Thursday, December 15, 2005

Capitulate When I Arrive Into Your Bright Green Haunt

The other day I was thinking about T., and why he was murdered in Amsterdam some years ago. Vivid memories are haunting me lately. My life is a container of things that are no longer here. Like the night in this poem, vanished:

Capitulate When I Arrive Into Your Bright Green Haunt

The key unlocked the front door of your parents house.
I saved it in a locker many years, until one day
I lost it to the kids.

Yet our love affair took place in a dimmed attic room.
Cosmic expectations proved we were still young.
Rather I remember Cassius wrapped up in oil and satin;
On the wall – his penis grew from golden-haired moss

You spit a piece of tinsel in the mouth
of my wet hand.

Your parents slept next to your little brother
in a lonely land.
He looked so shy, a younger you.
His face a collection of bleached stamps.
A recollection.

I should have kissed the dried lips
Of your father to console the
Arctic future that was waiting as a whole,
but unaware I climbed the stair
to sweltering shadows
flaming powder,
anorexic in a steep jaunt
while spiders hid in silent laughter.

Capitulate when I arrive into your bright green haunt.

I’ll complain this time your skin
smells like our cat
who died soon after.
And that it was a sign
of the organic laws,
for all the shells and salt we ate
that night fell from a firmament
of pulverising jaws

Words make love
repugnant as the two of us.
Moonlight over dusk on top
of things we hissed.
And wavering shadows stalking
on the inside, too.

I know we both and not just you,
are dead and gone and fed to legends.


Sharon Hurlbut said...

Wow, Daphne! This is very surreal, filled with strong images and emotions. Your mind goes to so many interesting places - I'm always grateful to tag along.

Buter said...

And I'm always grateful if someone leaves a message. Thank you so very much for visiting the place.