Now 65, having lived my life entirely dissident, vasectomised, refusing to be employed, married, and to have anything to do with 'normality', I divide my State-Pensioned time between beautiful, remote, rural Northern Ireland and a beautiful mediæval village in the Aveyron Gorges of south-west France. I also write poems in French: http: //www.beyond-the-pale.co.uk/french.htm
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Anthony Weir Poems
'The scent of these armpits is an aroma ...
I dreamed. I woke in tenderness. I dreamed of tenderness as a ripe plum squirting
The Motto of Capitalism: Enough Is Not E...
The animal garden Is now a murder-hole. Language was always the Labyrinth. Civilisation is striving, spurning
A Dublin Poem
At the Conference of Poetry Police An observer who claimed That a tree was worth
Obviously, song came before speech and moans came before song. Whales sing refrains and antiphons, compose sonatas.
Two Very Short Poems
December snow falling tells me to stop thinking.
Six Very Short Poems
Man in a shower. His only reality the removal of reality.
Gloss on the Ninth Elegy of Rainer-Maria...
My invisible, other true friend, Brother Zoti Lamort, unknowable, ever-present, everywhere like a vast four-dimensional carpet, asks me silently why I have to be human,
A Voice from the Mirror
The greatest achievement is to become unmentionable to the unspeakable. 'Now' is glimpses of the always framed by never.
In the Beginning God burst like a Balloon Showering the World With dirty shreds
A la Recherche de Paul Verlaine
Miserable wars if love is not the reason Miserable wars
Erech/Uruk - Iraq
We're told that writing was invented here: lists of weapons, foodstuffs, kings, kinsmen, laws and penalties. Here lived the first Man-God, Gilgamesh.
Urinals are strange places where men stand like itinerant sweet-peas against temporary trellises
'Blood is the belly of logic' - in memor...
Farming is more swords than earth-savaging, earth-exhausting ploughshares: exile from Eden, starvation and infection,
Just Another Rape
I am nobody. As the lightning flashed the city showed itself as greasy ruins, and lush landscape was revealed
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Edgar Allan Poe
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'The scent of these armpits is an aroma finer than Prayer' (Walt Whitman)
I woke in tenderness.
I dreamed of tenderness
as a ripe plum squirting
down my beard – tenderness
that turned to tide
which flowed through both of us
and in which we floated
through our cuddle-space
wherein our snug adhesion
the unseen ballet of our tongues
the breath shared by each other's lungs
were part of an epiphanic lace
of delicate and gorgeous things
that we in sacred, shared
humility presented to each other
as sweet kings –
and the smiling