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Poems By Poet Anthony Weir  11/26/2014 8:54:39 AM
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  ANTHONY WEIR (13th September 1941)
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All Souls Day, Saint-Antonin-Noble-Val

Here in the graveyard
the rotting corpses lie.
Children depress me.
But it cheers me up to know
that I and they will die.
Anthony Weir




A is for atom, which has many parts.
B is for bomb, so dear to men's hearts.
C is for cock, what you do to a rifle.
D is for doom, which is only a trifle.
E is for end which we're all of us living.
F is for future - it's quite unforgiving.
G is for Google, search-engine of choice.
H is for hoodlums, who once were sweet boys.
I is for me who should not be here
J is for Jihad against all things queer.
K is for Kali in Heaven Above.
L is for Limbo the circle of love.
M is for monster - what Man has become.
N is for nation and nasty and numb.
O is for ogle - what I do to dogs.
P is for progress that's lost in the cogs.
Q is for quiet: the peace of the dead.
R is for raucous: the thoughts in my head.
S is for steel destroying the world.
T is for triumph with banners unfurled.
U is for umbrage, so easily taken.
V is for virtue by value forsaken.
W doesn't scan - I'll leave it out.
X is for xenophobe: a mere lout.
Y is for yours, from terrible mines.
Z is for zillion - far less than Man's crimes...
Anthony Weir



Armageddon, after all, is a fairly small hill

Just an ordinary day: ordinary people
work and do other usual things
in the landscape of screams.
The cleaners, the clergy,
child prostitutes, bookbinders, loss-adjusters,
judges...the rapists, the teachers,
mechanics, chiropodists, vivisectionists,
politicans, the police, the swindlers,
the imams, the accountants, the advertising-agency janitors,
the slaughterers of battery-chickens,
spies and shit-shifters, computer-programmers,
together (with many more) compose
the landscape of screams
as a jigsaw of horrible fragments of false dreams.

And why would the creator not despise us
as we despise dogs
our very own unnatural selection?
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