THE COMPULSIVE ILLUSION URANIAN-PHILADELPHIC POEMS by Anthony Weir

Love is
Soup Dream
Life is
Dream Soup

 

HOMOSEXUALITY IS ONLY
A RED HERRING

Urinals are strange places
where men stand like itinerant sweet-
peas against temporary trellises
and fumble.



Men are lucky:
they can stand while they piss
and play cards, or violas
- or kiss.

 

FOREST SONG

The darkness is
The darkness is good
The forest is good
to its people

In the forest I AM
Outside the forest I'm TO DO

I am naked
standing by a pool
while the moon admires its full
reflection in the full water

The monkeys have stopped screaming
where I passed by
in my moonskin

And everything is quiet as the moon
as the moon and I make love
and I make moon-milk in moonlight

All quiet but for the sound
of moon-scattering water I dive into
after little monkey-cries
of fitness.

(adapted from three early poems)

 

  
DEEP DOWN

Everybody really knows that only animal
satisfactions satisfy
the animals we are
(in air-conditioned halls,
tax-forms, names, clothes, cutlery)
- and this is why
- I’m nuzzling your balls
- while listening to Schubert
- and drinking Château
Coutet-à-Barsac.

(from Cinema of the Blind )

TRINITY-INFANTASY

Your solid, hairy body was for an hour the father
I the skinny bastard never had,
your unmanifested mind the son
Imight have fumble-foisted as a lad
upon the girl I might have loved
if girls had thought me fun.
The holy spirit of our hearts' communion
might have snuggled in our hugs
and in our waking up together
holding hands, and in our cuddles
sliding back to sleep, and as we woke again
tocelebrate our muddles.

(adapted from a version in Dispatches from the War …)

 
 
 
PERFECT CIRCLE

I wish that I could lick
my prick
as beasts can,
For then (with luck)
I wouldn't want to fuck
or stick
it into anything
And I would be content to suck
myself, and pause
Complete as circle of serpent
with tail in its jaws.  
 
(from Cinema of the Blind )

 
Control birth

Combat normality.
We are as sperm
swimming in
the rectum of reality.

Glory be to theft and kisses
Glory be to breath
Glory be to slugs and beetles
Glory be to death.

Buried down deep or sitting above
The relation of pebble to earth
(which it was and will become)
is true love.

Mind activates awareness
Insight transcends mind
Wisdom's a puddle, decease is catharsis
We are most serious when we
wipe our arses.

(from Dispatches from the War... )

ESCAPE FROM THE MUSÉE D'ORSAY

Tired and sick at heart
I stole fifty-eight postcards and fled
the marble show-prison for innocent paintings .
They shouldn't be there
(more than half-dead)
in that vandalised railway-station
and we shouldn't be here in the world,
in cold latitudes, breeding
and stealing our heat and our food
from the poor and the beasts,
and producing more and more stuff
getting colder and colder while we turn
the heat higher and higher,
and build prisons even for paintings - as if their hideous, torturing frames were not enough!

After dinner alone in the flat
I went to the quays at the place Stalingrad
where men prowl and skulk
(and one or two chat)
and, under a culvert, eager and jostling
like dogs round a bitch, watch a man merely suck
another man off, without joy.

EPIPHANY
Eochu, Lord of the Underworld

Gun-barrel
Slung between powerful things
Marvel
Fixing my humble and envious eyes
Slides out of its stock
Veins standing out, thick
As a man’s arm:
Authority
Long and splendid and black
Extends towards the ground,
Then, with a casual, masterful
Flick, slaps a taut belly
Swings down again
And slowly slips back
Into thigh-portal
Leaving me trembling and awed
By unconscious display
Of his superhumanity.

 
 
RELIGION

God locked in his churches
The Mother of God in glass boxes
Believers in toilets
Every beast behind walls:
Christ the desecrator
The Great Divider –
And Satan the one with the balls.

(from Cinema of the Blind )

 
 
PERFECT PORTABLE PRODUCT

You’re never alone
with a Willy Phone ^®
Inside or out.
Ten Number Memory. Six sexy
shades from Stallion Black to
Pheromonal Pink. Five Freudian Flavours.
Deluxe veined version available
To the devout.

(from Fearful Symmetry )

 
OUTLINE OF A BOOK

BEYOND ORGASM:
The Man to Man Guide
to Soft Willy Sex:
Sensual cuddles and
Non-Penetrative Fulfilment.

C O N T E N T S

Affection without False Expectation
Sensual Deprivations of Childhood
Therapeutic Holosensuality:
Fighting the stereotypes
Enjoyment without Ownership
Giving Energy rather than
Receiving Frustration
Flow versus Compulsion,
Respect versus ‘Love’
Opening up to the Spirituality
Of "Casual Sex"
Helpful Plants and Natural Allies
Champagne and Soft Ceremonies
Hug Therapy and Peacemaking Amongst Primates
Sexy Soups and Orgasmic Puddings
Awakening Nipple Awareness
Armpits and Ecstasy
Helter-Skeltering the Kundalini
Pissing and The Shaman’s Path
Threesomes, Fivesomes and
Cuddle Buddy Networks
The Magic of Extremities:
Feet, Fingers and Scalp
Avoiding Prosecution
The Sensual Underground
Spiritual Revolution

(from Fearful Symmetry )  


 
MEMO FROM THE SECRETARY
OF THE MOON

In some ancient and some recent
archaic societies a man’s
desirability was measured
not by the amount of room
he occupied on Earth
but by the quantity and variety
of other men’s sperm
that he managed to consume.

