Jim Morrison – “Poems from Tape Noon”

November 20, 2009 at 9:35 am (Jim Morrison, Poetry & Literature)

We must tie all these
desperate impressions together

Money, the beauty of

pale green

Skin or leather

Enter the slip
of the warm womb tide

Wet labyrinth kiss

digging the wells
& riding the lies

all holes & poles

Walk down a street
A drive to the beach
Drowning man’s flash
A town in siege

The Desert
-roseate metallic blue
& insect green

blank mirrors &
pools of silver

a universe in
one body

Bibulous compound of
muck & mulch milk

Tenebrous connections
in forest & farm

all-swarming dish-like

Say No More

-That sure was a mouthful.
-You said it.

you must confront
your life
which is sneaking up
on you
like a rapt coiled


you must confront
the inevitable
Bloody Bones has got you!

hope is just a word
when you think in
Table Cloths
Laughter will not end
her funny feeling
or assuage our
strange desire
Children will be born

Welcome to the American Night
where dogs bite
to find the voice
the face the fate the fame
to be tamed
by The Night
in a quiet soft luxuriant
Hitchhikers line the Great Highway

I am real
Take a snapshot of me
He is real, shot
Reality is what has been
concealed from us
for so long
birth sex death
we’re alive when we laugh
when we can feel the
rush & spurt of blood
blood is real in its redness
the rainbow is real in
absence of blood

Sudden attack
Stabbed & hacked but no
pain no death

Zone of silence
Sudden powered
mute strangeness
& awareness
most awkward to the mind
alive w/love & laughter
& memory sweet of kinder
when we spoke & words
had soft form by
a fire

This is my forest
a sea of wires.
This gaggle of vision
is my flame.
These trees are men,
the engineers.
And a tribe of farmers
on their Sunday off.

Gods-the directors.
Cameras, greek
Centaurs on the boom,
sliding w/silent
Mobile grace

Toward me-
a leaping clown
In the great sun’s eye.

Grand danger there
in curved thigh.
The avenging finger-

Dancing & thrashing
the reptile summer
They’ll be here long
before we’re gone
Sunning themselves
on the marble porch
Raging w/in against
the slow heat
Of an invaded Town

The Kingdom is ours

Translations of the divine
in all languages. The Blues,
The records get you high,
in armies / on swift channels.
The new dreamer will sing
to the mind w/thoughts
unclutched by speech.
Pirate mind stations. Las Vegas T.V.
Midnite showings.

electric storm
from the front
barometer at zero
blue-eyed dog
strangled by snow
Night storm
flight-drive thru deserts
neon capitals, Wilderness
echoed & silenced
by angels

Angel Flight
to tobacco farm
the roadhouse

get ready for the Night
the rumors on waking
a gradual feeling of
learning & remembering

imagine a heaven in the
would one member be missing?

The form is an angel of soul
from horse to man to boy
& back again

Music sex & idea are the
currents of connection

friendship transition

conductor of soul from the
fat brain of stealth
to sunset

Work out

Welcome to the night
Welcome to the deep good
dark American Night

a man gets time to die
his amber waste

sloven footsteps of swine

in the camps, w/dark black
crooked stars have destiny’s

Lord help us

Leave the informed sense
in our wake
you be Christ
on this package tour
-Money beats soul-

Last words, last words

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Jim Morrison – “Orange County Suite”

October 16, 2009 at 8:50 pm (Jim Morrison, Poetry & Literature)

Well I used to know someone fair
She had orange ribbons in her hair
She was such a trip
She was hardly there
But I loved her
Just the same.
There was rain in our window,
The FM set was ragged
But she could talk, yeah,
We learned to speak
And one year
has gone by
Such a long long road to seek it
All we did was break and freak it
We had all
That lovers ever had
We just blew it
And I’m not sad
Well I’m mad
And I’m bad
And two years
have gone by
Now her world was bright orange
And the fire glowed
And her friend had a baby
And she lived with us
Yeah, we broke through the window
Yeah, we knocked on the door
Her phone would not answer,
Yeah, but she’s still home
Now her father has passed over
and her sister is a star
and her mother smokes diamonds
and she sleeps out in the car
Yeah, but she remembers Chicago
The musicians AND guitars
and grass by the lake
and people who laugh’d
and made her poor heart ache
Now we live down in the valley
We work out on the farm
We climb up to the mountains
and everything’s fine
and I’m still here
and you’re still there
and we’re still around

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Jim Morrison – “The Soft Parade”

September 30, 2009 at 8:04 pm (Jim Morrison, Poetry & Literature)

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 delightat
night to hear their quiet voices
again 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
watching 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.
Gonorrhea. Tell the girl to go home
We need a witness to the killing.

