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Poems By Poet Anthony Weir  9/23/2014 9:25:04 PM
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  Best Poems From
  ANTHONY WEIR (13th September 1941)
 
 
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  25.     

Every moment is a moment of instruction

I write on time's hem, the brink of extinction,
the end ever nearer as leaders and led become madder
and fuller of power and products
None of us more than 10%
conscious and 9% rational, our species
the irrestistible error of crass evolution.

Is the mercy of dozens of hydrogen bombs
more likely to cover the Planet of Pain
than the long, cruel whimper of famine
and drought, the ruthless
destruction even of air?
Insanely
we think that Creation must live only through us -
but humility is our nearest approximation to sanity.

I write, before being hurled
from the brink of extinction, poems which just a few hundred beings
in all the uncaring cosmos will read:
the beginning of wisdom's the end of our world.
 
Anthony Weir
   
 

   
   
 

  26.     

Self-portrait

Beyond-the-Pale
does not do similes nor metaphors
nor family
nor birthdays, nor Christmas
nor bars, nor restaurants,
and very little sex;
does not have television
nor washing-machine;
does not do hygiene
nor publishers
and has never been employed -

he’s someone the banal avoid.
 
Anthony Weir
   
 

   
   
 

  27.     

Stale Grandeur of Annihilation

For I am awake among the overfed
sleepers of Hell: for truth is the stair
descending to despair
and rising thence to more abysmal truth.
For just because I'm dying doesn't mean
I'm dead. And where
are the killers of the pain of consciousness?

For beauty dies where comfort lies.

For I am exhausted by the fight.
Why am I struggling to compose the poems
that nobody else
seems to have the guts or perception to write?
 
Anthony Weir
   
 

   
   
 

  28.     

The Secret Society of Suicides

Let us dress up
in hairy brown blankets
disguised as god's testicles,
bump into people, crush them


and crash into many-towered skyscrapers
of vanity
for

A POEM THAT IS NOT A VIPER
IS A BATTERY-TURKEY

for

beneath the mountains of bone
among the skeletons of trees
upon the sickly seas
of not understanding understanding
Progress is death's pseudonym

and

This Liberty you vaunt
is sold with terrible compulsions

This Peace that you manipulate
drips out of dreadful mutilations

This Civilisation that you serve
is wanton devastation
All your Heavens and Utopias of luxury
bleak and full of angry comfort

We are raped and raping
Hope is the crime and mother of crime

We are always on the way, and never arrive
Some infinites are very small
Happiness is an imaginary number
and a by-product
(with what evolutionary worth, I wonder?)

LET US DRESS UP

in hairy black blankets
masquerading as god's testicles
and bump into people and crush them


and crash into many-towered skyscrapers
of vanity
for

destruction
was the birth of civilisation
and in destruction of destruction
it slowly dies, ever more demanding

The only true achievement
is renunciation

and not understanding
is also understanding
 
Anthony Weir
   
 
 
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• angel poems
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beautiful poems
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Poems By Poet Anthony Weir