VISIT ANTHONY's

photo

album

and

phallic

stones

 

THE COMPULSIVE ILLUSION TRICHOPHILOUS POEMS by Anthony Weir part three

 

"What the American male really wants is two things: he wants to be blown by a stranger while reading a newspaper and he wants to be fucked by his buddy when he's drunk. Everything else is Society."
- W.H. Auden

 

 

"The sound of one hand clapping":
Masturbation.

 

 

GLOSS
on a poem by R.L. Stevenson

Love - what is love ? A stupid, aching heart;
rage, tears, more rage, regret and long despair.
Life - what is life ? Expulsion from the lair
into a world that is a world apart.

 

 

ALL BLOOD TASTES MUCH THE SAME

Men's armpits in their natural state
have a range of smells
- fennel, ginger,
leather, horse, ripe date,
pipe-tobacco, damp logs -
but their balls
all smell the same

though maybe not to dogs.

 

 

How sad it must be
to have been circumcised.
The happy, delicately-moister
willy smells delightfully
of smoked oyster.

 

 

LOVING A LIAR

In the estranging chill
of consciousness
which things
make ever colder,
your tenderness,
your sensual good-will
seemed and only seemed to be
warmer than the furs of kings,
and your hugs warmed me
like imaginary hypocausts
in this refrigerative dream.

 

 

A LESSON THAT NOBODY TEACHES
When Gustave Flaubert was in Egypt he was just as interested in boys as girls.

How cheapjack is ejaculation!
How frictionful is penetration!
Male orgasm
depends not on spasm
but on artistic calibration.

 

 

"WHAT GOES BY NAME OF LOVE
IS BANISHMENT" - Samuel Beckett
NOTES FOR 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.

 

 

Glad to be out.
Proud to be outside.

I would never join a 'gay' group - or any group.
Why would the members have anything more in common
than a similarly-structured, similarly-sized heterosexual group ?
They wouldn't even have sexuality in common,
since 'gay' men display an amazing panoply of penchants.

I have no more in common with another non-heterosexual
than I have with another heterosexual.
What did Stalin and Ronsard have in common ?
What does Gore Vidal have in common with Ronnie Kray or Divine ?

 

 

In memory of Joe Brainard

I remember
when I first ate a Madeleine last year
(I was 65) that I realised I'd never
eaten one before; that triggers of memory
for me are very rare, and the memories
themselves are at least partly false. I remember
only a few episodes
of my childhood, adolescence, adulthoood -
mostly the shocking bits, like when, aged 3, I showed
a little girl my cock, and she ran home and told her mother
and I ran home and took a knife out from the kitchen
and found her somewhere and stabbed her in the mouth
for telling tales. That was the worst thing I have ever done,
but it had a certain Sophoclean quality.

Memories are fly and amber. Why do we need constantly
to feed off other people's memories, stories and imaginations ?

I remember only now that the little girl -
Brenda, her name was - asked me to expose
myself to her, and I made her promise not to tell her mother.
I remember how untrustworthy most people are
most of the time. Not like dogs. Oh, I remember dogs...!
The pain of loss.

I remember being sodomised for the first time
by a man not much older than myself. Horrible, tearing pain -
nothing like as bad as pain of loss -
pulsating ache. I felt my arse and rectum were being split asunder.
My muscles contracted, resisted, and I bled,
but I didn't pull away, didn't dare say
Stop it! But like any daughter/son fucked by her/his father/uncle
I just hoped that it would soon be over.
And it was.
And I fled.
And I anointed my arsehole for a week, more or less.
I was not a powerless child, but a timid adult 28 years old.

Not being secretive, I have never felt the need to confess,
so why should I suddenly think these stories need to be told ?

 

A British anti-masturbation device, used on children
from the 1880s to the 1920s

 

DUENDES
self-realisation at sixty-one

This is the next-best sex: nobody
used, disappointed, or hurt - and no-one
engendered by my spermless ejaculate.
A rug by the fire, the moon
shining through the window, Verklärte Nacht playing,
pictures of hairy men kissing, hairy men squirting:
nobody used, nobody hurt, no misconnection.
Duende of climax

within a duende of solitude
like the greater duende of forest, of river
of peaceful and beautiful place
achingly real and not dependent
on hope or falsehood or people -

only dependent on something like grace...

