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[this page was last updated
in 2022]

Why do we deny the obvious:
That happiness and property are opposites ?

Where I was born in 1941 - a wartime 'Maternity Hostel'.

I had thought that its name Folly Farm
was connected with the fact that my mother, a schoolteacher,
victim of a sexual assault, had to travel from Belfast to Berkshire
in order to have her illegitimate child
(whom she adopted in 1942 and brought to her mother and sister in Belfast).
But, at the age of 73 I found out that I was wrong:
it is the original name of this handsome building.

On the barren frontier between poetry, philosophy and integrity a lone wolf prowls.

"Hermetic Situationism"


The Pale was the variable extent of Engish influence in Ireland, centred in Dublin,
from the late 13th to the early 17th centuries.
My Irish home in the barony of Lecale (80 miles north of Dublin) was rarely part of it.
It ended with the 17th century 'plantations' of English and Scots in various parts of Ireland.
The phrase beyond the Pale means 'beyond civilisation, beyond respectability, uncouth, unacceptable'.
There was another English Pale - around Calais, where English jurisdiction ran until the 16th century.
The word means 'stake' or 'post' - hence an area defended by a palisade.

The Pale of Settlement was along Russia's western border (including a large chunk of Poland-Lithuania),
established by Catherine the Great to 'control' the Jews in their shtetls and ghettoes.
To have been beyond that Pale would have had a contrary meaning: to be a civilised Lutheran German,
such as Immanuel Kant in Königsberg (now Kaliningrad)...


"We cannot live in a world that is not our own, in a world that is
interpreted for us by others. An interpreted world is not a home.
Part of the terror is to take back our own listening, to use our own
voice, to see our own light."

- Hildegard of Bingen (1098-1179)



My life changed at the age of 40 in 1981 at an exhibition of the works of Salvador Dalí at the Centre Pompidou in Paris.

Up to that time I had no real understanding of my sexuality. As a little boy of around 5, little girls and I explored each other’s hidden parts. Little boys and I compared our willies. I thought girls had more interesting privates.

But after this precociousness my sexuality did not progress. There were mutual masturbations in the bushes at school, but as a youth I was not interested in meeting girls. I preferred to stay at home and read or play the classical music I had discovered. Sibelius was a revelation.

As a student I worked in the summer at an International Student Hostel in Copenhagen, where I learned Danish and was close to a few other girls also working there. They paired off with other rather macho types, and eventually I approached an unattached Copenhagener whom I found very pleasant and reassuring to be with. Slowly, I fell in love with her.

The following year I collected my student grant for the Michaelmas term and went off by merchant vessel round the stormy north of Scotland to Copenhagen. I was seasick.
I stayed with my first and only girl-friend, Lone, for a while, and then went to an islet off Bornholm in the Baltic to stay with a schoolteacher friend (also working in summer at the Hostel). Lone came to visit, and, after I had known her for over a year, she permitted me to make love with her...or rather, since I was somewhat inept and a very delayed ejaculator, she instructed me.

I fell in love with making long, slow (very slow) love. We each travelled severally between Copenhagen and Christianø, and life was wonderful, especially during the big freeze of 1962 when the sea froze. I had no money, of course. I was trying to write short stories.

The following two summers we both worked again at the student hostel. In September 1964 I invited my best friend in Belfast to come and visit...and, guess what! he replaced me in Lone’s affections. I returned to Ireland in a state of shock and sadness which lasted for years, and was only relieved by my adopting a beautiful dog from the Animal Shelter in Belfast, after moving into a free ‘peppercorn-rent’ National Trust cottage (without electricity or bathroom) on the edge of Belfast. I resumed my university studies.

From 1965 to 1981 I had no 'love-life' apart from my beautiful bitch, nor ‘sex-life’. I had one or two not-very-satisfactory intimate encounters with women, and many extremely unsatisfactory encounters with very unappealing men whom I picked up in public conveniences and usually took home on the back of my scooter.

In the late seventies I started to take advantage of £5 standby flights to London and cheap cross-channel deals by ferry or hovercraft to Paris. I had the use of one friend’s flat in Bayswater and another friend’s pied-à-terre in Paris.