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Jim Morrison – “The WASP (Texas Radio and the Big Beat)”

September 19, 2009 at 10:04 pm (Jim Morrison, Poetry & Literature)

I wanna tell you ’bout Texas Radio and the Big Beat
Comes out of the Virginia swamps
Cool and slow with plenty of precision
With a back beat narrow and hard to master
Some call it heavenly in it’s brilliance
Others, mean and ruthful of the Western dream
I love the friends I have gathered together on this thin raft
We have constructed pyramids in honor of our escaping
This is the land where the Pharaoh died
The Negroes in the forest, brightly feathered
They are saying, “Forget the night.
Live with us in forests of azure.
Out here on the perimeter there are no stars
Out here we is stoned – immaculate.”
Listen to this, and I’ll tell you ’bout the heartache
I’ll tell you ’bout the heartache and the loss of God
I’ll tell you ’bout the hopeless night
The meager food for souls forgot
I’ll tell you ’bout the maiden with raw iron soul
I’ll tell you this
No eternal reward will forgive us now for wasting the dawn
I’ll tell you ’bout Texas Radio and the Big Beat
Soft drivin’, slow and mad, like some new language
Now, listen to this, and I’ll tell you ’bout the Texas
I’ll tell you ’bout the Texas Radio
I’ll tell you ’bout the hopeless night
Wandering the Western dream
Tell you ’bout the maiden with raw iron soul.

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Sandy Pearlman – “Doors & Kinks” (1968)

August 4, 2009 at 10:13 am (Jim Morrison, Music, Reviews & Articles)

This imaginatively-titled, highly-literate epic treatise on The Doors and The Kinks was written by Sandy Pearlman, early contributer to Crawdaddy! Pearlman later went on to produce and write lyrics for Blue Oyster Cult, as well as produce The Clash, The Dictators, etc.  
This comes from issue #12 of
Crawdaddy! – January 1968. It’s pretty strange, yet fascinating – just like everything Pearlman wrote…


Somewhere out on Long Island there is a guy who is keeping himself busy by fashioning a Jim Morrison doll. Some think he is a sick boy, a very sick boy. But maybe there was nothing better to do? Why not? So for lack of anything better to do, he did this: he took a Marine G.I. Joe model, he threw away the camouflage clothing, which left exposed a groovy pink plastic body with an unprecedentedly large number of unmutated limbs and organs, and then he got himself some soft black leather, sewed it up (learning how as he went or maybe some random girl did it) on a machine, and planned, I think, to top it off with a brownish Barbie doll wig brushed back.

R. Meltzer, too, has spoken of Morrison and leather: with Morrison, “Leather must be treated as functional – not the Warhol-Reed bit – held up in its black splendor by metal, or supporting a frail yet happy chuck-wagon bell.” Clearly Morrison is the hero. As Gloria Stavers of Sixteen magazine has said: “Morrison is magic.” Obviously. Morrison can inspire faith. He puts life into the scene. Ed Sullivan thinks, “Isn’t he handsome.” And to quote the mystic and voodoo adept L. Silvestri, “I believe him to be a being not of this earth.” But, we shouldn’t be entirely misled. The Doors, as a group, have a lot to do with faith. Morrison is merely the prettiest one dressed in leather. But, for example, who knows what evil lurks in the heart of Manzarek?

As for the Kinks. If we are to believe the album covers: “They came to us from Muswell Hill, a shabby and sometimes violent suburb of North London, the pride of which was a street gang called the Mussies.” And of course, as usual, “They came to us from art school.” For the consumption of the public, they had Ray Davies, just as the Doors have Jim Morrison. Now Ray Davies was not entirely different from Morrison. First of all he was handsome enough. And then he was quite athletic – playing a lot of football and all. And going Morrison one better he made up most of the words – and the music. He also had a really handsome brother, Dave, super-chording lead guitarist of “You Really Got Me” at the age of 17, author and performer of several great songs and the owner of the finest hair in all of Rock and Roll (with the possible exception of Bob Weir). But nobody makes Ray Davies dolls. He is not, it turns out, the hero to inspire faith. But he is pretty cynical. Thoroughly disenchanted.