[Duende is the rapture experienced by a Flamenco audience
and the rapturous playing which produces it.]

 

 

LOVE POEM FOR MALCOLM
pictured above

I love you like roast pork loves Burgundy in the mouth
Like a pig loves grapes
I love you like I love landscape or a cosy fire
I admire the landscape and vegetation of your body
I love you like I love my bed and being alone in it
far from your snoring
I love you because you love me in small doses,
because we live apart
and because of your delicious vegetable food
which I lovingly enjoy as I eat with you
and I listen to profound music with you
or I listen to the radio with you.
Is it a deep or shallow heart
that loves you most when we're apart ?
I love you as you lick the cream off my beard.
I love you because you are so beautiful and gentle
and considerate and reliable
and because we don't have sex.

Sex is the rocket that doesn't take off
but fizzles into a drain -
and sex is the rocket that shoots to the sky
and dies in the dark of the brain.

 

 

TO ANOTHER BEAUTIFUL MAN

When limbs entwine
consciousnesses usually don't.
I think you're lovely and
we could have a lovely time...
But a lovely (sexy, sensual) time
has (sadly) rarely been my wont.

 

 

The tastes of certain unwashed cocks
are better than the smells...
To think of sex in terms of penetration
is as crass and hidebound as to think of life
in terms of goals.

 

A HOMOHYMN TO THE STRAINS OF HANDEL
(off the coast of Coromandel)

I know that my Blasphemer liveth,
and He shall kiss and tickle my nipples.

And His sperm shall be spilled.
And His Willy will shoot
and the rivers be filled.

His semen shall rain
however, wherever

From Cock of cocks, forever! forever!
And Balls of balls, Hallelujah! Hallelujah!
For He shall squirt on my belly forever,
Hallelujah! Hallelujah!
And upon my beard.
Hallelujah! Hallelujah!
Such a lovely God cannot be feared...

 

SCROTUM-SNIFFING

The sounds of that
smell are the
colours of organ
music.

 

 

ANOTHER SHIFTY QUEER
(definitely not Malcolm)

Sunk in debt, deceit and lies,
up to his eyes
(his beautiful eyes,
his fulfillable needs)
he tries to rip me off

and succeeds.
And even in me
(faithful, reliable, loyal)
love, the wonderful, sordid strategy,
slowly fades
and finally dies.

 

 

PROTEST SONG

Hey X (Hey Y, Hey Z...) - Damn you!
You're like something I'd scrape from the sole of my shoe.
You...and your dribbly, knobbly dick...
your idea of 'sex' makes me laugh...and then sick.
You're just another failed masturbator.
You dribbled and left -
and I had great sex with myself a day later.

 

BELITTLING A BITTERLY FAILED INFATUATION

you despise yourself
for having fallen into it -
but you did not fall:
you jumped for joy.
And now you ken
that you would be no wiser now
if you had not been hopeful then.

 

THE COMPLEAT PERVERT

keeps
to him-
or her-
self.

 

 

ANONYMOUS

In this true confession written by my pen
(then typed) I list:
the effort
the interest
the apprehension
the music, wine and mis-en-scène
the excitement
the expectation
the occasional anxiety
the rare ecstasy
(délire sensuel et languoureux vertige)
my compass spinning in the wild magnetic
field of intimacy
the usual ennui
and emptiness
the misalignment
and vacuity
of my sexual experience with men.

 

 

WHEN PEOPLE TALK OF LOVE

When people talk of love
it sounds like Christmas

Or else something more seriously ritual
like marriage vows or circumcision
or a funeral

Or stupefyingly vague
like love of God

Or just the right to interfere
in another person's life

Or it is passion (like mine for stones and trees)
or infatuation born of lust

Or , because love is a kind of greed,
they may only mean a cheap passport
to sexual penetration and brief release
- but not from desire, of course.

If, of all desires,
desire to keep on living is the stupidest

desire for love's the most pathetic
and most unchecked,

and sexual desire the silliest.

When people talk about love
they rarely mean respect.

