Jim Morrison – Poems from “Wilderness”

March 25, 2009 at 6:24 pm (Jim Morrison, Poetry & Literature)

I think I was once
I think we were

Your milk is my wine
My silk is your shine


a series of notes, prose-poems
stories, bits of play & dialog
Aphorisms, epigrams, essays

Poems? Sure

~The Opening of the Trunk~

-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.

Moment of Freedom
as the prisoner
blinks in the sun
like a mole
from his hole

a child’s 1st trip
away from home

That moment of Freedom

Cold treatment of our empress
The Transient Universe
Instant communion and

emeralds in glass
searchlights at twi-light
stoned streets in the pale dawn
robed in exile
swift beat of a proud heart
eyes like twenty
swift dream
frozen heart
soldiers doom
clouds & struggles

doomed from the start
“That’s how I met her,
lonely & frozen
& sullen, yes
right from the start”

Then stop.
Go. The wilderness between.
Go round the march.

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

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 burn.
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

I am a guide to the Labyrinth

Monarch of the protean towers
on this cool stone patio
above the iron mist
sunk in its own waste
breathing its own breath


I can make the earth stop in
its tracks. I made the
blue cars go away.

I can make myself invisible or small.
I can become gigantic & reach the
farthest things. I can change
the course of nature.
I can place myself anywhere in
space or time.
I can summon the dead.
I can perceive events on other worlds,
in my deepest inner mind,
& in the minds of others.

I can

I am

People need Connectors
Writers, heroes, stars,
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 needs & memories
a call to worship, uniting
above all, a reversion,
a longing for family & the
safety magic of childhood.

The grand highway
is crowded


Now is blessed
The rest

A man rakes leaves into
a heap in his yard, a pile,
& leans on his rake &
burns them utterly.
The fragrance fills the forest
children pause & heed the
smell, which will become
nostalgia in several years

Rain & Thunder
Jet from the base
Hot searing insect cry
The frogs & crickets
Doors open & close
The smash of glass
The Soft Parade
An accident
Rustle of silk, nylon
Watering the dry grass
Rattlesnake, whistles, castanets
Lawn mower
Good Humor man
Skates & wagons

Where’d you learn about
Satan- out of a book
Love?- out of a box

night of sin (The Fall)
-1st sex, a feeling of having
done this same act in time before
O No, not again

Between childhood, boyhood,
& manhood (maturity) there
should be sharp lines drawn w/
Tests, deaths, feats, rites
stories, songs, & judgements

Men who go out on ships
To escape sin & the mire of cities
watch the placenta of evening stars
from the deck, on their backs
& cross the equator
& perform rituals to exhume the dead
dangerous initiations
To mark passage to new levels

To feel on the verge of an exorcism
a rite of passage
To wait, or seek manhood
enlightenment in a gun

To kill childhood, innocence
in an instant


guide lines
The Vikings & explorers
The unconscious

a map of the states
The veins of hiways
Beauty of a map
Hidden connections
Fast trampled forest

Madness in a whisper
neon crackle
The hiss of tires
A city growls

rich vast & sullen
like a slow monster
come to fat
& die

~The Anatomy of Rock~

The 1st electric wildness came
over the people
on sweet Friday.
Sweat was in the air.
The channel beamed,
token of power.
Incense brewed darkly.
Who could tell then that here
it would end?

One school bus crashed w/a train.
This was the Crossroads.
Mercury strained.
I couldn’t get out of my seat.
The road was littered
w/dead jitterbugs.
we’ll be late for class.

The secret flurry of rumor
marched over the yard &
pinned us unwittingly
Mt. fever.
A girl stripped naked on the
base of the flagpole.

In the restrooms all was cool
& silent
w/the salt-green of latrines.
Blankets were needed.

Ropes fluttered.
Smiles flattered
& haunted.

Lockers were pried open
& secrets discovered.

Ah sweet music.

Wild sounds in the night
Angel siren voices.
The baying of great hounds.
Cars screaming thru gears
& shrieks
on the wild road
Where the tires skid & slide
into dangerous curves.

Favorite corners.
Cheerleaders raped in summer
Holding hands
& bopping toward Sunday.

Those lean sweet desperate hours.

Time searched the hallways
for a mind.
Hands kept time.
The climate altered like a
visible dance.

Night-time women.
Wondrous sacraments of doubt
Sprang sullen in bursts
of fear & guilt
in the womb’s pit hole
The belt of the beast

Worship w/words, w/
sounds, hands, all
joyful playful &
obscene-in the insane

Old men worship w/long
noses, old soulful eyes.
Young girls worship,
exotic, indian, w/robes
who make us feel foolish
for acting w/our eyes.
Lost in the vanity of the senses
which got us where we are.
Children worship but seldom
act at it. Who needs
temples & couches & T.V.

