My Experience of Amsterdam II

I fled to Amsterdam in the hopes of fleeing England and the colonial reign; the industrial reign. I fled but it had all arrived early before I, or else, it arrived with me, from my mind and own impressions of tourism travesty. Surely I could not have caused it? Though I thought it, not even the cruellest of nightmares has any forbearance on the outside world; the reality of others-which I can never know independently of my own faculties-and so is as real as the visions themselves. 

   If the above doesn't quite make sense, as well I know; it both does and doesn't (the world is full of verisimilitudes), that is only because I was of an equally contrary mind at the time. The point, however, if any such thing exists, is a question of philosophical Idealism. Unrelated to the poem below, which I wrote in a drug induced haze while failing to sleep in a room full of strangers, who did such remarkably curious things in the dark of the night, before they all fell, rather sombrely, asleep...

This hall

where others sleep

sounds more like a tomb.

A catacomb for a generation to lie

The only sound:

of long,

withdrawn

sighs

the seeping out of their

souls and life.

And it occurs every night

right before their very eyes.