"hashish" poems
Good king Selassie looked out
on the feast of Marley
When the kush lay round about
dank and green and sticky
Loudly bumped reggae that night
As the king did turn
When a stoner came in sight
Gathering kush to burn
"Come here boy and stand by me
if you know this then say;
where would that young stoner be
at the end of this day?"
"My King he lives quite far away
rather close to Babylon
where exactly I can not say
he surely lives in Zion."
"Bring me kush and fine hashish
bring me bongs and paper
You and I, his base shall reach
bringing dank kush vapour!"
Island boy and Selassie
went across great Zion
eyes all red and mouths all dry
They rode upon the lion
"King, my eyes are growing white
and we smoked our last spliff
I fear that I may die tonight
play me one last reggae riff..."
"Island boy you don't recall
who it is you roll wit
unto me JAH trusted all
of the kush on this planet!"
So Selassie I was blessed
they were high once more
the stoner was offered the rest
of what they had in store
Therefore rasta men be sure
if you have that dank kush
share it with your brothers poor
and find yourself with more bush
Dec 11, 2014
Dec 11, 2014 at 11:12 AM UTC
(10/13/12)
At the beginning of “64” - I packed up my uniform
And walked out the door- it was the beginning of
The Vietnam war.
By August of that same year
President Johnson started the draft
Under protests and jeers.
Then he made it a full scale war
And sent our soldiers to Vietnam shores.
The Beatniks in Greenwich village
With their long hair, beards, and
Flip flop sandals - wrote their poetry
About this undeclared war, and why
Our men were going to those shores.
This created a new generation called ‘HIPPIES”
The hippie generation was groups of protesters
Against everything that they found wrong
The draft , the war , pollution
And loved to stay high with *** hashish
Coke and acid (lsd) which kept them blasted.
This also created the “ flower children”
Who like the hippies loved to be high
And on certain flowers they would fly.
But they spoke of loving one another
And gave out flowers as a sign of peace
Which to the president was a relief.
They all started painting this “53 Chevy impala”
With the words “ flower power”.
Now the “ flower children and hippie movement
Was in full swing, and everyone was doing their own thing.
They had Greenwich village under their control
And not one coffee shop would ever be sold.
Every coffee shop had a poetry night
And going there was such a delight.
Then in AUGUST of “69”
The WOODSTOCK festival was on the rise
Over half a million people drove to that farmland
And set up tents , hammocks, sleeping bags and such
And the police found it was much to much
So they had no choice but to see it through
Because there was nothing else that they could do.
The WOODSTOCK festival had become world wide
And to this day it still thrives.
© L . RAMS
Oct 13, 2012
Oct 13, 2012 at 11:17 PM UTC
They call me the kush king, puffin' da reef
sittin' on my kush throne puffin Hashish.
Im in my kush kingdom, smoking a blunt
at your ******* house rubbing her ****
Dec 2, 2014
Dec 2, 2014 at 8:47 AM UTC
Shall I get drunk or cut myself a piece of cake,
a pasty Syrian with a few words of English
or the Turk who says she is a princess--she dances
apparently by levitation? Or Marcelle, Parisienne
always preoccupied with her dull dead lover:
she has all the photographs and his letters
tied in a bundle and stamped Decede in mauve ink.
All this takes place in a stink of jasmin.
But there are the streets dedicated to sleep
stenches and the sour smells, the sour cries
do not disturb their application to slumber
all day, scattered on the pavement like rags
afflicted with fatalism and hashish. The women
offering their children brown-paper *******
dry and twisted, elongated like the skull,
Holbein's signature. But his stained white town
is something in accordance with mundane conventions-
Marcelle drops her Gallic airs and tragedy
suddenly shrieks in Arabic about the fare
with the cabman, links herself so
with the somnambulists and legless beggars:
it is all one, all as you have heard.
But by a day's travelling you reach a new world
the vegetation is of iron
dead tanks, gun barrels split like celery
the metal brambles have no flowers or berries
and there are all sorts of manure, you can imagine
the dead themselves, their boots, clothes and possessions
clinging to the ground, a man with no head
has a packet of chocolate and a souvenir of Tripoli.
2.9k
Feeling...
Ceiling...
Crush another can,
Something wonderful!