We can do it on a sunny
floor w/friends & make
any sound or movement
that comes. Roll on our
backs screaming w/mirth
glad in the guilt of our
madness. Better to be
cool in our worship &
gain the respect of the
ancient & wise wearing
those robes. They know
the secret of mind-change

“Have you ever seen God?”
-a mandala. A symmetrical angel.

Felt? yes. Fucking. The Sun.
Heard? Music. Voices
Touched? an animal. your hand.
Tasted? Rare meat, corn, water
& wine.

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

No one thought up being;
he who thinks he has
Step forward

Shrill demented sparrows bark
The sun into being. They rule
dawn’s Kingdom. The cars-
a rising chorus- Then
workmen’s songs & hammers
The children of the schoolyard,
a hundred high voices,
complete the orchestration

“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.”

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,

The day I left the beach

A hairy Satyr running
behind & a little to the

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.

~The Fear~

Eternal consciousness
in the Void
(makes trial & jail seem almost

a Kiss in the Storm

(Madman at the wheel
gun at the neck
space populous & arching

A barn
a cabin attic

Your own face
in the mirrored window

fear of restroom’s
Tragic cold

I’m freezing


white wings of

grey velvet deer

The Canyon

The car a craft
in wretched

Sudden movements

& your past
to warm you
in Spiritless

The Lonely HWY
Cold hiker

Afraid of Wolves
& his own

The Wolf,
who lives under the rock
has invited me
to drink of his cool
Not to splash or bathe
But leave the sun
& know the dead desert
& the cold men
who play there.

a ha
Come on, now
luring the Traveller
Mighty Voyager
Curious, into its dark womb
The graves grinning
Indians of night
The eyes of night
Westward luring
into the brothel, into the blood bath
into the Dream
The dark Dream of conquest
& Voyage
into night, Westward into Night


Clothed in sunlight
restless in wanting
dying of fever

Changed shapes of an empire
Starling invaders
Vast promissory notes of joy

Wanton, willful & passive
Married to doubt
Clothed in great warring monuments
of glory

How it has changed you
How slowly estranged you
Solely arranged you

Beg you for mercy

The Crossroads
a place where ghosts
reside to whisper into
the ear of travellers &
interest them in their fate

Hitchhiker drinks:
“I call again on the dark
hidden gods of the blood”

-Why do you call us?
You know our price. It
never changes. Death of
you will give you life
& free you from a vile
fate. But is is getting late.

-If I could see you again
& talk w/you, & walk a
short while in your company,
& drink the heady brew
of your conversations,
I thought

-to rescue a soul already
ruined. To achieve respite.
To plunder green gold
on a pirate raid & bring
to camp the glory of old.

-As the capesman faces
poisoned horns & drinks
red victory; the soldier,
too, w/his trophy, a
pierced helmet; & the
ledge-walker shuddering
his way into inward grace

-(laughter) Well then. Would
you mock yourself?


-Soon our voices must become
one, or one must leave.

Forest strong sandals
burnt geometry fingers
around a fire
reading history in blackened
books, charcoal sentence
in moot splendor

Sire, we met in Eden
The troubled time
we had
rustling in the night leaves
a sniper aimed at our window
a kitten mewing in the blasted
strong air
I must go see

-You’ve found your Voice,
friend, after all else
I recognize fast the
Strong sure tones of
a poet
was it a question
search or of strangling?
I wonder
We never talked
But welcome here
to the camp fire
Share our meal
& tell us of your life
& the hanging

-Well 1st I screamed
& I was a child again alive
Then nothing til the age
of 5

& then summers & the racetrack
I looked for a girl in
New Mexican
& found jail
The prostitute looked out
her cell & saw
Fuck god scratched
on a leprous wall

-You’re rambling boy
what of the rest
the jazz hiway
he winks.

-I got picked up
& rode thru the night

-did you see any buildings

-did I…
What was I doing
of course we danced plenty
She had nice sides
the cop hit me
Stop, I don’t remember

-The logs are melting
we must move on
The fire’s ending
we’ll hear more
at the next altar

(musical interlude)

The American Night
We went thru 5 cords
of wood this winter

-he told me beautiful stories
& had the most beautiful visions
He was a truly religious man
at the end

-you know, I like you guys

(I saw this cat run out
of the ocean, one night,
and beat-off into a fire)

I’m going down to Mexico
To this border town I heard
about & I’m gonna buy
me a girl & bring her
back up here & marry her, it’s
true. This guy told me.
A friend of his knew someone who

-You’re too much

There was preserved
in her
The fresh miracle
of surprise


The night is young
& full of rest
I can’t describe the
way she’s dress’d
She’ll pander to some strange
Anything that you suggest
Anything to please her guest


criminal metabolism of guilt forest
Rattlesnakes whistles castanets

Remove me from this hall of mirrors
This filthy glass

Are you her
Do you look like that
How could you be when
no one ever could

Poet of the call-girl storm

She left a note on the bedroom door.
“If I’m out, bring me to.”

