Hortus Deliciarum Poem by Anthony Weir

I, a priest of egregiousness
cursing miserable wisdom
met the Buddha of Hairiness
as we loafed together in saintliness
in the Garden of Togetherness.

Some claim to have heard the Spirit
even to have seen the Spirit - but I have
smelt the Spirit in the Garden of Togetherness.
Spirit is smell of connection,
genderless but not sexless
odour of earth, beyond tired, trite
worlds of words.

I said to the Buddha of Hairiness:
The only people who know wisdom
are those who have never imagined
that wisdom existed - and those who have not
succumbed to consciousness
but conquered it.

He showed me twins floating
silently, helplessly
in a womb beyond world,
and one was the Buddha of Hairiness
and the other was the melancholy priest.
This was the answer:

Flow beyond language, the barrage of consciousness,
flow is in smell and (naturally) in noses.
Flow is a nose as well as a smell,
and flow is breath, and stone, and death,
and orgasm needs neither friction nor fountain -
and enlightenment is a cell.