Wasted now,
Broken house...
Yeah...
Defeat,
Concrete...
Take another hit,
And it's all complete,
Just **** me,
Oh, **** me...
Yeah...
Can't you see?
It's my creed,
Blood red seas,
So permanently!
And this is me!
Oh, this is me...
Yeah...
Sunlight,
So bright,
I think about a day,
I've never had my rights!
I'm Equal,
And Unequal...
Yeah...
Shadow ball!
Oh, shadow ball,
Tell me why I never
Had faith at all!
Just let me sleep,
Oh, let me sleep,
Yeah...
Oh, Hashish,
And *****
I can't imagine when
I've ever felt so numb!
Just guide me,
And hide me...
Yeah...
It's something new,
And something *******
A form of happiness
I never thought I'd brew,
But still, I knew,
Oh, I knew...
Yeah...
Shadow ball,
Oh, shadow ball,
Tell me why I never
Had faith at all!
Just let me feel,
And leave me be...
Yeah...
Dec 1, 2018
Dec 1, 2018 at 1:33 AM UTC
Listen:
I say today is a beautiful day to exist.
You're existing;
you're waiting for the bus in the heart of San Fransisco.
You're painting a landscape of Penn Valley.
You're selling hashish in Portland.
What a beautiful existence!
I'm washing my sheets,
I'm smoking a cigarette,
I'm reading The Return of the King,
and I'm about to go to work.
Listen:
The cars on the highway are going somewhere.
There are people in those cares who are existing just as gracefully as you and me.
Listen:
They are existing just as harmoniously as you and me.
Listen:
They have no idea what happens to them when they die.
I jumped off a forty foot cliff into the Yuba River a week ago and my last thought before hitting the water was:
'Either I'll live and that will be one hell of a jumping rock or I'll die and be free from ignorance.'
Listen:
I don't want to die, but I'm excited to.
I'm more excited to live and I get to see you tomorrow! I get to hold your tiny hands in mine, a barista and a norcal gardener (if you know what I mean)
Listen:
I love you and I love you and I love you and I didn't lie, I didn't, I told you I'd see you again and here we are two hundred and thirty seven miles away and tomorrow I will see you.
Listen:
Praise automobiles, praise gasoline,
praise hip hop music and praise hashish, I get to see you tomorrow!
Jul 13, 2015
Jul 13, 2015 at 2:36 PM UTC
"They call him a magic man"
"There's no such thing as..."
"As what, magic?"
"..."
And the coffin hit the banks in Burma
Mud on the feet of a white man, stranger
"I came in search of truth, can you help me?"
The two men sat awake, drinking alcohol
Fermented and brewed by hand and the locals watched
Flaking hut, the bamboo was broken, he wondered how
"They say he has the power to heal"
"And yet I don't believe you"
"Find him"
The trees were dusted and the Antelope were grazing
In the Kalahari I found my guide, we smoked and died
By the fireside, I lied about the tide
He took my hand, I lost my stride
The Nile ran red and I awoke covered in sweat
Phantom structures of glass and brick, apparent not to I
A world of stars and the translucent eyes of a **********
The grinning dawn was mournful as we fell from barriers
The guards were boiled alive but their guns survived
And the California beaches were beckoning
I lay down on the road, calling out to Kerouac and receiving nothing but a jolt as the cars massaged my flailing back, and the monkeys were howling as a witch doctor calls
The small boy read the lacquered book with glistening nails adorned
The tide was vile, washed him away with a sly smile
A great **** at the doors of a church, masks discarded
The preacher man watched with a snarl, upturned lip
Gripped by fear the small boy clawed his way to the banks
He banked on life
Gambled with a choice and won
Burmese man-child, hashish in the pipe
Tell me of the story of your life
The bamboo pipes
A lighter falling through space, as the astronaut suffocates
Nicotine daze and a greyish haze, through the eternal maze
And we lay awake for days and days
A tank would fall from the mountain top
Crushing just one daffodil
and the bamboo mourned
Muddy river ran dry
Today, the day I die
Apr 10, 2013
Apr 10, 2013 at 9:48 AM UTC
Even through his blue
He painted starry night
His favorite chair
His favorite pipe
And a sealed up bag containing
Hashish
He could not smoke the pain away
A missing ear becomes a symbol
Only the madness of knowing
Ear lobe
His love
The way no one else does
*****
No numb could take the pain away
Van Gogh
Died poor
And alone
In a field that was
His last expression
He died by his own hand
It wasn't even raining
It should have been
Jul 16, 2016
Jul 16, 2016 at 12:28 AM UTC
Blasting sparkling blizzards
White skies suffocating;
A ****** of crows hiding.