I dropped by to see you
late last night
But you were out
like a light
Your head was on the floor
& rats played pool w/your eyes

Death is a good disguise
for late at night

Wrapping all games in its calm garden

But what happens
when the guests return
& all unmask
& you are asked
to leave
for want of a smile

I’ll still take you then
But I’m your friend

New York Maidens~

everyone has Their own magic
There is no death
so nothing matters
High Style
Flash & forgive me
high button shoes
clean arrangement
messy breeding
love’s triumph
everlasting hope & fulfillment

~The American Night~

for leather accrues
The miracle of the streets
The scents & smogs &
pollens of existence

Shiny blackness
so totally naked she was
Totally un-hung-up

We looked around
lights now on
Top see our fellow travellers

I am troubled
By your eyes

I am struck
By the feather
of your soft

The sound of glass
Speaks quick

And conceals
What your eyes fight
To explain

She looked so sad in sleep
Like a friendly hand
just out of reach
A candle stranded on
a beach
While the sun sinks low
an H-bomb in reverse

Everything human
is leaving
her face

Soon she will disappear
into the calm


My Wild Love!

I get my best ideas when the
telephone rings & rings. It’s no fun
To feel like a fool-when your
baby’s gone. A new ax to my head:
Possession. I create my own sword
of Damascus. I’ve done nothing w/time.
A little tot prancing the boards playing
w/Revolution. When out there the
World awaits & abounds w/heavy gangs
of murderers & real madmen. Hanging
from windows as if to say: I’m bold-
do you love me? Just for tonight.
A One Night Stand. A dog howls & whines
at the glass sliding door (why can’t I
be in there?) A cat yowls. A car engine
revs & races against the grain- dry
rasping carbon protest. I put the book
down- & begin my own book.
Love for the fat girl.
When will SHE get here?

In the gloom
In the shady living room
where we lived & died
& laughed & cried
& the pride of our relationship
took hold that summer
What a trip
To hold your hand
& tell the cops
you’re not 16
no runaway
The wino left a little in
the old blue desert
Cattle skulls
the cliche of rats
who skim the trees
in search of fat
Hip children invade the grounds
& sleep in the wet grass
’til the dogs rush out
I’m going South!


What can I read her
What can I read her
on a Sunday Morning

What can I do that will
somehow reach her
on a Sunday Morning

I’ll read her the news of
The Indian Wars

Full of criss-cavalry, blood
& gore

Stories to tame & charm
& more

On a Sunday Morning

Some wild fires
a dry quiet kiss on leaving

Like our ancestors
The Indians
We share a fear of sex
excessive lamentation for the dead
& an abiding interest in dreams & visions


The mushroom
The unfolding

instant of creation (fertilisation)
not an instant separate from breakfast
It all flows down & out, flowing

but that instant:
not fire & fusion (fission) but a moment
of jellied ice, crystal, vegetative mating
merging in cool slime splendour
a crushing of steel & glass & ice

(instant in a bar; glasses clash, clink, collide)

far-out splendour

heat & fire are outwards signs of a
Small dry mating

event in a room
event in space
a circle
Magic rite
To call up the godhead
spirits, demons
The shaman calls:
“When radio dark night…”
We are eating each other.

The Voice of the Serpent
dry hiss of age & steam
& leaves of gold
old books in ruined
The pages break like ash

I will not disturb
I will not go

Come, he says softly

an old man appears &
moves in tired dance
amid the scattered dead
gently they stir

I received an Aztec wall
of vision
& dissolved my room in
sweet derision
Closed my eyes, prepared to go
A gentle wind inform’d me so
And bathed my skin in ether glow

Drugs are a bet w/ your mind

The cigarette burn’d
my fingertips
& dropp’d like a log
to the rug below
My eyes took a trip
to dig the chick
Crouch’d like a cat
at the next window
My ears assembled music
out of swarming streets
but my mind rebelled
at the idiot’s laughter
The rising frightful idiot laughter
Cheering an army of
vacuum cleaners

Mouth fills w/taste of copper.
Chinese paper. Foreign money. Old posters.
Gyro on a string, a table.
A coin spins. The faces.

There is an audience to our drama.
Magic shade mask.
Like the hero of a dream, he works for us,
in our behalf.

How close is this to a final cut?

I fall. Sweet blackness.
Strange world that waits & watches.
Ancient dread of non-existence.

If it’s no problem, why mention it.
Everything spoken means that,
it’s opposite, & everything else.
I’m alive. I’m dying.

1st wild thrush of fear

-A phone rings
There is a knock on the door.
It’s time to go.


The walls screamed poetry disease & sex
an inner whine like a mad machine –
dropped in a
cave of roaches
or rodents

The Computer
faces of the men

The wall collage
reading matter

The Traders (dealers)

I am a guide to the labyrinth
Come & see me
in the green hotel
Rm. 32
I will be there after 9:30 p.m.

