Long Hashish Poems
Long Hashish Poems. Below are the most popular long Hashish by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Hashish poems by poem length and keyword.
He turned off the running water,
soaped his face not glancing at the mirror,
a long night ahead.
He had four shadows
on the four walls of this rental,
not a good sign.
When later he turned the bedside light on,
the glowing silhouette of his head on the pillow
burgeoned, swelling upwards until
it pancaked on the ceiling above.
Still groggy after the hashish
still psychoactive,
he got dressed.
Out walking the dark Luxor streets
he found a coffee shop still open.
The thick sweet brew was served to him,
a lime green dwarf
sporting a banana yellow fez.
Never again he thought,
patting his pockets hoping to find
some curative cancer sticks.
So many sick rivers
Of pain, shock and shiver
Flow from longstanding wounds
Of soul-chopping depression that surround
Many islands next to you and me
As a consequence of the malady
Our development system is trapped in
Because of the flaws within
In Kolkata the other day
Collin in sheer dismay
Accepted the unacceptable truth
That his son cannot have the fruit
Of higher education in a star college
As he cannot afford the package
He could have been
Another Stephen Hawking
Phillip in Nairobi
Is forced to lobby
With corrupt controllers of the system
For his free cancer treatment
Nevertheless stays encumbered
His days are numbered
He has no wherewithal
To go to a better hospital
In Mexico
The blue sky of girls destitute
Get imprisoned in dark cells
No, actually sheer hell
Of flesh trade
A huge global population Is demented
The world is fragmented
Gravely disproportionately
Right from the ages of amoeba
Till today’s human ova
Trees are stripped of their bark
Stark naked a major part of the world
In frustration I sometimes do scream
Nevertheless dream too
For a perfect world
Enabling all to unfurl
Leaving none deprived
Of a health-packed miniscule yellow sun
On every breakfast dish
And no hashish
May be it will take
Many more centuries to make
An even ground
For Prometheus unbound
------------------------------------------
We used to pinch Kathy's hashish.
One little trip at a time so she wouldn't notice.
It really didn't matter, as we had total immunity.
Because she'd never go whining to the cherries.
We'd light up in the bushes beside the train tracks.
Amidst the bum litter, bottle caps, and broken glass.
Getting paranoid and sillier with each puff.
A couple of tie-dyed comedians giggling in the brush.
We'd roll out of our hashish cloud, smiling wide and red-eyed.
With a raging case of the munchies and acute cotton mouth.
We'd devour bowls of mac and cheese while watching M.T.V
Waiting for the sweet sandman and his nickel bag of sleep.
That was a thin slice, a pink puppy phase in my life.
I stumbled into a brunette angel and got out just in time.
Kathy graduated from hashish bowl to heroin spoon.
Spent two decades gathering pieces of her broken mind.
I’ve heard tell of some suicide cult in Kenya;
Poor folk pledged to starve themselves to death
For God’s glory, and so malevolent surgeons
Can harvest their organs for profit in trade.
Well, I’ve been to Kenya, and I can say this:
Mombasa seemed quite exotic with its
Sculpted elephant tusk archway granting
Unfettered access to the Year of the Cat.
The open road to Nairobi was a safari adventure in itself,
Needing no explanation other than a quarter pound
Of the finest black Afghan hashish this side of Kandahar.
While in Kenya, I never once thought of killing myself.
But I did determine that it would be unsafe
To pass out drunk in any public venue
For fear of waking up with a pain in my side
And find I’m missing one of my kidneys. Kenya, dig it.
When caught mid-flight
End to bloat against gravity
Thanks, rejection is not of the earth
My eyes are welling
I won’t hold back with shame
Even warriors often times loosen, weeping
A good mother’s breast thrust
Not in for the oldest trade
Gives the child, from infant, the best trust
The sexton is a pagan
Lushness of the hashish field
Makes his story from Canaan
Morals pillar nobility
But nature spares by –
Insofar as the choice is moderacy
Over me they seek to keep
They can shape me, me too a shaper
Just that I start a peep
A quest to solve the world
Challenged to fix my head
Get me defined – no word
Launch talks for luck
One screen sets parts
Grace, lone-stands, earns buck
Formless strife made me worry
An envoy made as of succubus
Made me awoke being sorry
He who sounded the gong
Has done it wrong
And rhythm’s lost in our song
The earth, about the Sun, rotates
Science, my house remains on its plot
Lies make the pupils dilate
Africa! Here some questions
Khartoum, Mogadishu, Malaria, HIV, Genocides . . . ?
