trout [ 6 ]
Tracy Slaughter: [1 , 2 , 3 ]
  several kinds of muted sadness...

perhaps I should have warned you : I'm 
vulnerable to some kind of vertigo
in rooms stretched quite to this
pitch of silence

you should not have stopped me from
tasting remorselessness. you should not
have covered the necessary lusts
of my mouth

in this residual light I realize I don't entirely know your face. here for instance is a 
space for sadism.

even when sober you balance
this paradox : explicit flesh,
insignificant intimacies. give my 
love to all such casual victims

it is also the story of a thousand
songs. desperado features. you sing me
the muffled insolence of two out of 
three. when the moon is sobbing openly
like the silver bitch she is I offer this highschool
brightness : do/be/do, did you put up a fight?

we use words that are always waiting. you came too late after my ninth life and for
your imperial tenderness I never quite cracked enough

several kinds of muted sadness. always
always in my mind

so I'm watching us argue. there should be mirrors. you actually bare your teeth

he leaves a letter suggesting time and space. she returns 
there is no best for both of us

you remain like a dry mouth. a 
sense of deprivation. nevertheless

you were my first lipful of alcohol. sin of 
a parkswing loving the slow death of stolen 
cigarettes. breathlessness is the colour blue.
and all my strength is the bearing of dirt beneath
the obedient flat of my back

your resurrection has cost me

cause and effect. I notice here that 
I am on my knees. it just happened appears
also she meant nothing to me. the moon
officiates your stale argument of fate. never
the less

the motivations of estrangement. come to
expect these misdirections. discarding all
stories in which I fail to appear

and me. the lowest common denominator. a man in the mirror is giving Medusa head

here I am wearing betrayal like a kid
smudged with the sickness of lipstick. an explanation
of the ugliness of wallpaper. you need not be told : I am drunk. but
this proves useful for practising masochism

dwelling in glass I deliver the home breaker. all day we stay watching its thin bones 

you are the resident regret in my
history. a short synopsis of humiliation. 
tenant in a series of mutilating dreams. nevertheless

but you left no blood for me to play lady. all day
I hear women singing of selling their souls

this finger
on your skin
has an aetiology

index : desperation
red drapes : outbreath

  © 1999

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