I will show you the girl of the ghetto
I will show you the burning well
I will show you strange people
haunted, beast-like, on the
verge of evolution

-Fear The Lords who are
secret among us

Leaving the phone-booth, I was
Struck by a whiff of
the weird.
Insane old country woman
come to nag the haunts
of town
Hairy legs w/open sores.

From what swamp or under-rock
did you crawl to remind
us what we choose
to leave


Androgynous, liquid, happy
Facile & vapid
Weighted w/words
Mortgaged soul
Wandering preachers, & Delta Tramps

Box-cars of heaven
New Orleans Nile Sunset

The form is a plane above
the earth. A soldier bails
out, leaving his entrails
fluttering, billowing. Scoop’d
down, windy midwife, wrench’d
by the world from her rich
belly, my metal mother,
ripped cord, down & frozen.
Following pilot the eye of
the plane; “Great Eye of Night”
God on a windscreen, wind-
scream, wormwind

(& hide among women
like a toothless bird)

Burned by air
Burned bad by light
in the

(gun shot)

O Wow
he’s shot
& the scarlet news
(hoarse mute confusion
of the witness crowd)

Messenger in the form of a soldier.
Green wool. He stood there,
off the plane.
A new truth, too horrible to bear.
There was no record of it
anywhere in the ancient signs
or symbols.
People looked at each other,
in the mirror, their children’s
Why had it come.
There was no escape from
it anywhere.
A truth too horrible to name.
Only a loose puking moan
could frame its dark interiors.
Only a few could look upon
its face w/calm.
Most of the people fell instantly
under its dull friendly terror.
They looked to the calm ones
but saw only a green
military coat.
None of the old Things worked.

of Sorrow
Wilderness Angel
dancing wings
of envy
Call Me

Street. Steel thrust sucking space.
Silent willful turbines, motors

City of clouds, pirates of air.

Land of rainbows & scarlet rare

We are here, parables.

Silent climbers.

The breast engine mattered.
Monster in drag, a tin damsel
Shuddered & flew

Cut spent space
Crazed ace
The cake-walk.

~Horse Latitudes~

The barn is burning
The race-track is over
Farmers run out w/
buckets of water
The horse flesh is burning
They’re kicking the stalls
(panic in a horse’s eye
That can spread & fill
an entire sky.)

The clouds flow by
& tell a story

about the lightning bolt & the mast
on the steeple

Some people have a hard time
describing sailors to the

The decks are starving
Time to throw the cargo over

Now down & the high-sailing
fluttering of smiles on the air
w/its cool night time disturbance

Tropic corridor
Tropic Treasure

What got us this far to this
mild equator

Now we need something
& someone new
when all else fails
we can whip the horse’s eyes
& make them cry
& sleep

France is 1st, Nogales round-up
Cross over the border-
land of eternal adolescence
quality of despair unmatched
anywhere on the perimeter
Message from the outskirts
calling us home
This is the private space of a
new order. We need saviors
To help us survive the journey.
Now who will come
Now hear this
We have started the crossing
Who knows? it may end badly

The actors are assembled;
immediately they become
I, for one, am in ecstasy
Can I convince you to smile?

No wise men now.
Each on his own
grab your daughter & run

“Oh God, she cried
I never knew what
it meant to be real
I thought all this was a joke,
I never let the horror, or
the sweetness & the dignity
penetrate my brain”

“Let me up to see
the window. Dark Riders
pass in the sunset
coming home from
raiding parties.
The taverns will be
full of laughter, wine,
& later dancing, later
dangerous knife throws.

Antonio will be there
& that whore, Blue Lady
playing cards w/silver
decks & smiling at the night,
& full glasses held aloft
& spilled to the moon.
I’m sad, so full of sadness”

She’s selling news in the market
Time in the hall
The girls of the factory
Rolling cigars
They haven’t invented musak yet
So I read to them
a horror story from the Gothic age
a gruesome romance
From the LA

I have a vision of America
Seen from the air
28,000 ft. & going fast

A one-armed man in a Texas
parking labyrinth
A burnt tree like a giant primeval bird
in an empty lot in Fresno
Miles & miles of hotel corridors
& elevators, filled w/ citizens

Motel Money Murder Madness
Change the mood from glad to sadness

play the ghost song baby

a young woman, bound silently, on
a hostpital table, obviously pregnant,
is gutted & rifled of her empire

objects of oblivion

Drugs sex drunkenness battle
return to the water-world
Mother of man
Monstrous sleep-waking gentle swarming
atomic world
Anomic in social life

how can we hate or love or judge
in the sea-swarm world of atoms
All one, one All
How can we play or not play
How can we put one foot before us
or revolutionize or write