Orients through Occident find me solutions
Muses – a kind that’s potent
Might make me hit the laureate’s podium
And be free of amateurish latent!
Sorry, I no more seek your suns
Nor moons
Yes, your suns I loved very much
Your passionate sun
Around which my planets would run
Your cool moons
Shedding long leaves
On my glistening lagoon
I remember
All my swoons
From wine in your spoon
But your nerves
Went for new curves
It happens
Very often
Our rivers do not like the same course
Especially when you endorse
Flames of passion
And we are rivers
You developed a new craze
In a psychedelic haze
In that crazy spree
You started neglecting me
Initially I got lonely
Missed you terribly
My ocean frozen I was in a depression
Of the morbid flower
In pale blue showers
From the two windows
Morose under compulsion
For many a day, month and year
Irritation in the mug of bear
Tearing my spirit
Pulverizing all my lyrics
Landslide in Mirik
But again all rivers are resilient
If you stop its normal course
It gathers unexpected force
The remorse underlie
I grew seasoned without you
I was out of the bottomless blues
Though could not but reflect on the cues
In the morning dew
And sighed too
But I learned to live agile and alert
Brushing aside the frozen heart
Gave up on hashish
Cleaned the debris
Started looking smart
Now I have travelled a long path
No more remorse no wrath
No smokes of the aftermath
Now I understand
The diamonds of life
Love matters much
Especially in the flowers of touch
But when you ignore
It does not matter
I have got my poems of freedom
Your walls can never ruffle them
______________________________
23/11/2016
Note: Mirik is a Himalayan tourist spot in Darjeeling
Were
I
Jazzed
At every kerfuffle-
I shan't have the time to peer at the sky
Rubble around me and six inches deep
My only recourse ahh! triple mud pie!
Economy crumblin' Wall Streets a mess
No one will notice I've pickled the cress!
Breads in the oven yea! spiked with hashish
Just one bite congress
might pass some relief!
Tornadoes are twistin' earth shakes below
If memory serves me i'll conjure up snow
For more than five lifetimes, patience we've been
While line by line constitution has waned
Grab your water pistols- fill your balloons
Let's have a party
Make lawmakers swoon!
james marshall goff
08/31/13
© All Rights Reserved
What did I do?
I don’t understand my life
I don’t understand the Life
I am suffering a lot
Day by day and day to day
When will this be over?
When? When?!
Evil psychopaths following me
Psychopaths: Oh, no. No, no
Sociopaths, like serial killers
And they are psychologists
Sadistic killers, evil beings
Ruler of life, dark monsters
I am suffering, I have death feeling and panic
I am a victim of psychological human experiments
My life is ruined, I haven’t other, coming to my end
Yes, yes. Oh, sweet death, please kill me, and save me
I put my life into your hand, be my ruler, get my life
Take my life. From here. Far, far, and far. On the other side
This is one of my confessions:
I don’t want my life, I don’t need to live
I can’t do this life. It’s very heavy
Fearing, panic, alcohol, medicine
So many years ago I used grass and hashish
English psychologists took me into that life
Oh, God, I am sorry, I am sorry, I am so sorry
I try to live, I try to live, but evil people…
Evil psychologists makes me ptoblems
They block my life to the Life
My life is nothing. I am just a man from Europe
Maybe this is the problem. And I love women.
I loved someone
Someone
A woman
Hm, beautiful
But a bad memory
She killed me
I killed her
Bad meeting
Now graveyard feeling
I am in the cemetery
I don’t kill myself
I am waiting the investigation
I have only one way
Win
If not…
Then death
God
God
Help me
Help me
Give me power
I need these few years
The rest of my life
Dear death
Dear death
Give me more time
(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 pot, 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
It's getting late; time to leave for work,
Where we've lost our first to the red Wuhan curse.
I'll be strolling the halls with his freshly minted ghost.
Hopefully it won't loathe me; I pray it leaves me alone.
Everyone's masked and macabre-tinged.
Management is working remotely from home
but giving us free soda and chips.
With a side of ham and Corona on rye.
All this fluff for risking our insignificant lives.
I'm starting to make more mistakes.
Taking days off for the most trivial things.
I'm getting old, and soft-I'm suffocating.
Every day is just another bluish Monday.
But we plow on-there's loved ones to feed.
My psyche is quickly thinning.
The mind swirling like a 70's mood ring.
With pinches of low-grade hashish.
My faith sure could use a good cleaning,
To rid its spinning prayer wheel of debris.
So it can start spinning freely again.
I'm already beaten down and have a migraine.
Lunchtime is still two and a half hours away.