Chattering from treebark
Petrified little rodents (final)
Serenity in personified wind
Given shape through fog and flake
A symphony of schools of tiny pearly fish
Slamdancing in steam from generators
Perspiring the only heat (miles)
Needles on branches leaking natural
****** made by contrast of mother-of-pearl
Glistening from coral made in woodland;
Empires of organic respiration
Evolved into perfect lungs.
Let the Big Fish gather!
Stalagtites from shed-ceiling
Melting slowly. Cones sprouting
From ground of perfectly smooth rest
Nesting in honeycombs of golden hashish
Leaves falling from stems busted
Water filling up airlocks long since rusted
And the rooftops of cars and homes are dusted
A shroud of grey cloud, nothing comes in
No one goes out. Fortress, sanctuary,
Harmony, charm. Schools stop worrying.
No sharks, no wolves.
Only lonely, shivering coyotes.
And nestled cubs in bedspreads
Let your tongue out, divulge, reel in...
Partake...
Ingest.
Dec 28, 2010
Dec 28, 2010 at 1:33 PM UTC
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barometric tendrils
psuedo-random and hybrid sets
growing like ivy in the clutches of time
such a
chocking
but actualising
grasp
..huh? what?
oh yes! sorry, sorry
come in, come in,
..you know,
I too, once, like how you are now,
was here too
so
very
very
present.
Aha! Oh yes!
Permit me a mock stifled cry of ostentatious self derision,
'hee hee hee'
aaaaaahhh..
I really was pitiful back then.
seeing you there now, I feel oh so whimsical and overcome
with
ahem
sorry.
..dank and musty cellars,
hashish and a can of beans.
(baked, not fried, -we were really naive enough to believe that?- )
had it all back then though, didn't we?
By which I mean we had nothing,
but the conviction
that obligation was something that actually meant something
rather than a Cryptocurrency in a Ponzi scheme,
(with a slice of lemon)
confidence intervals stockpiled in the stocks of confidence men.
Derivative markets
oh, so very much so
so very
derivative
idiomatic
and *******
asinine.
..Still, it does harken to its era, doesn't it?
'detached and disposable.'
toothpicks
limbs
ideals
all that
goodness!
I was supposed to be offering advice, wasn't I?
Interpolate up some mediated conjecture.
But the kids can look after themselves just fine, can't they?
So our fiscal policy seems to think;
'I wager we shear up the youth
to buy shares in implementing youth wages.'
sorry, I guess it's an antiquated complaint,
“think of the children!” , they say?
Can't they see,
the whole **** market's aimed at the proto-teens??
we do it all for them the little snots.
laissez faire welfare
hedge or double down?
A shrubbery?
Or a bacon butty with bread as ****** chicken and cheese?
(I just vomited in my mouth a little,
(how pastiche))
See, and people ask why I’m trapped in the past;
the future's got me car sick.
and honestly
we're just brimming with history
(the scourge of post-modernity)
like a black moss spewed on the walls
Poisoning visions and Rheumatic fever
tearing up our lovely
lovely
pacified
pay and display
psuedo
proto
posterity
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Nov 14, 2014
Nov 14, 2014 at 3:33 AM UTC
*what a love you speak of in sonnet
and in the battle of the Somme!
no wonder Shakespeare is disputed!
only among actor and not poet the two should care.*
free floating lizard akin to the pickle
serpent worth of spine,
she's there, attired in the sun, a biblical
woman hardly a name worth remembering,
why? because she's all *****
and you're all... well... ending up laughing
long after the F.A. cup result is in
and she's lost her daydream...
ooh... 2 nil... i too was into the Faroe Islands
rather than into Craggy Island of: *'drink! drink!
dingy Titanic twin tuck 'n' sunk lucky bet!*
no, really, i was reading an article and started
to laugh... some ***** with a Stephen Hawking
jpeg., i goo my hashish high with porridge...
she said Ibiza was fine with hens but not stags...
she mentions shaggy **** with dispensation
& carrier pigeons of philanthropy or abuse that
fostering advice involves... well, cheap jokes
elsewhere, crucifix over here? what fun to suit
comedy!
