Ian Randall Wilson

The Ballad of Sad Curtain

I was baked mute
and talking interest through chicken
pass the X, the Beloved said, give me more Y
from the slain fell gravel
in the butter dish horse souls
marched like feverish armies
so much music in the trivial
each day a reconstituted dream
of another reconstituted dream
if we could untie things and
discuss freedom the way we break eggs
but in our revealing tangle opera resumed
dinner more sordid milk
as the Beloved gave her best high sullen
calm got abstract
and under needle lights streets purpled
the teeth spirits were blocked
from the their usual mission
our windows covered in bark
our glass grown suspicious with age
and row upon row of stolen lemons
seersucker never fit for fall
there was blood in my wrong
there was blood in my clasps
there was blood in my music
after dinner we entered a new phase of Wilson criticism
      call it post-favorable
I think her recollection circuitry was malfunctioning
but that could be the evil I waking
or the result of snow chemistry
love beautiful and me legs me hot me green me rage me time
     me continent me bell me still me night me road me
     while me wires me mother me
time finished with a snap
but I was fixed for cash