Ian Randall Wilson
The Bandleader’s Last Gig On Venus
This afternoon in our bedroom epic theatre
a minus one act farce. Genuine
antagonists do not exist.
Opportunities, obstacles, parallels, variation,
counterpoints — all this, and I’m still
wearing socks.
We take advantage of the deliberate use of pause.
Words and pauses together a sexual
chiaroscuro of reverse. The wandering
floodlight. My blue quilt.
These props we discard as I probe
the comic triangle. Bermuda shorts. Laughter
can be rhetorical.
There is a desert there, nourishment,
no matter. I call out
to the four winds to save me.
The stuff from which dreams, etc. Made.