Jim Morrison _ POEMS 1966-1971 |
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MOSAIC
a series of notes, prose-poems
stories, bits of play & dialog
Aphorisms, epigrams, essays
Poems? Sure
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THE OPENING OF THE TRUNK8
- Moment of inner freedom
when the mind is opened & the
infinite universe revealed
& the soul is left to wander
dazed & confus'd searching
here & there for teachers & friends.
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he enters stage:
Blood boots. Killer storm.
Fool's gold. God in a heaven.
Where is she?
Have you seen her?
Has anyone seen this girl?
snap shot (projected)
She's my sister.
Ladies & gentlemen:
please attend carefully to these words & events
It's your last chance, our last hope.
In this womb or tomb, we're free of the
swarming streets.
The black fever which rages is safely
out those doors
My friends & I come from
Far Arden w/ dances, &
new music
Everywhere followers accrue
to our procession.
Tales of Kings, gods, warriors
and lovers dangled like
jewels for your careless pleasure
I'm Me!
Can you dig it.
My meat is real.
My hands — how they move
balanced like lithe demons
My hair — so twined & writhing
The skin of my face - pinch the cheeks
My flaming sword tongue
spraying verbal fire-flys
I'm real.
I'm human
But I'm not an ordinary man
No No No
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What are you doing here?
What do you want?
Is it music?
We can play music.
But you want more.
You want something & someone new.
Am I right?
Of course I am.
I know what you want.
You want ecstasy
Desire & dreams.
Things not exactly what they seem.
I lead you this way, he pulls that way.
I'm not singing to an imaginary girl.
I'm talking to you, my self.
Let's recreate the world.
The palace of conception is burning.
Look. See it bum.
Bask in the warm hot coals.
You're too young to be old
You don't need to be told
You want to see things as they are.
You know exactly what I do
Everything
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People need Connectors
Writers, heroes, stars,
leaders
To give life form.
A child's sand boat facing
the sun.
Plastic soldiers in the miniature
dirt war. Forts.
Garage Rocket Ships
Ceremonies, theatre, dances
To reassert Tribal need & memories
a call to worship, uniting
above all, a reversion,
a longing for family & the
safety magic of childhood.
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The grand highway
is
crowded
w/
lovers
&
searchers
&
leavers
so
eager
to
please
&
forget.
Wilderness
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Now is blessed
The rest
remembered.
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A man rakes leaves into
a heap in his yard, a pile,
& leans on his rake &
bums them utterly.
The fragrance fills the forest
children pause & heed the
smell, which will become
nostalgia in several years
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An angel runs
Thru the sudden light
Thru the room
A ghost precedes us
A shadow follows us
And each time we stop
We fall
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No one thought up being;
he who thinks he has
Step forward
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«In that year there was
an intense visitation
of energy.
I left school & went down
to the beach to live.
I slept on a roof.
At night the moon became
a woman's face.
I met the Spirit of Music.»
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An appearance of the devil
on a Venice canal.
Running, I saw a Satan
or Satyr, moving beside
me, a fleshy shadow
of my secret mind. Running,
Knowing.
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The day I left the beach
A hairy Satyr running
behind & a little to the
right.
In the holy solipsism
of the young
Now I can't walk thru a city
street w/ out eying each
single pedestrian. I feel
their vibes thru my
skin, the hair on my neck
- it rises.
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THE FEAR
Eternal consciousness
in the Void
(makes trial & jail seem almost
friendly)
a Kiss in the Storm
(Madman at the wheel
gun at the neck
space populous & arching
coolly)
A barn
a cabin attic
Your own face
stationary
in the mirrored window
fear of restroom's
Tragic cold
neon
I'm freezing
animals
dead
white wings of
rabbits
grey velvet deer
The Canyon
The car a craft
in wretched
SPACE
Sudden movements
& your past
to warm you
in Spiritless
Night
The Lonely HWY
Cold hiker
Afraid of Wolves
& his own
Shadow
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The Wolf,
who lives under the rock
has invited me
to drink of his cool
Water.
Not to splash or bathe
But leave the sun
& know the dead desert
night
& the cold men
who play there.
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Bitter winter
Fiction dogs are starving
The radio is moaning softly
calling to the dogs
There are still a few
animals left out in the yard
Sit up all night,
talking smoking
Count the dead & wait
'til morning
Will warm names & faces
come again
Does the silver forest end?
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December Isles
Hot morning chambers
of the New Day
Idiot first to awaken (be born)
w/ shadows of new play
learned men
in Sunday best
we've had our chance to rest
to morn the passing of day
to lament the death of our
glorious member
(she whispers secret messages
of love in the garden
to her friends, the bees)
The garden would be here
forevermore
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funny,
I keep expecting a
knock on the door
well, that's what you
get for living around
people
a Knock? would shatter
my dream's illusions
deportment & composure
The struggle of a poor poet
to stay out of the grips
of novels & gambling
& journalism
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A quality of ignorance,
self-deception may be
necessary to the poet's
survival.
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Actors must make us think
they're real
Our friends must not
make us think we're acting
They are, though, in slow
Time
My wild words
slip into fusion
& risk losing
the solid ground
So stranger, get
wilder still
Probe the Highlands
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Why do I drink?
So that I can write poetry.
Sometimes when it's all spun out
and all that is ugly recedes
into a deep sleep
There is an awakening
and all that remains is true.
As the body is ravaged
the spirit grows stronger.
Forgive me Father for I know
what I do.
I want to hear the last Poem
of the last Poet.
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Accomplishments:
To make works in the face
of the void
To gain form, identity
To raise from the herd-crowd
Public favor
public fervor
even the bitter Poet-Madman is
a clown
Treading the boards
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Whether to be a
great cagey perfumed
beast
dying under the
sweet patronage
of Kings
& exist like luxuriant
flowers beneath the
emblems of their
Strange empire
or by mere insouciant
faith
slap them, call their cards
spit on fate & cast hell
to flames in usury
by dying, nobly
we could exist like
innocent trolls
propagate our revels
& give the finger to the
gods in our private
bedrooms
let's rather, maybe,
perhaps,
get fucking out in
the open, & by
swelling, jubilantly
Magnificently, end them.
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THE CONNECTORS
- What is connection?
- When 2 motions, thought
to be infinite & mutually
exclusive, meet in a
moment.
- Of Time?
- Yes.
- Time does not exist.
There is no time.
- Time is a straight plantation.
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THE CONINECTORS
The diamonds shone like broken glass
Upon the midnight street
And all atop the walls were wet
Their white eyes glint & sleek
Then from afar a gnome appeared
An angel flashed on furry feet
The boulevard became a river
While waiting crowds began to quiver
I was in a motel watching
Whiskey in my hand
Her breath was soft, the wind was warm
Someone in a room was bom
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: Jim MORRISON |
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