're strange
the glamour
of the world is
always out of range.
You stammer.

People who are feared
are never free from fear,
go very soon insane.
All of us are losers
in a world hijacked by gain.

When you're strange
the douceur of the world
is always
out of range.

Our minds are dirty cages
crammed with beasts in pain.

When you're strange you bite
the barbed-wire of your brain.
Anthony Weir



Eight Shorts

There are now more people
living on the earth than ever died
- though man is the only creature capable of suicide.


The greatest mystery
of life for me is not its origin
nor end nor meaning
but people's relentless superficiality.


The people who waste the most water
are those who most complain
about rain.
(Taps drip unfixed throughout
vast regions of unceasing drought.)


In my Auschwitz
head are five nice Nazis,
four Jewish war-criminals,
three bestial anarchists,
a Jehovah's Witness
and six far-seeing
(and very sexy) Gypsies.


What 'Good Sex' Tells Us:


The Past:
then lived in

(as far as is convenient) .


the paranoid, collective
loneliness of greed.


In Nation States
the breadth of human
(and therefore animal)
experience decreases day by day.
And so we blaze our way.
Anthony Weir



Ek Stasis

In the soulzone
Conscious in the
Ancient armpit
Of the Unconscious
At every moment
And the beginning
And the end of time
Any tree is more wonderful
Than any work of art
And all that matters
Is awareness
That nothing matters

And fulfilment is
To fall apart.
Anthony Weir
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Poems By Poet Anthony Weir