Anthony Weir Poems
'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
I went out to buy contentment
and came home with bulls' testicles.
I went out to buy transcendence
and came back with a mobile phone.
The vileness of money
is that it turns stupidity of desire
I listen to time coughing and watch
the wolf in the Institute being
flayed to the bone.