Last night I dreamt of Club Tropicana again.
The pool house with inflatable donuts on the heated water,
at the end of his garden in Highgate,
with a view across Hampstead Heath.
He’d wake late, smoke a joint, record demos.
He loved throwing his acrobatic voice
around the basement studio.
After lunch he’d look for men online.
He’d bought the bed especially, it fit three of us, sometimes four.
Afterwards we’d sit by the pool and he’d ask what we were up to.
He knew what normal life was, about charity shops
and running out of data. He’d flown Easyjet.
It was hard to know him as you had before.
Seeing the vaseline lensed camp of Last Christmas
knowing how fully you’d kissed his lips,
how you’d held his body with your body.
The poem originally appeared in my pamphlet, The Living Museum, published by Selcouth Station Press. Available here!