Jim Morrison – “Poems from the Village Reading”

August 8, 2010 at 7:03 pm (Jim Morrison, Poetry & Literature)

In that year we had a great visitation of energy.

Back in those days everything
was simpler & more confused.
One summer night, going
To the pier, I ran into
2 young girls. The
blonde was called Freedom,
the dark one, Enterprise.
We talked, & they told
me this story.

& the cool fluttering rotten wind
& a child’s hand-print on
picture window
& the guncocked held
on the shoulder.
& fire in the night
waiting, in a darkened house
for the cruel insane breed
from town to arrive
& come poking thru smoke
& the fuel & ashes for milk
& the evil leer on their faces
barking w/triumph
Who will not stop them?
The hollow tree, where
we three slept & dreamed
in the movement of
whirling shadows & grass
Tired rustle of leaves
An oldman stirs the dancers
w/his old dance
swift shadows lean on the
meat of forests
to allow breathing
Gently they stir
Gently rise
The dead are new-born
w/ravaged limbs
& wet souls
Gently they sigh
in rapt funeral amazement
Who called these dead to dance?
Was it the young woman
learning to play the “Ghost
Song” on her baby grand
Was it the wilderness children?
Was it the Ghost-God himself,
stuttering, cheering,
chatting blindly?
-I called you up to
anoint the earth.
I called you to announce
sadness falling like
burned skin
I called you to wish
you well, to glory in
self like a new monster
& now I call on you
to pray:

~Lament for the Death of My Cock~

Lament for my cock
Sore & crucified
I seek to know you
acquiring soulful wisdom
you can open walls of

How to get death
On the morning

T.V. death
which the child

which makes
me write

Slow train
The death of my cock
gives life

Guitar player
Ancient wise satyr
Sing your ode
to my cock
caress its lament
stiffen & guide

Lost cells
The knowledge of cancer
To speak to the heart
& give the great gift



This stable friend
& the beasts of his zoo
wild, haired chicks
each color connects
to create the boat
which rocks the race

could any hell be more
horrible than now
& real

“I pressed her thigh
& death smiled”

death, old friend
death & my cock
are the world

I can forgive
my injuries
in the name of



Sentence upon sentence.
Words are healing.

Words got me the wound
& will get me well

If you believe it.

All join now in lament
for the death of my cock
a tongue of knowledge
in the feathered night

boys get crazy in the head
& suffer
I sacrifice my cock
on the altar
of silence


Shake dreams from your hair
My pretty child, my sweet one
Choose the day, & the sign
of your day,
1st thing you see.

A burnt tree, like a giant
primeval bird, a leaf,
dry & bitter, crackling tales
in its warm waves.
Sidewalk gods will do for you.
The forest of the neighborhood,
The empty lost museum, &
The mesa, & the Mt.’s pregnant
Monument above the newstand
where the children hide
When school ends

~Curses & Invocations~

Weird bait-headed mongrels
I keep expecting one of you
to rise
large buxom obese queens
garden hogs & cunt
quaint cabbage saints
Shit horders & individualists
drag-strip officials
Tight-lipped losers
& lustful fuck salesmen
My militant dandies
all strange order of monsters
hot on the trail of the
wood vine
We welcome you to our

~The Crossroads~

Meeting you at your parent’s gate
We will tell you what to do
What you have to do
to survive

Leave the rotten towns
of your father
Leave the poisoned wells
& bloodstained streets
Enter now the sweet forest

I walked thru the panther’s living room
And our summer together ended
Too soon
Stronger than farther
Strangled by night
Rest in my sun burst
Relax in her secret wilderness
This is the sea of doubt
which threads harps
& unstrung
Its the brother, not the past
who turns sunlight into glass
It’s the valley
It’s me

Testimony from
a strange witness

The flowering
of god-like people
in the muted air
would seem
to an intruder
of certain size

but this is all we have left
to guide us
Now that He is gone

The Wild whore laughs
like an ancient spinster
Crone, we see you, come again
in the mind
I lie like fever
Dancing your nubile hush
willing to be possessed
untold stories
dare injuns rise
Trampled, like red-skins
sacred fore-skin
Cancer began w/the knife’s
cruel blow & the damaged
rod has risen again
in the East
like a star
on fire


  1. Rachel-erika said,

    These are beautiful…
    How talented and spiritual James Douglas really was
    beneath his rock star image and alter ego, This is a glimpse of someone truly divine..

  2. Kiki said,

    I love the one that begins with “I walked through the panther’s living room”…

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