NONMONOGAMOUS... ? hey! why not try
a zygote relationship! if trans or bi or hetero
or **** doesn't work? all men around seem
to say the same: i'm not ready for this arson of talk
with a woman tongue replacing both bullet and rifle,
tank, cannon and an arab ******* on holiday...
give me extinction... i'd listen to the lizard man
that hear of mammalian love, that's as much cold
blood with the lizards as i had to learn with keeping
things i worked for being jealous:
it seems it was easier to keep a thief that way than a dog.
May 21, 2016
May 21, 2016 at 9:06 PM UTC
perhaps I was twenty-six
she looked me over and soon enough
the walk to her place was zip, zap, zoop;
meaning, although the barman called
me over to tell me she had recently stabbed
or had tried to stab a bartender from
down the street,
my only concern was another mandrax, a
joint of kashmir hashish with thick ***** streaks
and, most certainly, a new escape; a new woman
the floor (a penthouse apartment, mind you):
much water from an overflowing sink...then, there's
the layer of dust on the dishes of the dish rack...and, not
to forget, the four or five
frightening knives, all very reachable
then, she introduces me to her first
jumping up and down episode--hollering,
"you're my father! I must **** you!"
how I spent two or was it three days with
her dumbfounds me these days...the fool, me,
I remember, first turned off the water
and mopped dry the floor...the miracle of
how my hand awoke and grabbed her wrist,
with the blade's tip an inch from my heart,
will have to wait another session with Harmony
--that She may reach into my mind and
pull out a more clear version of the epilogue
of this is-it-a-poem which I've written
in numerous other versions over the years
~~
..(C)2011/2012 Spiros Zafiris
..channeled; spirit Harmony; reaching into the poet's heart
~~
Nov 3, 2012
Nov 3, 2012 at 4:10 AM UTC
Water; the pure blood
of the earth tickles the rocky shores,
liquid congregation on the beach.
Race, religion and creed are forgotten
on the beaches of Dahab.
People are living,
an empty police station devoid
of lawmen--
they're swimming with people in the blood of the earth
on the beaches of Dahab.
Raggae and Spanish music waft
in the **** and hashish scented air,
as the people cool in the blood of the earth,
on the beaches of Dahab.
Living free and open,
far from the religious obligations and hungry lust stares in Cairo
people are tanning, laughing, drinking, being
in the blood of the earth,
on the beaches of Dahab.
Aug 14, 2013
Aug 14, 2013 at 5:03 AM UTC
You entered the bar
at the base camp
outside Tangiers
the morning sun was out
like a fresh orange
on a blue plate of sky
some old Moroccan
was in a corner
playing a guitar
your mouth felt like
the inside
of an Arab’s sandal
Mamie was sitting
at the bar
on a wonky stool
you woke up then?
she said
after last night
thought you’d be out
for the count all day
no I can take
a good night out
you replied
taking the stool
next to her
and breathing in
the hashish air
and smell of salt
from the beach
the guy behind the bar
asked what you wanted
and you said
*** and coke
and a salad roll
and he went off
and you looked at Mamie
her tight curls
and snub nose
and interesting
fall into me
eyes
what time
did you leave my tent
last night?
you asked
when your tent companion
turned up and almost
got on top of me
ah yes
sorry about that
Will does tend to come
at awkward times
I think he went off
to a trip to Marrakesh
in the yellow
ex army truck
almost crushed me
she said
good while it lasted
then eh?
no it wasn’t
she said
besides you
were out for the count
after we did things
was I?
you know you were
don’t recall a thing
you said
thank you Mr. Romantic
she moaned
o come on Sweet thing
you know it
meant a lot to me
having you near
she looked at
the old Moroccan
playing the guitar
I am glad
he doesn’t sing too
she said
she sipped her Bacardi
and sat silent
the guy brought
your *** and coke
and salad roll
and you began
to eat and sip
can I have some
of your roll?
she asked
sure
you said
and broke off
half of the roll
and gave it to her
thanks
she said and smiled
you felt her knee
touch yours at the bar
naked flesh
on jean cloth
her jean shorts
ended
at her high thigh
you remembered kissing
that thigh
the night before
amongst other things
the smell of her perfume
and the mustiness
of the tent
the faraway voices
and guitar sounds
some party
at the beach
the night before
hoping no scorpion
had crept in
during the day
feeling her
beneath you
and the sound of sea
far off
and sight
of moon’s glow
through tent’s skin
some one sang
another laughed
some one puked up
away off
too much to drink
but you and Mamie
had a good night
you mused
I think.
