Jim Morrison – “The New Creatures”

February 19, 2010 at 6:59 pm (Jim Morrison, Poetry & Literature)

Snakeskin jacket
Indian eyes
Brilliant hair

He moves in disturbed
Nile insect

You parade thru the soft summer
We watch your eager rifle decay
Your wilderness
Your teeming emptiness
Pale forest on verge of light

More of your miracles
More of your magic arms

Bitter grazing in sick pastures
Animal sadness & the daybed
Iron curtains pried open.
The elaborate sun implies
dust, knives, voices.

Call out of the Wilderness
Call out of fever, receiving
the wet dreams of an Aztec King.

The banks are high and overgrown
rich w/warm green danger.
Unlock the canals.
Punish our sister’s sweet playmate distress.
Do you want us that way w/the rest?
Do you adore us?
When you return will you
still want to play w/us?

Fall down.
Strange gods arrive in fast enemy poses.
Their shirts are soft marrying
cloth and hair together.
All along their arms ornaments
conceal veins bluer than blood
pretending welcome.
Soft lizard eyes connect.
Their soft drained insect cries erect
new fear, where fears reign.
The rustling of sex against their skin.
The wind withdraws all sound.
Stamp your witness on the punished ground.

Wounds, stags, & arrows
Hooded flashing legs plunge
near the tranquil women.
Startling obedience fom the pool people.
Astonishing caves to plunder.
Loose, nerveless ballets of looting.
Boys are running.
Girls are screaming, falling.
The air is thick w/smoke.
Dead crackling wires dance pools
of sea blood.

Lizard woman
w/your insect eyes
w/your wild surprise.
Warm daughter of silence.
Turn your back w/a slither of moaning wisdom.
The unblinking blind eyes
behind walls new histories rise
and wake growling & whining
the weird dawn of dreams.
Dogs lie sleeping.
The wolf howls.
A creature lives out the war.
A forest.
A rustle of cut words, choking

The snake, the lizard, the insect eye
the huntsman’s green obedience.
Quick, in raw time, serving
stealth & slumber,
grinding warm forests into restless lumber.

Now for the valley.
Now for the syrup hair.
Stabbing the eyes, widening skies
behind the skull bone.
Swift end of hunting.
Hug round the swollen torn breast
& red-stained throat.
The hounds gloat.
Take her home.
Carry our sister’s body, back
to the boat.

A pair of Wings
High winds of Karma


Laughter & young voices
in the mts.

the Negro, Africa
eyes like time

Build temporary habitations, games
& chambers, play there, hide.

First man stood, shifting stance
while germs of sight
unfurl’d Flags in his skull

and quickening, hair, nails, skin
turned slowly, whirl’d, in
the warm aquarium, warm
wheel turning.

Cave fish, eels, & gray salamanders
turn in their night career of sleep.

The idea of vision escapes
the animal worm whose earth
is an ocean, whose eye is its body.

The theory is that birth is prompted
by the child’s desire to leave the womb.
But in the photograph an unborn horse’s
neck strains inward w/legs scooped out.

From this everything follows:

Swallow milk at the breast
until there’s no milk.

Squeeze wealth at the rim
until tile pools claim it.

He swallows seed, his pride
until w/pale mouth legs
she sucks the root, dreading
world to devour child.

Doesn’t the ground swallow me
when I die, or the sea
if I die at sea?

The City: Hive, Web, or severed
insect mound. All citizens heirs
of the same royal parent.

The caged beast, the holy center,
a garden in the midst of the city.

“See Naples & die”.
Jump ship. Rats, sailors
& death.

So many wild pigeons.
Animals ripe w/new diseases.
“There is only one disease
and I am its catalyst”,
cried doomed pride of the carrier.

Fighting, dancing, gambling,
bars, cinemas thrive
in the avid summer.

Savage destiny

Naked girl, seen from behind,

on a natural road

explore the labyrinth

young woman left on the desert

A city gone mad w/fever

Sisters of the unicorn, dance
Sisters & brothers of Pyramid

Mangled hands
Tales of the Old Days
Discovery of the Sacred Pool
Mute-handed stillness baby cry

The wild dog
The sacred beast

Find her!

He goes to see the girl
of the ghetto.
Dark savage streets.
A hut, lighted by candle.
She is magician
Female prophet
Dressed in the past
All arrayed.

The stars
The moon
She reads the future
in your hand.

The walls are garish red
The stairs
High discordant screaming
She has the tokens.
“You too”
“Don’t go”
He flees.
Music renews.

The mating-pit.
Tempted to leap in circle.