And so I found myself bursting to pee in the tiny, totally-inadequate and crowded men’s toilets on the ground floor of the Centre Pompidou in Paris. A very handsome, bearded man stood beside me. He made facial signals and we left together for the pied-à-terre about 10 minutes away. He was my life-changer.
Firstly, he was the first queer man with a beard whom I had ever met. Most of my encounters had been with unattractive, rather sad and desperate men. I had worn a beard since I left school in 1959. They were very rare in those days and attracted unfavourable comment, for example, Fungus-face. I had some bearded friends, but they were straight and I liked their girlfriends.

Secondly, he told me that I had a beautiful body. I had never regarded it as anything except skeletal, of the unmuscular ‘weedy’ type. We stayed together for a few days. He was a dancer with the Merce Cunningham troupe on tour in Europe. He went off to Germany with them. I went back to my rural county Down farmhouse in a state of elation. A week or two later he came to visit. He told me about gay bars, of which I was totally ignorant.

I went to London with him, where he took a plane back to the States. He was a Chicano from San Antonio, Texas, and lived part of the time in Cuernavaca, near Mexico City. After he left I went to ‘my first’ gay bar at Notting Hill Gate. It was a revelation. Until that moment I had been weedily, wussily nervous of groups of men (except when they were standing sadly and unthreateningly in conveniences). I associated them with the rugger bullies who had pissed on my pinned-down body at school, two of whom later played for Ireland. I never went to pubs, I never even went to fish-and-chip shops.

But within minutes of entering my first gay bar I attracted appreciative looks. This was like a beautiful rebirth. I felt like a very slim Poseidon rising from the waves.
The third time I went to The Champion at Notting Hill Gate I was propositioned by a handsome, hairy bearded man...with whom, the next morning, I went to Paris for a week. It was a fling, which was sad for the tender romantic who had again fallen in love...or rather, infatuation.

After this I had liaisons short and long with bearded men I encountered in Belfast, London, Paris, Amsterdam, Berlin, Florence and Pisa. I visited a famous sauna in Paris where sensational orgies took place. I cruised often in the café-bar Le Central in the Marais at the time that area was being gentrified, mainly by gay men.
Though demophobic I even went to the famous gay Heaven on Leicester Square in London, a sort of rave venue before raves; I wore ear-plugs and thought of Chopin.

But I was introduced to Pink Floyd, J-M Jarre, Klaus Schulze and other then-modern musicians. A lover of traditional jazz and blues I discovered 'trans-cultural' African and Maghrebien Jazz Fusion. In Paris and Amsterdam I was plunged deeply into Indian and Iranian classical music...and music from all over the world, of which I had had only a taste from the BBC.

Through Bearded-gay Newsletters, men from Bern, Basel, Cambridge, Vinci, Dublin, Norwich, Le Havre, Paris and Crècy-la-Bataille visited me in my rural idyll, where sometimes we picked magic mushrooms, and always visited some of the many splendid megaliths (tombs, stone circles, stone-rows) of north-eastern Ireland. Many are listed in the address book which I have had since 1960, when, like André Gide, I was approached by a fisherman on the beach at Sousse, Tunisia.

I even managed to attract some rare non-white men, which gave me an extra thrill because I have, since childhood, always regretted my sickly pale colour, and don’t really appreciate it in others.
In Italy I was a Big Hit because I looked like Jesus or St Francis. When sensuality and religion combine, there’s no stopping the passion.

These encounters were not in pursuit of Sexual Release or ‘hygiene’, but a search for a Pal. I had no brothers or siblings. My cousins avoided me, the little bastard. My father was, allegedly, an RAF pilot killed in the war. (I found out through Ancestry last year that he lived until 1995, a married man who produced half-brothers.)

This was during the arrival of AIDS, about which I was not duly concerned since I never engaged in penetration. I was much more interested in hugs and cuddles and rubbings and erotic wrestling and para-sexual activity, always involving breaks for wine and nibbles...or dinner. Some ‘sessions’ lasted for hours or even days.

Now I’m over eighty, and my cruising days are long over. I live alone in rural France, but am visited frequently by my ‘buddy’ of over 30 years, who now lives in Ireland. We have always lived apart, and so have never had time to oppress each other. Very rarely, I visit a queer man approaching my own age, and share food and other pleasant sensations.
I am very grateful to the Mexican-American Gregorio whom I met at the Dalí exhibition (and only once since) and who in a sensual sense raised me from the dead.



