The Secret Society Of Suicides Poem by Anthony Weir

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