Does the house burn? So be it.
The World, a film which men devise.
Smoke drifts thru these chambers
Murders occur in a bedroom.
Mummers chant, birds hush & coo.
Will this do?
Take Two.

each day is a drive thru history

~Bright Flags~

The great hiway of dawn
Stretching to slumber
pouring out from her greedy
palms a shore, to wander

Hesitation & doubt
Swiftly ensconced

O Viking, your women
cannot save you
out on the great ship

Time has claimed you
Coming for you

And I came to you
for peace
And I came to you
for gold
And I came to you
for lies
And you gve me fever
& wisdom
& cries
of sorrow
& we’ll be here
the next day
the next day

There’s a belief by the
Children of Man which states
all will be well

Search on man, calm savior
Veteran of wars incalculable
greed. Search on man, calm savior
God-speed & forgive you
morning-star, fragrant
meadow person girl



children of the caves will let their
secret fires glow

An explosion of birds
Sun strokes the walls
An old man leaves the Casino
A young man reading pauses
on the path to the garden

Bitter winter
Fiction dogs are starving
The radio is moaning softly
calling to the dogs
There are still a few
animals left 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?

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 mourn 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

Mexican parachute
Blue green pink
Invented of Silk
& stretched on grass
Draped in the trees
of a Mexican Park
T-shirt boys in their
Slumbering art

-I fear that he’s been
maim’d beyond all

He hears them come &
murmur over his corpse.

Street Pizza.

I keep expecting a
knock on the door
well, that’s what you
get for living around

a Knock? would shatter
my dreams’ illusions
deportment & composure
The struggle of a poor poet
to stay out of the grips
of novels & gambling
& journalism

A quality of ignorance,
self-deception may be
necessary to the poet’s

Actors must make us think
they’re real
Our friends must not
make us think we’re acting

They are, though, in slow

My wild words
slip into fusion
& risk losing
the solid ground

So stranger, get
wilder still

Probe the Highlands

Bourbon is a wicked brew, recalling
courage milk, refined poison
of cockroach & tree-bark, leaves
& fly-wings scraped from the
land, a thick film; menstrual
fluids no doubt add their splendour.
It is the eagle’s drink.

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.

~The Connectors~

-What is connection?

-When 2 motions, thought
to be infinite & mutually
exclusive, meet in a

-Of Time?


-Time does not exist.
 There is no time.

-Time is a straight plantation.

~The Connectors~

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 born


To make works in the face
of the void
To gain form, identity
To rise from the herd-crowd

Public favor
Public fervor

even the bitter Poet-Madman is
a clown
Treading the boards

Cold electric music
Damage me
Rend my mind
w/your dark slumber

Cold temple of steel
Cold minds alive
on the strangled shore

Veterans of foreign wars
We are the soldiers of
Rock & Roll Wars

Whether to be a
great cagey perfumed
dying under the
sweet patronage
of Kings
& exist like luxuriant
flowers beneath the
emblems of their
Strange empire
or by mere insouciant
slap them, call their cards
spit on fate & cast hell
to flames in usury

by dying, nobly
we could exist like
innocent trolls
propogate our revels
& give the finger to the
gods in our private

let’s rather, maybe,
get fucking out in
the open, & by
swelling, jubilantly
Magnificently, end them.



  1. doods89 said,

    I finally located the Morrison home when they lived in Alexandria (1959-6?)
    It’s in a nice neighborhood off Glebe Rd. in a quiet corner of the city. It’s not far from the high school where Jim graduated from in ’61. I didn’t know until today that the parents and his brother later moved to another address in Alexandria in the late sixties. Somewhere near where the border of Arlington and Alexandria are close to Crystal City.

  2. KC said,

    whoes poems are these?

    • jmucci said,

      Jim Morrison’s

    • Mr.Mojo Risin said,

      Whos? whos poems are these?
      who do you think?
      obviously not you.

      it was magic .
      Mr. Mojo Risin’s magic.

  3. Kunal said,

    hey can you plz suggest me morrison’s books? i have completed listenin to all his songs… now wanted to read his poems… also can u tell me which biographies to read… m a big fan of his…. thanx

    • jmucci said,

      Hi, I would suggest his books, “The Lords and New Creatures,” “Wilderness,” “The American Night” — as for biographies, try “Break on Through” by James Riordan and Jerry Prochnicky.

      • jbluemast said,

        There are only a handful of Morrison poetry books. I have all that I can find. Also, the book called “The Lizard King” is good. It looks at Jim the poet, the child, the rockstar, the drunk, etc. It is broken down like that. Good stuff.