Faber & Faber killed it, well before Famous Séamus.


Le Tombeau de Kurt Schwitters

The traditional publication of small-circulation, quality books of radical-philosophical (tiny minority) interest is dead a long time.

The education-system and the profit-motive killed it.

Big Business and the Nation State have silenced all versions of The Word that do not serve their corrupt, greedy, Protean cause - which is, in the end, the destruction of the planet for money, status and vainglory.

Nation-states and Turbo-capitalism have killed the awareness that awareness is suppressed.

Dissident Editions is in the vanguard of free, anti-copyright web-publishing - until the Web, too, is controlled and censored by corporate and governmental malignance.

The advantage of the Internet over print is that both text and presentation can be re-edited and improved daily, if it seems necessary.
It also allows writers and poets to be their own publishers, in control of their own material - for better or for worse - and to extend their talent or genius to web-presentation.

When the poet is also a painter and photographer, the Web is virtually the only way for him to present his vision.

The Internet allows truly democratic access to anyone with a computer and an enquiring mind. This site has received input from such varied visitors as an Albanian émigrée, a French craftsman, an English schoolboy, a Russian artist, a Dutch poet, an Iraqi Kurd, a Russian painter, and a Finnish doctor...

The Internet is now the only possible - if unlikely - medium for Oracles.


This website is dedicated to
the holiness of animals
and the irredeemability of Man.

Art dilutes truth,
religion glorifies untruth;
poetry must enter between the eyes.



does not do similes nor metaphors
nor family, nor parties
nor birthdays, nor Christmas
nor bars, nor restaurants;
does not have television
nor microwave
nor smartphone;
does not do hygiene
nor publishers
and has never been employed -

he's someone the banal avoid.

I wrote the above twenty years before I was sent this splendid poem by
the Japanese resister, Kaneko Mitsuharu (1895-1975)

(my own translation)


When I was young
I resisted school,
and now
I resist employment.

What I most hate
are property and hygiene.
There's nothing so inhuman
as law-abiding cleanliness.

Naturally, I contradict The Spirit of our Nation.
Duty and Social Function make me vomit.
I'm against all governments everywhere
and wave my smelly cock
at the cosy cartels of
Accepted Writers.

When I'm asked what my Purpose In Life is,
I answer: To oppose.
When I'm Easterly
I go Westward.

I do up my coat and shoes the wrong way round.
I wear my trousers back to front,
and likewise ride a horse.

What everyone else hates I like.
My greatest hate of all is
consensus, unanimity, received opinion.

So I believe that to oppose
is the only splendid thing in life.
To oppose is REALLY to live.
To oppose is to connect deeply
with the spirit within.

In the 1970s I briefly wrote a column for a smug and stuffy Northern Irish magazine called 'Fortnight'.

I was fired immediately after writing some personal reflections on pædophilia -
before pædophiles were found under every other stone,
and before it was realised that most child-abuse occurred within families.

My undistressedly-fatherless childhood was haunted by distant, hostile males
who regarded me as a cissy bastard.

In my article, I - ever frank and open - said I would have welcomed
a bit of male attention, maybe cuddles.
A bit of mutual masturbation would have been interesting, at least:

perhaps a warning, perhaps an induction.

I was at the exploratory age of eight or nine when a schoolfriend and I
did boyishly sexual - we said 'biological' - things together
deep in the rhododendrons. We loved biology.
That fascinatingly-circumcised friend wanted to become an obstetrician -
and became one, the author of ANTAGONISM OF KETAMINE BY PHYSOSTIGMINE.

He died in 2012.

We would have loved to have been joined by somebody older,
with body-hair. Of course, to have been fucked by a desperate teacher,
or Forsythe, the sinister school doctor, would have been abuse.
But not that much worse than having favoured bully-boys
(who went on to play rugby for Ireland) force me to drink their piss.