May 2, 2013
May 2, 2013 at 2:19 AM UTC
Bein' out in lake
Catchin' bass
A piece of cake
Don't take eyes
Off the candy
Randy
Catchin' sucker'd
Be dandy
Sweet-tooth'd scaring night
Rollin' hard
High kite
Lounging in floaty ecstatic
Roll still
Admire the galactic
Traverse through waters
I heard mutters
Hashish-bier thoughts unclear
In hand
A welcome of dry land
Pulsation of bass I hear
Naked timid music
Synth-like rave
Mystical Acoustic
Land so dry had drag'd me in
With cold sweating fear
She whisper'd
'trek 'r treat mm' dear'
Dec 8, 2013
Dec 8, 2013 at 11:12 PM UTC
Freshly bathed & shivering
in the cool weak sunlight
of the early morning
the boy returns
to his bed,
the quiet young couple
who sleep gently nearby,
prepare their first
sweet smoke
of the morning
as a string is drawn
back & forth inside
the chillum pipe
to clean it,
& then the hashish is warmed
so as to soften it before
it's crumbled & mixed
with the tobacco from
a broken cigarette
kneaded in the
palm of the hand,
a small stone is placed inside
to anchor the mix yet
leave room for air
to flow & then
a damp rag is
wrapped around
the narrow end
to cool the smoke,
the woman holds the pipe
quite intricately it seems
to you at first but it's just
to create a space
so as to draw the
mix deep into
her lungs,
"Bom Siva Shankar"
intones the man as
she places her mouth
upon the joined hands
and draws that first
fiery draught
of purest black
Afghani hashish.
The chillum circulates
& the day has begun
as the youth of a
rejected Western World
envelop themselves
in the smell of dung
fires, incense, &
the Krishna chant
from the small
idol at the
corner
nearby.
Mar 27, 2017
Mar 27, 2017 at 4:30 PM UTC
1. tear stained pillow cases and dreary eyes replaced a smile wider than an ocean and a heart made of gold.
2. father pressed its hands on your back, signaling you wouldn't stay alive much longer.
3. beer bottles and hashish made its way into the empty caverns of your mouth, and i didn't stop you.
4. broken homes, no, broken houses, were no longer part of our safety, but rather taped cardboard boxes became the alternative.
5. self medication and bleeding bones transformed your flesh garden; scars and bruises were your best friends.
6. dreams of life were shattered, instead buying cans of green beans and carrots were the only goals you aspired to meet.
7. black and blue nail polish, broken toes, and mushy tobacco destroyed the walls of our make - shift shelter.
8. scapegoats blamed you for crashing the windows of their soul.
9. steel bars became an everyday ritual for father and there was no way to raise kids without a job.
10. your parental custody was revoked and the demons you gave life to moved to an orphanage, at least that's what it felt like.
11. water boiled in your brain; you couldn't stand the loneliness and the guilt of the inability to love.
12. your children moved once more, isolation had finally consumed your carcass of a body.
13. not one or two, but three of your baby ducklings turned against you.
14. 'mommy' rapidly turned to 'mom' and ultimately, 'mother.' realization punched your organs to pieces. they're was no longer any love in your cold heart.