Negroes riot.

A file of young people
going thru a small woods.

They are filming something
in the street, in front of
our house.

Walking to the riot
Spreads to the houses
the lawns
suddenly alive now

I don’t dig what they did
to that girl
Mercy pack
Wild song they sing
As they chop her hands
Nailed to a ghost

I saw a lynching
Met the strange men
of the southern swamp
Cypress was their talk
Fish-call & bird-song
Roots & signs
out of all knowing
They chanced to be there
Guides, to the white

An armed camp.
Army army
burning itself in

Jackal, we sniff after 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.

Camel caravans bear
witness guns to Caesar.
Hordes crawl & seep inside
the walls. The streets
flow stone. Life goes
on absorbing war. Violence
kills the temple of no sex.

Terrible shouts start
the journey
-if they had migrated sooner

-a high wailing keening
piercing animal lament
from a woman
high atop a Mt. tower

-Thin wire fence
in the mind
dividing the heart

They smile

Leave!No come here
Leave her!

A creature is nursing
its child
soft arms around
the head & neck
a mouth to connect
leave this child alone
This one is mine
I’m taking her home
Back to the rain

The assassin’s bullet
Marries the King
Dissembling miles of air
To kiss the crown.
The Prince rambles in blood.
Ode to the neck
That was groomed
For rape’s gown.

Cancer city
Urban fall
Summer sadness
The highways of the old town
Ghosts in cars
Electric shadows

the dead seal
the dog crucifix
ghosts of the dead car sun.
Stop the car.
Rain. Night.

Sea-bird sea-moan
Earthquake murmuring
Fast-burning incense
Clamoring surging
Serpentine road
To the Chinese caves
Home of the winds
The gods of mourning

The city sleeps
& the unhappy children
roam w/ animal gangs.
They seem to speak
to their friends
the dogs
who teach them trails.
Who can catch them?
Who can make them come

The tent girl
at midnight
stole to the well
& met her lover there
They talked a while
& laughed
& then he left
She put an orange pillow
on her breast

In the morning
Chief w/drew his troops
& planned a map
The horsemen rose on up
The women fixed the ropes
on tight
The tents are folded now
We march toward the sea.

Catalog of horrors
Descriptions of Natural disaster
Lists of miracles in the divine corridor
Catalog of objects in the room
List of things in the sacred river

The soft parade has now begun
on Sunset.
Cars come thundering down
the canyon.
Now is the time & the place.
The cars come rumbling.
“You got a cool machine”.
These engine beasts
muttering their soft
talk. A delight
at night
to hear their quiet voices
after 2 years.

Now the soft parade
has soon begun.
Cool pools
from a tired land
sink now
in the peace of evening.

Clouds weaken
& die.
The sun, an orange skull,
whispers quietly, becomes an
island, & is gone.

There they are
us everything
will be dark.
The light changed.
We were aware
knee-deep in the fluttering air
as the ships move on
trains in their wake.
Trench mouth
again in the camps.
Tell the girl to go home
We need a witness
to the killing.

The artists of Hell
set up easels in parks
the terrible landscape,
where citizens find anxious pleasure
preyed upon by savage bands of youths

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

I am ghost killer.
witnessing to all
my blessed sanction

This is it
no more fun
the death of all joy
has come.

Do you dare
deny my
my kindness
or forgiveness?
Just try
you will fry
like the rest
in holiness

And not for a
will I spare
any time
for you
Ghost children
down there
in the frightening world

You are alone
& have no need of other
you & the child mother
who bore you
who weaned you
who made you man

Photo-booth killer
fragile bandit
straight from ambush

Kill me!
Kill the child who made
Kill the thought-provoking
senator of lust
who brought you to this state.

Kill hate

Kill badness
Kill madness

Kill photo mother murder tree
Kill me.
Kill yourself
Kill the little blind elf.

The beautiful monster
vomits a stream of watches
clocks jewels knives silver
coins & copper blood

The well of time & trouble
whiskey bottles perfume
razor blades beads
liquid insects hammers
& thin nails the feet of
birds eagle feathers & claws
machine parts chrome
teeth hair shards of
pottery & skulls the ruins
of our time the debris by
a lake the gleaming
beer cans & rust & sable
menstrual fur

Dance naked on broken
bones feet bleed & stain
glass cuts cover your mind
& the dry end of vacuum
boat while the people
drop lines in still pools
& pull ancient trout
from the deep home. Scales
crusted & gleaming green
A knife was stolen. A
valuable hunting knife
By some strange boys
from the other camp across
the Lake