Many years later, Adrian Mole (aged 13¾) would write in his Secret Diary for Tuesday, September 29th :

'Bert doesn't get on with his district nurse. He says he doesn't like having his privates mauled by a woman.
Personally I wouldn't mind it


What I wrote was considered quite beyond the Pale.
Now the world knows what the Catholic hierarchy did
to vulnerable boys and girls not just in Ireland - but everywhere -
with menaces.
And not just priests, and bishops, and (as we now know) cardinals -
but their rich friends, some of them in government,
some military, some of them policemen.

I still have no doubt that some fatherless boys welcomed
a male hand upon their genitals -
faute de mieux.
(I, always emotionally apart, was nearly forty before
I deliberately turned to men for 'that sort of thing'.)

I have no doubt, either, that the Catholic church
is the most evil organisation among the many that stalk the earth.



"For my own part, I don't lack the courage to think a thought through:
no thought has frightened me so far.
If one ever does, I hope I'll at least have the honesty to say:
This idea scares me stiff. It stirs up something in me that I don't want to confront.

- Søren Kierkegaard


The moment I left school I decided that I would be in control of my life: I would not take orders from anyone unless I agreed with them; I would make my own mistakes. My time would belong to me, not to unknown or half-known others - and certainly not to The System..
So I made my own mistakes, in my own time, which were insignificant compared with the mistakes that others had made on my behalf.

"Time is my wealth. Money is for the poor in time and in spirit, the Faustians.
I have chosen a Diogenean autonomy.

"My only aspiration was to be wise.
My only desire was to avoid stress.
Head-banging relieved stress, even after I - alert and alone - had picked my stressless and marvellously jobless, harmless path in the invisible forest of feeling on the all-too-visible Planet of Pain.

"At the age of 21, after dreary years of inept brain-washing and body-despising 'education', I decided that I would no longer tolerate the oppression of contemptible hierarchies and their inbuilt competitiveness, and that employment after the confusing punishments of birth, childhood and adolescence was an indignity too far.

"I was also so acutely aware of the misery and injustice in the world that beauty made me weep. So, although I had no recognised talent, I decided to devote my life to poetry and to try, through contemplation and devotion to honesty, to make my life into a continually self-revising poem.

"Such arrogance!

"Poetry that is merely an up-market part of the Entertainment Industry is no more than up-market entertainment - whether it be by Catullus, Goethe or Séamus Heaney.

"I eventually came to believe that the only poems worth writing - and reading - are those that celebrate non-human things, integrity and humbleness;
or those that can persuade at least one person to unsubscribe from everything.
For the most beautiful music is when music stops.


[ read more ]


Listen here

to a 25-minute interview
on my life and thoughts
for a Dublin radio station

now posted on YouTube.



"The more that we believe that we are individuals
the more we are just products.
In societies of consumer-voyeurs who are themselves product,
life becomes the accumulation of spectacles in both senses:
both lens and entertainment. And the planet screams.

"We are as sperm in the rectum of 'reality'.

"All gain is both ephemeral and immoral -
not least the gaining of knowledge - for knowledge is yet another loss of integrity.
If knowledge brings power, and power is immoral, none in history has used it as nobly as Caligula's horse."

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by Wendy Cope

I used to think all poets were Byronic -
Mad, bad and dangerous to know.
And then I met a few.
Yes it's ironic -
I used to think all poets were Byronic.
They're mostly wicked as a ginless tonic
And wild as pension plans.
Not long ago I used to think all poets were Byronic -
Mad, bad and dangerous to know.



�He has a long beard & short fingers,
thin body and spathulate thumbs.
He longed to be one of the singers
and failed to be one of the dumbs.�





Notes (2003) in reply to a correspondent who read the above,
and asked for some biographical details:

"My mother scrimped and saved to send me to a mildly nasty, nearby private, single-sex school (Campbell College, Belfast) where I learned only that the only education is continuous self-education. I have taught myself everything worth learning except reading and counting and the basics of biology, grammar, Greek and French. In my whole private school and university career I was blessed with just four good teachers! The 15 or so others were poor to dreadful. At this school, bullying was the perquisite of the teaching staff, and there was very little by my peers - though at one stage I was victimised to the extent of having a future famous Ireland Rugby-player sit on me (with his cronies around him) while he pissed on my face. This was not so terrible, and actually I would now find it quite tender - if performed lovingly by a sweet and hairy man.