For him there was no risk
of emotional infantilism, nor
permanent detachment
from oceanic drift;
For him the gift
of ‘homosexuality’ was
nothing to be feared –

and no worries about combing
the semen out of his beard.



BUBBLES AND SQUEAKS
 
Love is as deeply shocking
an experience as
Standing naked in icy rain.
The taste of your trust
in me while I kiss you
is remarkably like champagne.

for more Bearded Men Kissing, click on this picture

BRIEFLY BEAUTEOUS

I sang in the thicket
and worshipped the private and present
and cosmic and archaic smells,
the taste of his sweat,
his animal softness.
My whole body sang
and we kissed and we hugged
and seemed
to squeeze out all pain...
We made love four times.
Four times he stood me up.
It was a miserable year
before I saw him again...

...during which I fantasized a
CRIME PASSIONEL:
1. The love
2. The devastation
3. The bleakness
4. The visit
5. The hatchet
6. The screaming
7.The blood
8. The brains
9. The kisses
10. The dragging
11. The thudding
12. The loading
13. The kissing
14. The driving
15. The stopping
16. The kissing
17. The plastic tube
18. The kissing
19. The Raga
20. The odour
21. The feeling of unfinishedness
22. The dreaming
23. The end.

"THE SCENT OF THESE ARMPITS
IS AN AROMA FINER THAN PRAYER"
- Walt Whitman

I dreamed.
I woke in tenderness.
I dreamed of tenderness
as a ripe plum squirting
down my beard – tenderness
that turned to tide
that flowed through both of us
and in which we floated
through our cuddle-space
wherein our snug adhesion
cultivated jointly-impressive
delicate and gorgeous things
that we in sacred, shared
humility presented to each other
as sweet kings –
and the smiling
exuberantly-bearded sun
was his
life-giving face.

ONLY HALF A DOZEN TIMES THE GLAMOUR

Beyond the marzipan
of mere sex, mere poetry
and in the mystic epiphany of our
unpenetrative adhesion -
beyond the utilitarian transport
of mere drugs -
my mere and dreary consciousness
briefly gloried in the hairy
vegetable glamour of his hugs.



"WHAT GOES BY NAME OF 'LOVE' IS BANISHMENT"
(Samuel Beckett)
for Franz Schubert

Waking up wrapped in a hairy hug...
Champagne and croissants...
An enhancing home-grown drug...
The unseen ballet of our tongues...
The breath shared by each other's lungs...
An epiphany...A song within a sigh...
A meteor-flash across the sky...

 

IN THE STEPS OF WALT WHITMAN

Love is the eye lost
by coming into the light.
It is the first and last
poem. It's the
intestine of poetry -
and the illusion of it seemed to turn him and me into one
brief, unwriteable poem - like
flowing man-foetuses with our eyes open
thanking each other for finding our way back
to the womb we both came from.
I fancied that far more than pleasure flowed through us:
I imagined the liquid ore beyond life
in the deep mine of Saturn -
and we were buckets! were miners! and rock
and mine and machinery!...

With this found eye
which I had the illusion of sharing
like two briefly-chuckling
Fates I fancied that I glimpsed fractals
of the feelingless tenderness
of infinity.

 

HAIKU SEQUENCE

Just looking at him
made my nipples turn into
tiny volcanoes.

Our tongues like two
flat-fish mating in the cave
of two mouths.

My nose between his legs.
Eyes open, I'm in the
Garden of Eden.

Just when I'm about
to faint with passion he
revived me with god-milk.

Amphisbæna:
making love is not an act
- but an animal.

All night we lay
snugly together
like two hairy spoons.


o

( from Work in Progress)

 

SONNET TO THE ARSEHOLE
by Paul Verlaine and Arthur Rimbaud

Dark and wrinkling like a purpled pink
I humbly pant in moss still damp with love
that followed the soft slope to where the buttocks clove
- white buttocks leading to the puckered eyelet's brink.

Filaments have wept like tears of milk
in the cruel south wind which has driven them back
through clots of red marl, to be lost along the track
where the slope called them with surfaces of silk.

My dream has often kissed this enchanted orifice:
my soul, jealous of carnal intercourse,
has made this its tear-bottle and its nest of sobs.

It is the fig of teasing ecstasy for the flute that calls,
for the tube from which the heavenly praline falls:
feminine Canaan that dew anoints and orbs.

from Tide and Undertow: a book of translations by Anthony Weir, 1975

_________

The poem above appeared in the enthusiastically-bisexual
Paul Verlaine's collection Hombres,
published posthmumously in 1904.
Here are some diamantes from that collection:

"Let us admire that splendid flesh
as if it had intelligence - trembling,
and shy, but valorously fresh..."

"Even when your cock is small
it offers me untold delight.
Between your thighs goldhaired on white
I'm not averse
to see it cozy on your dark ball-
sack - that masculine and well-filled purse..."

"Come, acorn, come, my heart of oak.
Stand firm and poke
Your roll of pale pink silk
Into my hand until it squirts
Its fecund spurts
Of opalescent milk..."

"My lovers come not from the yuppie classes
but from hick neighborhoods, small towns
and from the land:
young guys with aristocratic asses,
hard muscles - and manners none too grand..."

(translations by Anthony Weir, self-photographed in Paris, 1982)

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