THE COMPULSIVE ILLUSION

Pogonophilous Poems

by

Anthony Weir

 

 

"I would rather be condemned for what I am than accepted for what I am not.
But sex, like internet-surfing, is a compulsive illusion." – Teaching Wolf

 

 

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.

When I was a child
high toilet-walls
were greenly-defiled
by years of competitions:
boys
raising litre by metre.

Men are lucky:
they can stand while they piss
and angle for strange fish

like Saint Peter.

(click here for illustated earlier version from Cinema of the Blind)

"Sex is the Best Empty Experience." – Woody Allen

 

TRINITY-INFANTASY

Your solid, hairy body was for an hour the father
I the skinny bastard never had
(firm as a rock
my only god your cock).
Your unmanifested mind was the son
I might 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
to celebrate our muddles.

(adapted from a version in Dispatches from the War against the World)

 

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 licks 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...)

MALE BONDING (not bondage)

II had no father, no brother, no sister
(no big deal).

My cousins despised me.
I was the (sadly pale) Black Sheep
of our not-at-all-close
not-touchy-feely
extended family. But I had my aunt
and my mother, and their friends
(all female)
and just a few male friends of my own.

I never got myself a gal.

After all my seven or eight
teenager buddies
got married
I felt that I wanted a pal.

The lovely old fisherman
whom I encountered
on Gide's venereal
beach at Sousse was not
Pal Material.

I found a gal
whom I thought was a brilliant pal.
She taught me a lot about Denmark
and a tiny bit of the world
beyond drab and dour Belfást.

After a year I was allowed
to "have sex". After my first
numb attempt
she patiently taught me how to perform.
She tuned me in to my nipples.
Fantastic.
I loved it: the long slow orgasms
with a great pal - a play-pal.

Then she dumped me for – my other pal,
a fairly recent buddy or chum.
So I went home and into mourning.
I was bereft, not just glum.
I wanted a pal or chum or buddy.

I discovered urinals by accident, really.
I had a low-intensity sexual need,
but mainly I wanted a pal
and not one who would efface or betray
the image I kept of
my Copenhagener gal.

So...more toilets, urinals,
tasses, pissotières...

Paris, 1979

II acquired two rescue dogs – at different times,
one female, one male.
They died.

A man who picked me up in a privy
left his wife, despite my entreaties,
and lived with me for six years,
and he was a pal, a good pal,
though I didn't like him that much
(nor did my mother). I was uneasy
about his wife, and I wouldn't kiss him,
'make love' with him, would not 'betray'
my feminine pal.

But when I was nearly forty in Paris
(in a crowded urinal at a show
of canvases by Dalí)
I found a pal
WITH A BEARD and for the first time
I could kiss a man in the face :
so much more fun with the tongue and the fur
than tonguing the smile in a pubic place.

He was the first man I met
who tuned into my nipples. That was great.
But he lived in Mexico.
I lived in Ireland. We were both poor.
He had a career. I didn't. I still wanted a pal.
My nearly-seven-years lodger (who grew a beard
way too late) decamped in fury, despair,
bereft, and lived for a while in his car
before he found a pal in the same place
that he met me: a man who had sold me
my house-insurance.

I met lots of men in strange places,
mostly with beautiful faces.
I found a pal at the bar Le Central
in Paris. He died a year later. Of what I don't know.
Ten years passed. I travelled in search
of a pal to London and Paris, Siena, Le Havre,
Florence and Pisa – and Nottingham,
where I found an incurious, trapped-in-his-head
(but aren't we all ?) half-pal who I hoped
would become a complete one. He didn't,
but we shared a fine dog who happily
lived in two rural homes – a real pal to us both.

We decided that we might be oppressing
each other a bit, so we split
and probably won't meet again
(though we write almost daily). Now, over eighty,
I have given up wanting a pal
and give cheerful affection
to cacti and succulents which are doing so well
– so well that they are pretty good
substitutes for reliable pals.

My fridge sings to me
songs soft and ethereal –
but of course it could never be
Pal Material.

I speak softly to the spiders
who spin their webs in my windows.

Alcohol is a reliable pal – with my dinner,
when half a bottle of wine is enough.
But I've started to have a "wee nip"
(of rum-absinthe)
before breakfast, just like the
guys in my village before going for work.

Weed is a pal once a month –
we have quiet fun fooling around.
Morpheus is a dream-sending pal when I'm sleeping.
And so I am looking forward to meeting
all the Great Wormy Pals underground.

(Probably my greatest pal – but totally deaf to me –
has been, since the 1950s, the BBC !)

The good thing about not having a pal (or a 'partner')
is that there's no-one to miss or miss me
through untimely absence.

 

 

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.

 

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.

The softest hair
on a man or a devil
hides just behind them.

Enduring as rock
the only true god is cock.

(from Cinema of the Blind)

 

TABOO-POEM

As far as I know
Verlaine is the only poet
since Rome's fall
to mention cock (or foreskin) -cheese.
Nor is it much discussed
in what we so unrealistically call
'real life'. It's not a disease.

So is it edible ? Well, mark my words:
after many blind tastings
(by myself and others)
I can assure you, as Rabelais
did not, that it tastes like
Miss Muffet's curds
without the whey.

 

trichoPHILY
RUE DE LA PETITE TRUANDERIE

I would like a lover
who looks like my teddybear
who will ask me to do
what I want to do
and travel with me
to the inner and the outer.

As for sex
I have no preference –
but not many women look like my
teddybear,
though I saw a splendidly
hirsute lady in Paris.

(from Dispatches from the War against the World)

 

 

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
nor the number of women he raped
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 homosensuality was
nothing to be feared –
and no worries about combing
the semen out of his beard.

 

 

for Malcolm
NEVER ADVERTISED

The post of God
has been vacant for the past
umpteen million years. Only
the most driven lunatics need apply
for the job in the depth of the sky.

But I'm happy to inform you that, whatever befalls,
you have been successful in your application
for the plum but temporary post
of squeezer of my humble balls.

 

BUBBLES AND SQUEAKS
 
As deeply shocking
an experience as
tanding naked in icy rain,
The taste of your trust in me
while I sip you
is remarkably like champagne.

for more Bearded Men Kissing, click on this picture

 

If
I could caress my cock
with my tongue,
would my life really
(really) rock ?

 

For the same reason that a man pissing
finds it hard to hit a fifteen-inch hole
called a lavatory-bowl,
an ejaculating man finds it
difficult to score a goal
in a mouth – unless it is kissing
or wrapping his jelly-roll.

 

Tafraout, Morocco,
1995 and 2022.

In the springtime of bearded smiles
there really is no need
ever to smoke weed,

though it might be quite pleasant
with a lovely, hairy 'peasant'.

click here to visit: SATAN IN THE GROIN exhibitionist carvings on mediæval churches

"I have a recurring dream. I am lying on the ground, naked, pale, unbound. It is evening in Sangha Forest of Northern Congo-Brazzaville, and I am in a clearing by a pool. Around me stands a group of men, also naked, also bearded. They have beautiful erections. They are masturbating slowly. They are also singing. From each, and from some simultaneously, seed spurts on to my body. When the last man has shot they all crouch down. I spread their mixed sperm all over my torso, especially on to my own erect cock and my balls. I rub the seed which has squirted onto my face and beard into my beard and on to my bald scalp. I then lick my hands clean, and kiss the moist tip of each man's cock, savouring the last drop of creamy sperm. Each drop tastes slightly different.

MISCONNECTIONS :

The VisitSingle Track in the SnowVacuum of Desire