School failed miserably to expunge and extinguish my free curiosity (which is what the education system and the whole nation-state seems to be set up to do). I was physically abused at school, of course, but not sexually (if only I had, I might not have been so in-the-dark for years thereafter!)

Schools are set up to abuse and abort the brains and minds and hearts of pupils, which is much worse and more corrosive than mere sexual abuse. I would have preferred this latter to ten years of compulsory 'sport' which I loathed as I still loathe all competitiveness. I ran away from school, once and unsuccessfully.

It wasn't until the age of 25 that I realised that I would have to dismantle (or at least question) everything that had hitherto been pushed into me. And so I never was employed or married or anything mindless like that. But I did not realise that it would take all the rest of my life - at least 40 years - to do the job. It is still not finished.

After some false starts I read philosophy at University - but that was more of the same, so I spent all nine papers and 27 hours of my finals attacking the whole system of system-worshipping. This was before I heard about the Russian Nihilists.

Naturally I did not get a degree - which made me pretty well (and usefully for me) unemployable: no 'Qualification', too well-educated, and continually self-educating.

When (after leaving home in Belfast) I had nowhere to live I just went and asked rich people for a hovel, and got three different, good places. I now live in a 200 year old farmhouse with original sagging roof and some damp, for $5 a week - for life. No other house is within view, and I look out across a rookery and fields and over the Irish Sea to the Isle of Man; and to the Mountains of Mourne in another direction. I can't be put out because the landlord tried to evict me on grounds of immorality (kissing bearded men in the garden in a country where there is suspicion and dislike of anything pliant, tender, autonomous, or unconventional), and lost his case rather badly. There are no mass graves that I know of.

This was some years after the pivotal point in my life: my four-month spell in a traditional panopticon prison (with slop-buckets and defective heating) - for repeated shoplifting of kitchenware and food. Through prison I gained a self-esteem that those who rely on others being mirrors to their conformities cannot conceive of. I was terrified when I went in; I was proud when I left. And I wear with pride my crude darns and patches on the clothes my mother, at various times, knit and made for me.

I didn't realise that I was a sort of trichophilous samesexlover until I was 40 - no hairy, bearded, interested teachers at school to instruct me (in this or in much else), I guess. And even if there were, they would not have told (much less shown) me that 'sex' is at its ('Tantric') best when it is non-penetrative and non-ejaculatory - that is to say: when it is not a means of achieving some kind of orgasm, but a celebratory journey starting from deep, inexpressible connection.

I am now (2021) in my eightieth year. Until 2015 I was living rather well on a small Social Security allowance in a house which I never lock, beside a rookery, with a fine shrub-garden which is especially good in winter and has plants from all over the planet: Chile, New Zealand, Mexico, China, Japan, South Africa, the Mediterranean, Morocco and Siberia.

Since 2015 I have lived in south-west France, on a very ample 'minimum income' provided by the militarist French state. This is the view from my living-room..

I have lived off militarist and mind-crushing states all my life: I vowed never to pay tax to finance its malignance, so being on Welfare Benefit is a neat solution. I have a very good quality of life. Peace and quiet in a house full of beautiful stones and paintings, food that I prepare myself, a heartwarming collection of useful ceramics, good, inexpensive wines - and music ranging from early Jazz to Arabic and Indian Classical, from Dufay to Reich, Tavener and Schnittke, from Albanian polyphonic singing to the piano quartets of Brahms and the Trio Joubran, and from Georges Brassens to the ambient electronic compositions of Brian Eno, B.J. Cole and Klaus Schulze.

I may have been one of the last people in Ireland to boil water in a kettle over a fire. I do it to a lesser extent here in France, where I can live almost entirely from local produce at any time of year, in wonderful and varied landscape.

Because I make friends easily I used to have many. But since I find people all very much the same, limited, normalised kind of dull (or paranoid), they have almost all fallen away.

Whereas Jenny Joseph in her famous poem 'Warning' described the unconventionality she would enjoy when she would become an old woman (and wear purple), I enjoyed greater freedom long before I was sixty, when, without family, TV, microwave, clean windows, employment or insurance, I stuck out my tongue at unpleasant people, and called them shit-heads to their face, and pissed in washbasins and ate good half-price food well past its sell-by date, and got caught shoplifting, and rarely took a bath and changed my clothes infrequently. Of course I smell much better than the fastidious, deodorised and over-washed who get up my nose.