Apr 7, 2017
Apr 7, 2017 at 12:48 PM UTC
Sweet wind that brings me desert dust and ashes
Or salty mist as blood on burning lips
Sweet wind that carries smells of roads and mountains
And rocks, and sands, and rusty wires, and tires,
And bullet-pierced sandbags, mines, and empty tins
And holy thorns that grow through them
And hot, bleak sky high over them
And dry, cracked clay embracing them
Sweet wind that brings me memories of war
Wind softly stroking dusty oleanders
And rushing all along the endless road
Wind –
Now tell me, when the land so lolls in sleepy peace –
Kids playing, women chatting, lovers dreaming,
Men building houses, furnishing, arranging –
All more fragile than cobweb lace
That busy housewives sweep away on sleepless daybreak
Sweet wind, tell me why I
I try to fill my mind with buzz and humdrum
Of knowledge – words, and thoughts, and numbers,
-- to stifle the voice, the shadow haunting me –
The voice that whispers softly, sweetly killing
To wake me up – to find myself again –
To send me far away where is my home:
To prison, madhouse, hospital, dodjo,
Wet dugout, earthquake rubble, secret lab
Where I belong, where all like me are going –
But still in vain,
For happiness, my prison guard and mate
Me torturing,
And happiness, the evil sheikh of nightmares,
His long, thin legs me strangling, hanging down
My shoulders,
His mud-brown hands me stopping ears, and eyes, and mouth –
And me
Who wanders through my days as empty rooms
And endless corridors of giant fallout shelters
Where lonely steps reverberate in hollow hallways
And ruthless light
In which the shadow of my shadow
Me follows – counselor, and silent friend,
Unhurt by splinters of that broken magic mirror
That **** in air; may some benumb my heart
And let me play the game of words and numbers
That spells ETERNITY;
And let the sweet hashish of words and numbers
Make me forget;
Make me forgive, and live, and lie
That I believe the world of war will never come.
Nov 27, 2012
Nov 27, 2012 at 6:28 AM UTC
Miryam walked with you
through Tangiers
miles from the base camp
still feeling tired
from the previous night
after the late evening
on the beach
hugging and kissing
each to each
not going further
that time
back to the tent
(your tent colleague out)
you and she
lay there
almost making out
but then he was back
and she had to leave
mouthing words to you
as she left
behind his back
then the morning ride
to Tangiers
on the back
of the truck
the smell of the city
the aromas
the people
almost Biblical
the snake charmers
the shops in alleys
the kids
trying to sell you
hashish on corners
and she held your hand
clutching her bag
with her other hand
her curly hair
orangey red
and she talking
of bags and clothes
and how back home
there was
so much more
to buy
and her hand
warm in yours
her small thumb
on the back
of your hand rubbing
as she walked
and you felt
and sensed her
and recalled her
a few days back
on the beach posing
for a photo
with a camel
and a Moroccan guy
in that skimpy
bathing suit
( giving the guy
the heat)
and you taking
the photo
with the borrowed camera
and she stopped
in a side street
looking at clothing
beautiful colours
and this guy
brought out
two cups of mint tea
while she decided
what she wanted
and you sat there
beside her
smelling her perfume
looking at her hair
and lips
and how she held
the small cup
in her hands
sipping
breathing
talking
her eyes
bright lights
her small **** pushing
against the cloth
of her purple top
and the tightness
of her jeans
on her thighs
and the whole scene
like something
you'd seen
in one of those
coloured pictures
in the Bible
the people passing
some with donkeys
one guy
with a camel loaded
and you watched
her sipping
her hands holding
the fingers curved
about the cup
and she talking
of what to buy
and you drinking
her in
all aspects
with your greedy
all too human eye.
Aug 2, 2013
Aug 2, 2013 at 5:35 AM UTC
From the Thames, I snake along the black
Serpent taking the Tube, London’s rack
On the Northern Line, the night lays ahead
I remember the town’s name at the top of my head
Camden is like a classy underground broad
Come along before you’re again on the road
I was a chick when I first came to Camden Town
At eighteen, now a woman I’m downtown
From gothic ***** clothing to Hare Krishna
Camden is kind of like Gingsberg’s California
It’s shabby and mystical, silly and lyrical
When I’m there please don’t give me a call
Camden is like a drunk crow looking for Poe
In between nails and leathers that glow
You would grab a dude and he’ll be beneath
Jack the Ripper roaming at Hampstead Heath
My New England, Camden was and is
Not because of bars and hashish drags
Camden possesses underneath her rags
The sweet scent of a quirky release
Deliciously deviant divine
Line up at the looming line
The black Northern Line inked
All throughout London, linked…
December 20, 2015 9:26 pm
London, Victoria
Dec 19, 2015
Dec 19, 2015 at 4:35 PM UTC
Never did a rose
bloom so sweet
all complete
with mascara & tracksuit bottoms
bubble-gum brains
hooked to her ipod
' Whatever happened to the days
of vinyl players'
sighs her grandmother
& pours her
another cup of tea
she sneers
& leaves
later she's chasing
paper aeroplanes
smoking hashish
& stinging the bad boys
with her thorns.