      • Melanie said,

        No One Here Gets Out Alive

  4. kaila said,

    jim morrison was a genious, consensus approx 180+ iq…being a newbie and reading his work retrospectively, if i would have known then what i know now alot more people would be alot better off for the quagmire of ‘the path’ that morrison disentwined..
    it is not my personal philosphy i share with him, but an utter regard for those who stand up to be heard of their disgust in knowing the truth for what is CONSPIRED as being GOOD when it is as EVIL as all ‘they’ deem evil…

    the ultimate oxymoron does not so much lie in that the greater good is a greater evil for its misapplication, but that the ‘heaven’ they would all have us trembling in fear of ‘closed to us’ is actually closed to THEM.

    the universe has the best sense of humor.


  5. veronica said,

    Jim Morrison was a genious he lived life to the fullest and never regreted anything he did in life. his peotry so full of life and voice. his voice at that. its a shame he didnt live long but he did live to his best

  6. kato64 said,

    Yes, I agree. Jim Morrison was a genius. He probably even knew how to spell genius. The first time I’ve had a chance to read any of his poetry. Will also look for ‘The Lizard King’ book suggested by one reader. Thanks for posting this stuff.

  7. H said,

    the best biography you’ll find on morrison is “jim morrison: life, death, legend” by stephen davis. he’s the essential rock biographer and manages to remain completely neutral, so you might actually learn something about the subject.. there’s also a poetry album that he recorded; an american prayer. it has musical accompaniment from the other doors that was put in later, but you could always find a version without this online if you want to focus on the words. also try to look up the “lost paris tapes” – they’re floating around online here and there… it’s a bootlegged recording he made in paris (obviously) with some random musicians he met in the street

  8. Stephen Loomes said,

    At first, my compliments to the assembler of this page and the great collection of poems by Jim Morrison; allow me then to make some comments by way of context. From what we read Jim Morrison was the eldest son of a clever family, his father being a senior naval officer during Jim’ s teens and later an Admiral. His dad penned the epitaph on Jim’s gravestone in ancient greek which he apparently reads and understands. Their son (and indeed perhaps their other children) had an exceptional inquiring mind which he never stopped using until his death. The breadth of his reading and learning was quite extraordinary. He died young, but he was immersed, really, at the leading edge of the zeitgeist of the times, he had used lots of psychedelic drugs, which can be life-changing, and he became a famous rock and roll star. He was prepared to take risks, and appeared to invoke Rimbaud’s concept of deranging the senses, experiencing everything he could, whatever the cost to form a platform from which to write. He was extraordinarily courageous, brave in ways that most of us could never be; we are too fearful. Like Elvis, and Sinatra, he was blessed with a phenomenal voice, and was part of a band of three very talented and bright men, Manzarek, Kreiger and Densmore. His literary references permeate his work, whether it is the concept of “Waiting for the Sun” which is the theme of the Quiche Mayan “bible” the Popul Vuh, of using lines of William Blake’s from Auguries of Innocence, in the song End of the Night. “Realms of bliss, realms of light, some are born to sweet delight, Some are born to sweet delight, Some are born to the Endless Night.” In that same poem, Blake in his concluding lines, could have been referring to Jim when he wrote, “God is Love and God is LIght, To those poor souls who Dwell in Night, But does a Human Form display, To Those Who Dwell in Realms of Day.” Scholars will spend aeons deciphering Jim’ s prodigious literary travels and references. To round this off, remember when asked how he wanted to be remembered, Jim said in one of his interviews, that he saw himself as a comet shooting through the sky and when it’s effulgent light had finished dazzling the observers, people would say, “what was that, I’ve never seen anything like it.” So this is the background. Then there is the legacy of his poetry. To my mind, he is in the highest league and his incredible use of words puts him with the greats. His words in his poems are so carefully crafted and deserve deep attention; they are illumiinative. He wasn’t just ticking off the possibilities, he was explaining to us what they could be, were and are. I have written on another website of this and I quote myself here. In the late sixties I was in my teens, and the music played on radio here in Australia back then was pretty average. I still recall hearing Bob Dylan singing a six minute song, “Like a Rolling Stone” and it was fantastic, not just that it was iconoclastically breaking the mould of the 2 minute 40 second rock song, but the lyrics were so poetic, and he wrote them. Then in 1967 ( I think it was) I heard the Doors first album and here was another poet. It seemed like a Renaissance when all the greatest minds suddenly diverted from law, politics, advertising or wherever else they would have gone, and got into rock and roll, poetry and conscioiusness expansion. The world lives on ideas, some good, some bad. Jesus, Mohammed, Zarathustra, the whole lot had ideas that have spiralled down through time dragging in millions. With the artists of the sixties, there was no “holy book” but there were albums with music and lyrics. In Morrison’s case, there were his poetry books. The ideas of Morrison are proving to be so powerful, and as with Shakespeare and Dylan, they will move from popular culture into the mainstream where academics will obtain their doctorates dissecting their works. Beyond the dessicated world of academia, many artists have modelled themselves on people like Dylan and Morrison. I believe Jim also took literature into a modern age and we all know Jim loved the English language and words, and word play, witness the anagram on his own name, Mr. Mojo Risin. I love Dylan’s rhymes, particularly the genius of a song like “It’s Alright Ma I’m Only Bleeding” but without a competitive comparison, Morrison used a freer verse in his poetry not so tied to the rhyming couplets of Bob “darkness at the break of noon, shadows even the silver spoon, the hand-made blade, the child’s balloon, to understand you know to soon, there is no sense in trying.” Jim could do that too, as in “there will never be another one like you, there will never be another one who can do the things you do, (from Shaman’s Blues). However, Jim’s progression beyond the rhyming couplets which are so appropriate for songs was a staggeringly meaningful abstraction without rhyme; for example, on p. 138 of his poetry book, The Lords and the New Creatures, when describing an helicopter flying over the war-fields in IndoChina and macerating the soldiers he writes: “the chopper blazed over, inward click and sure, blasted matter, made the time bombs free of leprous lands, spotted with hunger and clinging to law.”
    The beauty of his use of words, “inward click and sure” conjuring the pilot’s thumb on the knob on the joystick activating a cannon blasting hundreds of bullets a minute over an asian paddy field. His ironic reference to the might, power (shock and awe) of the U.S. military machine (which he had first hand knowledge about from visits to the war machine in which his Dad worked) as being “leprous lands, spotted with hunger and clinging to law (ie., for God and country).
    His vision on each of us here on earth stripped to our most selfish mamallian form, on p., 132. ” I can’t believe this is happening, I can’t believe all these people, are sniffing each other, & backing away, teeth grinning, hair raised, growling, here in the slaughtered wind.”
    It was a dark vision in part, but it provided a reality that still informs the thinking of many of us. On p.119, “Jackal, we sniff the survivors of caravans. We reap bloody crops on war fields. No meat of any corpse deprives our lean bellies. Hunger drives us on scented winds. Stranger, traveler, peer into our eyes & translate the horrible barking of ancient dogs.” These messages have lost no meaning, and in fact with the belligerence of the west in their wars on terror, and the madness of the islamic fascists they eloquently portrayed the future. He was however, in my view, a humble loving person who could portray his horror of the rape of a beautiful planet. “What have they done to the Earth? What have they done to our fair Sister, ravaged and plundered,ripped her and bit her, stuck her with knives in the side of the dawn, tied her with fences, and, dragged her down.” The butterfly screams. “We want the world and we want it now.” As he said, p.188 of Wilderness, “To have just been born , for beauty & see sadness, What is this frail sickness?” To finish, p.161 of Wilderness, “The War is over there, I am neither doctor nor saint, Christ or soldier, Now, friends, don’t look at me sadly ranting like some incomprehensible child. I know by my breath of what I speak, & what I’ve seen needs telling.” So Jim’s mortal remains lie at rest in Pere Lachaise but this spirit of inquiry and love of life live on.As he said, p.197 of Wilderness, “The Endless quest, a vigil of watchtowers and fortresses against the sea and time. Have they won? Perhaps. They still stand and in, their silent rooms still wander, the souls of the dead, who keep their watch on the living. Soon enough we shall join them. Soon enough we shall walk the walls of time. We shall miss nothing except each other.”