Are these our friends
racing & shuddering
thru the calm vales of parliament

My son will not die in the war
He will return
numbed peasant voice of Orient

Last time you said
this was the only way
voice of tender young girl

Running & speaking
infected green

consult the oracle
bitter creek
they exist on rainwater

mantra mate
maker of brandy

The poison isles
The poison

Take this thin granule
of evil snakeroot
from the southern

way out miracle
will find thee

The chopper blazed over
inward click & sure
blasted matter, made
the time bombs free
of leprous lands
spotted w/ hunger
& clinging to law

show us your ragged head
& silted smiling eyes
calm in fire
a silky flowered shirt
edging the eyes, alive
spidery, distant
dial lies

come, calm one
into the life-try

already wifelike
latent, leathery, loose
lawless, large & languid
She was a kindom-cry
legion of lewd marching

Where are your manners
out there on the sunlit
boundless glaxies of dust
cactus spines, beads
bleach stones, bottles
& rust cars, stored for shaping

The new man, time-soldier
picked his way narrowly
thru the crowded ruins
of once grave city, gone
comic now w/ rats
& insects of refuge

He lives in cars
goes fruitless thru
the frozen schools
& finds no space
in shades of

the monitors are silenced
the great graveled guard-towers
sicken on the westward beach
so tired of watching

if only one horse were left
to ride thru the waste
a dog at his side
to sniff meat-maids
chained on the public poles

there is no more argument
in beds, at night
blackness is burned
Stare into the parlors of town
where a woman dances
in her European gown
to the great waltzes
this could be fun
to rule a wasteland


Cherry palms
Terrible shores
& more
& many more

This we know
that all are free
in the school-made
text of the unforgiven

deceit smiles
incredible hardships are suffered
by those barely able
to endure

but all will pass
lie down in green grass
& smile, & muse, & gaze
upon her smooth
to the mating-Queen
who it seems
is in love
w/the horseman

now, isn’t that fragrant
Sir, isn’t that knowing
w/a wayward careless
backward glance

Permalink Leave a Comment

Sandy Robertson – “The Knack: How You’ll Be Getting It” (1979)

February 19, 2010 at 1:58 am (Music, Reviews & Articles)

From the June 2, 1979 issue of Sounds comes this article on The Knack, who exploded onto the charts that year with the classic power pop anthem “My Sharona.” Lead singer and songwriter Doug Fieger sadly just passed away from cancer at the age of 57…


I leaned over and whispered in the ear of the blank-looking blonde girl seated next to me: “I’m a stranger in this town, so maybe you could tell me why this club is so full of people tonight. Is there something special about the group that’s playing, or what?” With hardly a change in her facial non-expression, this creature glanced at her friend and intoned softly: “Oh, they’re rilly neat. You’ll see…”

As the band sprang onstage sporting narrow ties and cute smiles, I sagged. Failed to strike up a conversation in L.A.’s Troubadour venue, in spite of my lovely accent and sparkling Bing Crosby sweatshirt, and now I have to suffer some guys who look like the sodding Jam.

But what a surprise! The songs turn out to be memorable rhythm rock, the playing hot, the screaming girls at the front rather wonderful and gee, I had a real good time. Arista boss Clive Davis was in the packed house, clapping along on some of the tunes at the urging of the rhythm guitarist/vocalist, who looked like a crash between John Lennon and Neil Sedaka.

I made a mental note: The Knack/standard rock of 4-piece/lots of executives in the room/Mr Davis didn’t have much to say about them when I was introduced after the show/when they get signed by someone and come to England, write a feature and predict big things a week before every other hack does. Heh-heh.

That all went down at Christmas, and now it’s mid-79 and The Knack are on Capitol, poised to go megaplatinum with their forthcoming album (produced by Mike Chapman) and about to commence a low-key European tour.

Yes, you can even see them at the Marquee and the Civic Hall Guildford! And you thought power pop was dead. Smirking and genuinely enthusiastic Mr. Doug Fieger (the aforementioned frontman) probably wishes it was, despite his bishop-sleeved shirt and neatly cropped mod-ish hair:

“I hate labels. Labels are for stupid people. We play pop music, that’s definite, we play pop rock’n’roll music. I don’t know what to call it, we play songs. We play them straight, we don’t use any effects.”

Lead guitarist Berton Auerre (a printer’s nightmare, that one) affirms: “Everybody that’s heard our songs so far has gone kinda nuts over them.”

