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.