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Poems By Poet Anthony Weir  10/25/2014 4:10:30 PM
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  Best Poems From
  ANTHONY WEIR (13th September 1941)
 
 
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  57.     

Deviants

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
   
 

   
   
 

  58.     

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
   
 

   
   
 

  59.     

Duendes - self-realization at the age of sixty-one

This is the next-best sex: nobody
used, disappointed, or hurt - and no-one
engendered by my spermless ejaculate.
A rug by the fire, the moon
shining through the window, 'Verklδrte Nacht' playing,
pictures of hairy men kissing, hairy men squirting:
nobody used, nobody hurt, no misconnection.
Duende of climax

within a duende of solitude
like the greater duende of forest, of river
of peaceful and beautiful place
achingly real and not dependent
on hope or falsehood or people -

only dependent on something like grace...
 
Anthony Weir
   
 

   
   
 

  60.     

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:
time
is
nothing.

*

The Past:
invented
then lived in

(as far as is convenient) .

*

America:
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
   
 
 
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Poems By Poet Anthony Weir