Berton, a shy sort of bloke who looks a cert for Smash Hits front cover, seems to be right. The band’s just-issued single ‘My Sharona’ has already been garnering airplay on Radio 1, a station not usually noted for spinning records that sound like The Byrds doing ‘Nutbush City Limits’.

The thing is, for a group so directly aimed at the charts The Knack’s lyrics are a little risque, to say the least. I know The Doors once laughingly claimed that all their songs were about fucking, but The Knack’s debut LP, Get The Knack, is the only record I can recall where nearly 100% of the verbal content is concerned with sexual activity.

Apart from a fine version of Bob Montgomery-Norman Petty’s ‘Heartbeat’, there are 11 Knack originals on the album, penned by Berton and Doug. 10 of them are about screwing or trying to, and the other one (‘Siamese Twins (The Monkey & Me)’) has dubious references of scatalogical nature, unless my ears are misleading me.

Doug: “Well, they’re all about girls, and I think girls is what rock’n’roll is all about, the relationship between guys and girls…and fun. They’re basic theme…all the songs are about kids, the idea of being a kid in love, or the idea of unrequited love as a kid”.

The Knack talk a lot about kids but they can’t be all that young. Drummer Bruce Gary, a soft-a soft-spoken native Californian, toured here and appeared on OGWT in 1975 with the Jack Bruce Band, and has played on more albums that I’ve had promotional t-shirts. He was recently offered the drum set in Wings, which he rejected in favour of staying with The Knack.

“I’ve already been to Europe and done the sideman thing and I know what that is and I know what it entails and I know where it ends up. One experience like that is enough”.

Doug and Bruce have known each other for eight years, and Bruce was friends with bassist Prescott Niles from when they were both living the expatriate life in England. Berton and Doug have been buddies for about half a decade, and before that Fieger was apparently in some group called U.S. Sky who made one of those albums which clog bargain bins from here to Tucson. Though Fieger has worked with the likes of Gary Wright, Andy Johns and Jimmy Miller, he’s not interested in talking about his experiences.

“It’s not that we’re not proud of what we did, it’s just that The Knack is what’s happening. The only reason we gave you an interview is because you’ve seen the band. I hate to talk about what we’re about, it’s very self evident. We wear very simple clothes, black and white, the music’s black and white, it’s about little girls and fun.”

The Knack LP was made in 9 days with few overdubs and much enthusiasm from Sweet/Blondie auteur Mike Chapman, who, they claim, has so much money that he does things more for the fun of it than for the cash. I can’t quite swallow that one whole, but I’m sure Chapman knows a hit when he hears one.

Punchy and versatile as they are (Bruce even plays drums behind journalist Phast Phreddie on the upcoming LA Radio album of local talent), The Knack have enough suss to realise that their confidence about their abilities may get in their way.

Doug: “Rubs people a little bit the wrong way, the attitude we have that we’re good. A lot of people like a band to come off as being humble as far as their ability is concerned, and that’s bullshit. I can’t name one really great person or band around that’s made it that doesn’t say, ‘Hey, yeah, we’re great’.

“So we haven’t made it in the traditional sense, we haven’t had a hit record, but that doesn’t preclude the idea of knowing that you’re good. And we’re not gonna deny that we feel we’re…worthy of the acceptance we’ve gotten in LA and San Diego and San Francisco, California and,” he barely pauses for breath, “the business community’s acceptance of us.” They’ve also been accepted by Bruce Springsteen, who’s given them a song for future use called ‘Don’t Look Back’.

My computer says that The Knack will be big in America (bigger than 20/20, which is what they were called till the other 20/20 started to make a name for themselves), but that they might have to place all their cash on radio play as far as Britain goes. Because (unless they get lumped in with the Mod Revival) people will scream ‘powerpop’, point at words like ‘money’ and ‘business’ and number the group (who didn’t name themselves after Richard Lester’s ’60s sex comedy) as some kind of new wave Toto. I mean, I love Toto, but as far as the UK press went, they sunk like a lead balloon.

The Knack are not laid back. Listen to their inspired debut LP, with its echoes of everything from Bo Diddley to ‘Strawberry Fields Forever’, and be thankful that they’re not so preprogrammed as to simply trot out all the ‘right’ quotes for the English market, like so many of your heroes do. They say what they think, and what they think is that they “took The Beatles, and The Yardbirds, and The Hollies, and The Who, and The Stones, and The Animals and The Pistols and a number of other bands, and we reinvented it for Southern California 1979”.

Don’t use that quote as a reason to crucify The Knack, use it as a guide to why you should cherish them. The Knack are the pot of gold at the end of the punk rock rainbow.

Sandy Roberton

Permalink 1 Comment