 

 

vacuum of desire:
a doomed gay correspondence

COPING WITH TESTOSTERONE The problem of mankind - and the planet - is Man's inability to cope with testosterone. Humans are evolved enough to remove all the checks and balances that limit the populations of other species, but not intelligent enough to replace them with anything other than the patently stupid moralisms based on the inanities, cruelties and lies of religions manufactured by men. Thus testosterone rules our lives, we are breeding ourselves to extinction, and - far, far worse, the planet to its sixth extinction. Testosterone is the serpent whispering in Eve's ear. Testosterone is the devil which possesses men and the women or partner they possess. Testosterone loves possessing. Testosterone says 'Ejaculate!' Women and men say 'Here, in me!' And so we proceed. Testosterone is also happy to sublimate/branch into other forms of desire - especially property and power, control and lordship. Human testosterone knows no bounds, because human beings are not intelligent enough to check or circumvent it, especially in civilised societies in which, inevitably, sexual activity assumes far too great an importance, because people don't know how to accord it the respect that would place it properly in the scheme of things. Yet to take control of testosterone through sensuality is very, very easy. All we need to understand is that male orgasm is independent of ejaculation. Both are functions of the prostate gland, but one is not necessary to produce the other. Legion are the unsatisfactory orgasms - maybe most are unsatisfactory. Many and delightful are the non-ejaculatory orgasms of men in tune with their bodies. And when the prostate is 'in tune', one even gets delicious mini-orgasms when pissing. Although I have the disadvantage of a puritan upbringing in a sex-obsessed culture, yesterday - drunk on the perfume of my armpits and my cock, rather than the 20-year old Armagnac - I had continuous non-ejaculatory orgasm for over an hour. It was amazing... ...and no animals were harmed. No human was disappointed. read more

 

"Losing my libido was like being unshackled from a lunatic." - George Melly

 

---

THREE POEMS FROM THE PAST

---

1. MARTIAL (first century A.D.)
Epigrams II, 59

SLANDERER

Before your mouth was fringed with hair
All cocks might find quiescence there,
Till hangmen snubbed a boy so common
And shit-shifters preferred a woman,
When sucking off no longer paid
Your tongue was still your stock-in-trade -
No more so suck, but to discharge
Its venom on the world at large,
On characters low slurs to fix
As once it had infected pricks.

O filthy tongue! you'd better far
Be what you were than what you are.

 

2. WILLIAM BARBER (1947-)

EXPLANATION

I am not gay by your definition.
I will not stand in the drab beige men's room
like a fern watered with urine,
and wait for penises. I'm sorry -
morality will have to change.

I speak directly to the sons of
your officials, under the moon,
with the professors listening.

We have burned the closet door in effigy.
There will be no more watching for the feet
of policemen under the partitions. Nor
the mediocrity of masses of shuffling gays
in the dark bars, ghettoed and ethnic.

I love men. I tell them so directl;y.
Wherever we encounter, there are no categories.

 

3. CREDO
yet another reworking of a third-century-BC poem
by CALLIMACHUS OF CYRENE

Old points of view expressed anew are crap.
Old sentiments recycled yet again,
banalities of love exposed like wounds in films,
are so much pap.
My writing's much too dissident to win a prize,
my thoughts don't come processed-flaccid from the system.
What majorities desire I just despise.

Anthony Weir

---

A POEM FROM THE FUTURE

---

WRITE IN with your comments on these poems : leave FEEDBACK

 

TRUE RELIGION

sans pénétration...
My graves are flowering.
Have you opened
one of them,
my treasure ?
They are yours to plunder.
I am dying
in wonder of
so much passion,
so much softness,
so much pleasure.

"Day unto day uttereth speech,
and night unto night showeth knowledge"
- Psalm 19:2

A kind of lampshade, skin
over skeleton, I glow
from the softness of
your passion
moon-fashion
and not inflamed
by man's mean fury
his insane and mere complexity

Feel! I festoon
your labyrinthine, abracadabrantine stair
with a sub-luminary softening
that cannot come from ordinary light

That rare and velvet
darkening
is a kind of kind shadow-flare
that makes us both aware
of the sheer simplicity of sanity
Deep in the sewer,
the brain's profanity,
hearkening
to each other's heart,
we perform the elegant and touching rite.