    To conclude, I can accept that JIm left all of this at 27; the comet had exploded past us; whether he followed Rimbaud with the faked death or not, like Rimbaud, what happened during that period is all we will have, but it is more than enough. As I said before, “an eternity was buried at Pere Lachaise” , and that voice is still there in the music of the Doors.

  9. mmurray said,

    Jim was no no martyr or shaman he was a kid who became obsessed with aldous huxleys phsycobabble interesting as it is, it was more of an exploration of the inner universe than an effective tool for use in the real world.jim died because he loved to party .He did not want to improve the world . He wanted utopia and found it in hedonism and mysticism(wonder in believing there are other forces at work),I guess he was trying to escape as many artists do into inner space as we know a haunt of the mad and flounderer of many an artists vessel.Imagination,was jims subject applied to the listeners visualising canvas with tongue strokes and animal howl like tones ,an imagician ,trickster who loved to get people thinking / believing , a manipulater not unlike hitler , he got a kick out of it just like the highs.

    • Stephen Loomes said,

      Dear MMurray,
      If you knew Jim personally, I am in not able to challenge your assessment, however whatever caused his “vessel” to “founder” the intellect, knowledge and word-power were outstanding. In my view he wrote on a very sophisticated level from which we can all learn.

      kind regards
      Stephen Loomes

    • Melanie said,

      He wanted to improve the world for himself. Who wants reality? Whatever reality is anyways. How can anyone compare realities? He didnt care about finding tools to use in the “real world” he wanted to be free inside of himself and honestly I dont know if anyone will ever be able to achieve that. But he left behind amazing words to help guide us through our own explorations. I love Jim.

