Thursday, September 8, 2016

Poems By Ian Randall Wilson

Ian Randall Wilson has recently had work appear in Forklift and Spork. Hollyridge Press published a chapbook called, Theme of the Parabola.


Who cries more--
the spilled drink
or my bleeding hands?
Welcome to video dating with Sisyphus.

It takes me two hours to hike
up to the fields
where protons gather
in morning suits to discourse
on the strange ways of sons.
Blank, the women waiting.

In news from the nether regions
electrons bake avant-garde cookies on a whim.
Believe when I say I’ve stopped masturbating
   with a rolling pin

The death of an elephant
and a broken glass--
once one manages to overcome the initial impression of
   raving nonsense
I, too, would be frightened of sleep.

I appear to have gouged the privates thus
no more blue naps.

Stop talking for a moment and look at me
when I dangle my ice-cube of suffering
on its gold watch chain.

What to think when this man’s rendezvous
(that’s French for a street
with root canal)
goes bad?

No more blue naps
I guess.
Stop talking for a moment and look at me.
Blank, the woman waiting.

After dinner, atoms
gather up their parts
and then the other girls
strap on their specialized devices.

I’m out of things to say
to you or any of the rest.
I despise the new theories,
gold ring, key exchange--
why does the code of this one game keep changing?

                                                --The Egyptian god of music and revelry whose
                                                  image is often painted onto bedroom walls
                                                  and carved into bedposts.
                                                                                    --David Prather

Why is my image not painted on the walls of bedrooms
in every house in every village and town and city
across this great land, images of Ian,
god of fertility, erotica,
nights of pleasure.
Ian, Lord of the Unrisable Penis.
Welcome to tonight’s edition
of the dead horse-beater’s club.

We come now to the part where the rains end
but the clouds refuse to cooperate --
union difficulties
and a lack of technical support.

Let me count my wives
and when I get to a number presaging 
the end of the world
you will stop me.
Believe me when I say I’ve learned
a few fancy twists of the rope.

All my houses stood inside a three-mile radius
of high power lines.
I believe rampant voltage
affects potency and performance
or any other word that begins with,
Not tonight, God damn it!

In the beginning there was the hammer,
and the nail, then came remodeling
but after a while, well . . .
I will give up false idols,
I will live in my head
and wait for the welcoming sound of love noises.


Today we have a gray sky in our chests
and no new words.

All the religious conservatives gathered
on the dashboard of a Chevrolet say nothing.

In Spain, Lorca says, man is more alive
as a dead man than anyplace else in the world.

That’s progress until Blue announces on May 1st
it will cease to be a color.

Sadness becomes increasingly difficult.
Can you name that bacteria?

You cannot kill the man hammering on Sunday
by clipping your ears.

That much
is certain.


In my house we believe a Claude Rains’ film
and a blacked-out window stop the world.
Please kiss my feet.
I love how you get your arms around nothing
and move it to the right.

How about a little hoo-hah,
Existential cowboys?
We can get indecent
even with dogs in the room.
Take off
those wingtips, baby, and ride.

At the moment of the little death,
being flickers and then someone forgets
to cue the birds.
While we wait for the climax
don’t forget how
Tzara wrote,
“zdouc nfounfa mbaah”--
he wasn’t kidding.
I only wish I wrote it first.
With the conclusion of this evening’s sexual programming,
I’ll be out back restringing wooden rackets.
After years of tension
they’ve suddenly gone slack.

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