Ian Randall Wilson

 

 

Disturbing Peccadilloes

For tight loving a fitted
furpiece, a head
that gasped. Heads
are well nonetheless.
Cheekbones modeled after
charity, quilted convulsions,
multiple thrusts, and that
was just the rhinoceros
leaving the horizon,
the python roaring
in the particular
falling sky.

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Everything I Say Has The Ring Of Untruth

On our way past nothingness
we carried caviar on our backs.
We spent days appreciating hiccups.
We had slogans, music birds, reviews.
The sins of our fathers
was our dying paradigm.
We used blades to
look for help
permanently scarred ourselves.
We translated son and it became
the century, cloud for diplomats,
gloves like crucibles of iron, new
underclothes of the berries. Useless
to say our dictionaries were fouled,
communication inconclusive--
the same moment bounced elsewhere
the same shadow jugging you
the same excuse snowmen used
the same road almost melon
the same sadness deflowered
the same maelstrom
the same eddy, the vortex, whirl, arm of the turn,
     commotion, fury, storm
the same turmoil fighting idea
the same acetate trick love
the same big arm story
the same love song an exercise in mouth metrics
     the wrecking cure, the home beetle
the same insoluble religion because son, loving
     a God of the mouthful, because gland, because
     they are obvious, because questions
spurt towards the outside.
Then I personally cried bad
checks but avoided misprision,
cast out sums from my living room
with the discovery of black,
cast out the Beloved from my bedroom
by discovering the dead
bolt. I dipped my chest
in vodka and then
terrorized myself
with lighted matches.
I said it was a game.
I said life can be rough.
I dictated the terms
of my own decapitation.
I was unable to suggest a last act.
The was was set to explode in five seconds.
Headless, heedless, horseless,
I can't say I was able to stop the timer.

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bio/notes