Unlike Diogenes, I don't (yet) masturbate in public nor hurl dead poultry in schoolrooms - but I have kissed street dogs though I wouldn't dare outdo Lazarus by licking their sores while the Christians drive by in their cars. I don't yet harangue people in the street like the religious maniacs who are so many.

I scramble over and under barbed wire. I shall be buried in my brambly badger-thicket where I have planted beech and oak and hazel, spindle-tree and guelder-rose, medlar and quince and bird-cherry and crab-apple, and apple-scented rose, fire-bush and partridge-berry.

I have not disturbed it further, letting the nettles and fireweed grow and chopping the brambles only so much as to stop them pulling the young trees down. The birds and the badgers will breed and the foxes move in, so that on this ravaged, ransacked, pitiable island one acre at least would remain dense, impenetrable, protected, free and unmanaged.

Often I walk over my grave - where already are buried some ashes of my aunt and some hair of my mother - who, at the age of sixty, began the twenty-year happiest, most autonomous period of her life.

But if I die in France, I will be buried in a normal-sized grave which I have attractively-planted, in a leafy corner of an unusually well-sited municipal graveyard with a fine view over the village of Saint-Antonin-Noble-Val - where I once also planted a little and varied orchard containing quince, medlar, persimmon, almond, apple, plum, cherry, amelanchier, crab-apple and pear-trees.

I have 'abnormal' tendencies - on the one hand: Aspergerish, and on the other: mildly bi-polar.

I am a thief, but not a liar. I write comments and corrections in library books."

[revised 2021]

breakfast photo by Artyom Kotyenko, December 2000

Anthony Weir

"My religion: non-practising Cannibal."

more biography


All the evidence suggests that we are in the world to do very little apart from enjoying ourselves,
and so we do everything to prevent our simple enjoyment of life.

Since I was not offered a Cup of Hemlock to drink when I had realised this, aged 25,
until such time as THEY would send me a romantic cyanide capsule.

This has still not happened.
But I am happy to be a Burden
on the terrible, world-destroying State whose hideous
military-industrial-pharmaceutical-educational complex
I loathe.


on YouTube


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"The three greatest frauds in history were Moses, Jesus and Mohamed."
- Frederick II, Holy Roman Emperor, the Stupor Mundi of the 13th century.


photo by Anthony Weir


This website was started in 2000 - on a little, old, damaged and malfunctioning
second-hand Laptop operating on Windows 95.

This scam-certificate was sent in March 2008.


the web beyond-the-pale.uk/

NB : Refresh the page before making another search.


Landscape near Loughkeelan, by Anthony Weir

more paintings by Anthony Weir



"We must do away with the absolutely specious notion that everybody has to earn a living. It is a fact today that one in ten thousand of us can make a technological breakthrough capable of supporting all the rest.

The youth of today are absolutely right in recognizing this nonsense of earning a living. We keep inventing jobs because of this false idea that everybody has to be employed at some kind of drudgery because, according to Malthusian-Darwinian theory, he must justify his right to exist.

So we have inspectors of inspectors and people making instruments for inspectors to inspect inspectors. The true business of people should be to go back to school and think about whatever it was they were thinking about before somebody came along and told them they had to earn a living."

Richard Buckminster Fuller


"The youth of today" he was writing about was my generation.
The youth of the twenty-first century, alas, have been successfully brainwashed
- world-wide -
by the universal "education" system into believing the rubbish
injected into their poor, over-excited and under-stimulated brains.




to download a copy of an illustrated
zipped E-book of Selected Poems
from this website, entitled

Practising Howling




The principal one is the most-readable of all, BOOKMAN OLD STYLE.
as well as the default font on your browser, which is usually the hard-to-read typeface
Times New Roman.

If you would like to instal these fonts on your computer, click

download, unzip, and drop into the FONTS folder which is located inside your WINDOWS folder,
easily accessible from 'MY COMPUTER'.


Hermetic Situationism


[this page was last updated
in 2022]


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