  10. Stephen Loomes said,

    In one of the poems left in Paris, jim had a scatological line in one of his typically brilliant poems; it seemed incongruous, “Jerk-bait scrotum inc” it was written off as scatology, but it was jim again with his anagrams, “I be Jim Rockstar cunt.”

  11. Emily said,

    If the doors of perception are cleansed, everything would appear to man as it truly is, infinite.

  12. lisa puckett said,

    wilderness was jim best work i love that book lol

  13. vinda said,

    thanks for sharing… i love morrison’s works.
    do you know the link where i can get the ebook? thank you!!

    • jmucci said,

      I’m sorry….I don’t. I would do a Google search…maybe look under pdf files. Thanks for the comment though.

  14. arissacheo said,

    definitely i more prefer with jim’s work at all.
    all of them are great & too awesome in suffice — he is such a vast writer, author etc ..
    [ jim morrison — wilderness ]

  15. huntablunt said,


    I guess Morrisons work can be describd this way….to try to eyplain my point of view, I need some of his lines from “Celebration of the Lizzard”

    Lions in the streets and roaming
    dogs and heap
    rabbit foaming
    A beast caged in the heart of the city

    The body of his mother
    rotting in the summer ground
    he fled to town
    he went down south
    and crossed the border
    left the chaos and disorder back there over his shuolder

    one morning he awoke in a green hotel…..

    so if you read this word by word you could think…..hell he is weird, but once you really pay attention, it is a beautiful meaning with words, as said, well crafted….

    It is about someone discovring his own mind by forgetting, another point of view, wheter achieved by drugs or anything else. The beast which is caged is your free mind, the mother it is you. a great symbol, because arent mothers alway about protecting and safety and will never try to encourage you to spend your time with psychedelic journeys??

    He went down south, means, he is going down deep into his mind……and then, forgetting all the rules and what we know, he is leaving chaos and disorder back over his shoulder, achieving a new point of view, some that he thinks is hope, as referred to with the green hotel……..

    I love Jim, but I had to read it many times, to finally get a sense in there…..as I am german, it is even harder^^

    • Colon O. Scoppy said,

      Hi Huntablunt,
      It is difficult if your native language is German, although many of us English speakers have enjoyed translations of your great German writers for example Herman Hesse to mention but one; the lines actually read, I believe, “dogs in the street, rabid, foaming” in other words referring to dogs infected with rabies. You are entitled to your own interpretation, although it is perhaps a little too deep. I will ponder it. As with all great writers there are many interpretations. One prevailing image in Morrison’s writing is the primeval “dog” within us all, hungry, aggressive and his abiding concern with “peristalsis”, the undulating pulse of life present in sex, digestion, social intercourse and of course the “ancient snake”. The snake is the pulsing peristaltic being of life, he said we are the scales on the snake moving inexorably to the “ancient lake”. The symbols are grand and there are many meanings there for all. Don’t believe however, that Jim was advertising psychedelic drugs; sure he took them, but then left them behind, preferring to focus on the mystery of the world perceived without the intervention of drugs.

      • Marianne said,

        you should interperate jm in your own way, but you should be slightly different then that.

  16. Marianne said,

    you all are intelligent, and its good to know that todays youth is thinking, what your forgetting is jim is not a genius his iq was 149. He had a unique urge to constantly learn, and a strong love for liturature, but jims love to learn made him grow, and more knowledgeablw all the time he rarely had one meaning or direction of thaught every answer he game to a question was different. we should all pride areselves on learning as he did. In the end you knowledge is all you have.

  17. Minxy said,

    It is like reading his soul…hopes and fears, nightmares and dreams, wasted landscapes and eternal gardens.
    We know he saw beyond the veil…saw the creeping shadows…
    All these poems, slices and layers of his souls…good and bad…thoughts out and plastered naked on the floor.
    You can wax lyrical all you want…but every line is a different meaning to another face…the truth in knowledge is that…the only difference is the point of view.

    I always did wonder how a chair became a chair…why isn’t it a dog?

  18. stephen said,

    i recently a new fan of jim ad the doors… I’m only 29… just wanted to say, i love their music and love jim’s writing. I just ordered the book Wilderness and can’t wait for it!!!

    I am very different person, but Jim reminds me in some ways of a bruce springsteen and kurt cobain? what you all think….

  19. Stephanie Collett said,

    Jim was a poet in every sense of the word. Not all of his work went into song.

  20. William Cook said,

    Great post – please come and have a look at http://jimmorrisonspoetry.blogspot.com/

  21. isahuizi said,

    Reblogged this on isahuizi and commented:

  22. Βερα said,

    Reblogged this on Enseignante désenchantée? and commented:
    Discovering Morrison’s poetry… Magnificent! I love the following

    “Whether to be a
    great cagey perfumed
    dying under the
    sweet patronage
    of Kings”

    I am wondering who did he refer to by Kings…

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