her scars are hidden
in plain sight of eternity
Jun 3, 2015
Jun 3, 2015 at 12:48 PM UTC
Loosens the screws to your psyche
as the loss, seeps out
What was once there is gone
And your personality caves in
just a little bit
Someone looking to exploit can sense this
Sees the loosened worldview
the unthinkable is happening
and what you believed you could not
withstand is putting you to the test
And you are quavering
The foundations shaking
As in an earthquake
If this could happen
What else that you believe in
can be destroyed?
The Morrocan hashish I would never
have accepted from a married
man on a deserted beach
with one Arab boy sitting on the rocks
nearby just watching the waves
And I lay next to him, the sand
between us at once so fascinating
and my dress feeling so short suddenly
and incapable of covering my body
in broad daylight
as the Arab boy
turned away from the water and stared
Jul 24, 2012
Jul 24, 2012 at 8:04 PM UTC
Summer solstice in the park
our icon twanged guitar
the smell of favoured fast food
hashish from near and far
there you were beside me
the lover I once knew
utopian as love's partner
each colour with its hue
the memory of you lingers
that warm and sultry day
beamed that face of sunshine
and body ****** sway
ah youth in love the wonder
so blind and yet so true
inexperienced emotions
feelings some may rue
love is quite quixotic
except for faithful few
over ere you know it
and we must start anew
Sep 14, 2014
Sep 14, 2014 at 9:28 AM UTC
*i hate this ******** even writing about it gives me Sartre's nausea, but it's the reality, and as such, given it's reality, it's in-escapable, so there's no point hiding behind a putrefaction of ideals with nice, ear-pleasing sensible words that do not antagonise, let alone engage with dialectics, that sharpened version of what is know to be simply: a conversation, or via Shakespeare: too many stages, too many worlds, too few actors, a load of physicists though, deliberating poly-dimension etc., but too few actors; what a massive Holocaust of subjectivity this scientific positivism came to be... clearer cloning devices are in place than what the Koran invites. they will not convert so easily, having been robbed of communism! the mongolian conversation / connection, i.e. if it worked for the mongolians to become a nation sub- in the geopolitical stratification they say: 'it should have worked for us, but it didn't, we're as dispersed as the jews! and we're met with more anti-semitic remarks around the globe than the ******* Deutsche!*
and when the recession hit
the majority of european countries
poland remained recession free,
and when the migrant crisis came
the european union abolished
the schengen union:
zumbi e o senhor das guerras
zumbi e o senhor das demandas
quando zumbi chega
e zumbi quem manda
your tribe - our tribe -
i.e. **** your little unity project for a café culture;
hostility will be met with hostility,
or quiet simply right-wing football hooligan
marches with a flare for acrobatics of explosives...
i didn't want it, as honesty goes
i am in debt with Scottish universities and i'm
not paying them back...
i'm on £120 a week benefits after being
misdiagnosed as schizoid... oh look,
Michael Myers is smoking a pipe of Hashish
in Damascus.
May 4, 2016
May 4, 2016 at 9:32 PM UTC
There is a small town in the far north
of India which sits just about the
base of the Himalayas & I had a
a small adventure there as I played
the game of bailing out some friends
on a dope charge from the stockade
where the chief smoked hashish with
a smile & a jailed sadhu who’d chopped
someone’s head off in a ritual because
he became the goddess Kali for awhile
taught the four of them some yoga,
but mostly I remember it because of the
complete & utter peace I found to be just
sitting by the river & letting the sound of it
as it tumbled through the rocks wipe my
mind clean & I was at peace at last,
but I moved on after awhile to the town
of Simla further north & there I saw a
dancing bear & the Himalayan snows
& so I guess there are always new places
to be aren’t there.
Apr 19, 2017
Apr 19, 2017 at 9:37 PM UTC