Amsterdam Nights

Never

even after all these years

changing

Streets Neon lit

Bodies on display,

Hashish fumes,

junkies

in telephone booths.

Tourists carrying rolled up Van Goths

back to where they came from

returning home to find the same print

cheaper at K-mart

in the streets by the Leidseplein

the sound of jazz floats

through the damp night air

mixing with  aromatic odours

from the Rokeri and kebab houses

A voice is heard

“Excuse me sir, but do you speak English ?”

I rush past

Having heard the story a thousand times before

In different forms

In different accents

In different cities

Always the same

I need tram fare

My passport is lost

I need a coffee

Never the truth

That the need is for another fix

Another ticket to oblivion for the night

Anything but the truth

Because the

 truth is to admit

That you have lost

And all the wanderings

And the journeys

Have been to no avail

That

Somewhere you have lost your way

Between the realms of sanity

That was once a man

And is now no more

Turning left we reach the canal

And more coffee shops

And bars

And people

Endless processions

Searching the night

With endless questions

Where is she?

Will I meet him tonight?

Will I find the answer?

Will I find the way?

WHAT AM I DOING HERE?

The ripples on the water

Invite

Some times the drunk

Some times the sober

And

Some times

The

End of the line

Cool & clear

In the night air

Able to quench the thirst

Of the lost

The canal waits

It has the time

that

 you have not

On the corner

Under the lamplight

Stands a man

And his mobile phone

A link to his sanity

In an insane world

He smiles as he talks

If you listen

You can hear

The words that fall from his lips

He talks of love,

Of passion

Of things that he will do

That he wants done to him

Places to touch

To taste

To feel

When he stops

A tear falls

In the time between dialling the

Next 0900 number

On the bridge

A woman waits for her lover

Excitement mounting

As she remembers

The first time that they met

the first shy slow glance

at each other

across the dance floor

moving closer and closer

as the evening went on

until at last

 a touch

dancing together

breast against breast

nipple against nipple

Knowing what was to come

they caught the last tram

to the oude west

each sensing the other's

moistness

before they reached the attic

where she lived

then

climbing the stairs

hand in hand

trembling for the time

they knew had arrived

reaching that small room

falling into a crush of sound

that they never knew existed

feelings that had been locked away

emerging

bursting

erupting

against one another

they roared through

each other

like an express train

whistles screaming through their bones

sparks flying from their souls

as they at last

found

what it was

that they had been

 looking for

in the apartment below

he was preparing to

go out

into the night

it was that time again

time to search

to relive his past

to quench the horror

that was within him

it was a time

to take the next one

into his arms

and whisper

the things that he

 dare not speak

his mind trembled

at what was to come

in the night he was safe

there were others like him

but those he never knew

or wanted to know

that way the great secret

was his and his alone

it was safer that way

he smiled

softly to himself

as he placed the knife

into the place on his belt

She

Was waiting as always

The same corner

Same times

Same thoughts

Thoughts

of

Her home land

And the money

she must

Pay back

To those that brought her here

Soon it will be paid

Only another 50 sweating bodies

Another 50 probing fingers

Another 50 obscene tongues

Another 50 insults

Another 50 dripping thighs

Only another

50

she smiles at the man

crossing the road

towards her

he takes her hand

she does not see the steel

hidden in his belt

she only thinks

another

49

and

it will

be

over

Around the next corner

Lies the bathhouse

Now

no longer a place

to bathe

But a place

to cleanse your soul

Where words

 spew forth

From countless mouths

Images formed

On many typewriters

And

Processors

Born out of agony

And silent torture

words that

melt among the people

Who

Try as they might

Can never

understand

What it took

the writer

To

Share them

And then

 the Music springs

 into the night

Like

A violent serpent

Eating into your mind

Making you move

Your body

 swaying

your

Fingers

 reaching out

To touch

the notes

Your eyes

Searching

For that

Glance

That will mean

Something

Else

Than just

A

Dance

Next stop

The coffee shop

Vacant faced finger rolling tourists

Adorn the garish tables

Milkshakes &  burgers

Staple food of

 backpackers

Litter the room

Trance music echoes

Through befuddled minds

As joints are rolled

And

Bongs blasted

Conversations

 waft throughout the room

within the smoke

telling tales of

nights wrecked

on mushrooms

and Afghan hash

of marathon

eating sessions

who ripped off whom

while at the counter

the expatriate

owner

rubs his

hands with glee

as he

 counts the money

within his head

hashish

turning into Guilders

guilders

into even more hashish

a non-stop

roller coaster

of

dreams

Across

the canal

under

the bridge

lie

silent mounds

of human

derelicts

veins full

dreams

drifting

through

the night

mucus dripping

from gaping mouths

 mounds of rags

 that move

to the

sweet dreams

and the

hideous sounds

of the

junkie dance

jerk !

one, two, three

slide

four, five, six

nod

seven, eight, nine

drool

to the count of ten

needle in

needle out

pop that vein

bring it out

blood in the syringe

going in slow

maybe

this is the time

that

you're going

to

go

___________________________________________________________________________ 

The first night

Last night

As I watched you

sleeping

A smile

crossed your face

Did you

dream of me

As

I did

of you

Did you

once again

Feel

the tremors

In your

thighs

Your toes curl

Your eyes shine

I awoke

To the smell of coffee

And frying bacon

But all I could taste

Was the memory

Of you

That

you

Had

Left

behind

 ___________________________________________________________________________

The Electric fan

Heaven- Valhalla---the other side…

call it what you will…

but the ultimate in

Bliss

is an electric fan….

Bought from a Turag trader

on the market

along

With a waistcoat

of blue

satin …

I sought my way home…

squeezing myself

&

My packages

through crowds

of frantic shoppers.

Arriving home,

I assembled it

turned it on……

instant nirvana…

…. Krishna

never had it so good……

a beer is opened…..

joint rolled…

ice-cold papaya

Straight from

the fridge….

what more could I want…..

sitting here naked…

cool fanbreeze

against my body….

like kisses….

its

then I realise…

the only

thing

mi

is you.

___________________________________________________________________

    Dream 2

Out towards the outlands

Where the earth

It meets the sky

 The sun

Burns down

 In feverheat,

And the

Brackish water

Holds no life

Where nightmares

Rule the day

When you look around you

There’s no one to be seen

And the sound that issue forth

Are harsh primeval screams

It’s then, and only then

That you know

That you are lost

You look out towards the light

Where dark forbidding monoliths

Stand still against the sky

While sounds of souls in torment

Come tearing through your brain

And white hot purple insects

Are boring through

Your veins

You reach out

For a half remembered light

But

There is

Nothing

Anymore

__________________________________________________________________________________

AMSTERDAM

city of night

alive with the shadow

OF SHADOWS

THE COFFEE shop aromas

flooding  the neon lit streets

the music never stops

except for one brief hour

 before dawn

the tourist never stop

the night goes on

and on

another beer here

another coffee there

a poem at dawn

to a crowd of

disbelieving people

who THOUGHT, THAT poems

only consisted

of words

and external feelings

no one seems to sleep

they walk the neon streets

in search of that elusive moment

which  they can  treasure

and relive

again and again

in their memories

but,

LIKE themselves

that moment is never found

even though we all know

that it lies some where

between

the dusk and the dawn

untouchable

except by a lucky few

who have grasped it

but even they sometimes

do not know that

they have cought  it

until it is to late

and it as

escaped once more

whence   it came

________________________________________________________________________

  On being a poet

being a poet

is like

being

a

condom

with

a hole

the out

come

unless you

Can see

The

hole

can be

quite

 unexpected