Welcome, the Doors’ new album Strange Days and the Kinks’ newest The Live Kinks. Both feature an unusual beef-tongue density, i.e. a huge density of really fat or effective unknown tongues. They are nonetheless separated by months of release time and maybe even, I should think, some differences of intent. Now mere difference, mere differences, can be merely superficial, but that doesn’t mean they don’t make a difference. We ought to give the superficial a fair shake. But behold that – in this particular case – beyond all possible differences, there is an abyss problem (maybe even the abyss problem) bothering the Doors, the Kinks and (at least) some of us. Of course, the abyss has always been big, deep, awesome, attractive, fearsome. Which is to say – exactly what you can make of it. And that should mean, to give the superficial its big break, we’ve got to know that everybody is fixed on the abyss in his own way. Here, then, are your Doors and your Kinks at the ever-classical abyss. In the footsteps of all of his predecessors – from the miscellaneous earliest Greeks on – and probably influenced by them as well, since this boy went to college, is Morrison. Morrison has spoken (now a quote from one of the many interchangeable spots in the new Elektra Doors P.R. kit), “I am interested in anything about revolt, disorder, chaos, especially activity that seems to have no meaning.” Potential idea of an absolute lack. Not yet even a vision. Because visions are far too specific and disappointing. If you like, the vision can be scary. If you like. And if you were attracted to scared you could reify the intimations of the abyss. That is you could make disorder absolute, comprehensive, modular. By merely offering instances of disorder you can order it. Which is not necessarily your standard avoidance reaction at all. Plausibly it could be just a mere reaction. A formal sort of thing that is just always done. Or it could even be love (i.e. attraction reaction). But whatever, that reaction implicitly overcomes the abyss. I guess merely reacting would have to undermine disorder. And that’s how the Doors found comfort in a name game. And that’s how Morrison got fixed on the abyss.        

The Doors’ “Back Door Man” and the Kinks’ “Dandy” … of these two, there are those who would dare say “no confluence.” And yet “Back Door Man” seen live many times, and then heard – at last – dead on the grooves, is a very neat thing. With all those grunts and stuff, it’s where the inordinacy really starts. (As well as the leather.) “I am,” Morrison says, “the back door man. The men don’t know but the little girls understand.” This is the spot for categorical statement. After too many years of bluesy overuse, this song can’t even prove disconcerting through embarrassment. “I am.” And we are in the presence of definitive charisma. Mere categorical assertion slipping up and off into arrogance. “I am.” Absolutely categorical assertion has here become systematically assertive. (If you say something strangely enough it assumes an inexplicable aura of strength.) The strength of this categorical assertion is so enormous that not only does it encompass the whole world (i.e., as a systematic construction), but it becomes unnatural. That’s when it surpasses all reason and arrives at Meltzer’s categorical magical. Starting with household fornication we’ve gotten to a magical collapse of the world. This is no sly boy. This Back Door Man has absolute faith (“I am”) and is also inspiring.

Dandy is, on the other hand, found “Knocking on the back door, climbing through the window.” Knocking. Even climbing. He surely sounds sly. But only in Herman’s famous version. Not as famous – but far more questionable – are the way the Kinks do it. Herman’s Dandy is absolutely sly. With him the skill of the sly boy justifies absolute confidence. Going to show you that there is necessary cleavage between the sly and the faithful. But the Kinks’ two versions? They are certainly different from Herman’s. I mean, they’re really exemplary of the Kinks’ most up-to-date methods. When Ray Davies shouts – over and over – “Dandy, you’re all right,” that’s an all time desperation tongue. (Rivaling even the platinum standard for these tonguings, Mick Jagger’s “It’s All Right.”) It turns the song’s cynical brutalization ominous, while simultaneously generating such a seemingly complex disparity of intentions as to render all possible single conclusions unquestionably questionable. This is the Kinks’ “interference effect” – and it’s as effective a ploy as was Herman’s contradiction, which is now unfortunately played out due (perhaps?) to Herman’s ever-increasing age and sophistication. Thus: the light-as-snow skip of “Dandy”’s melody interferes with the desperation tongue which interferes with the sly words which interfere with Ray Davies’ unique tone of voice, and so forth. At last everything is merely questionable. But cumulatively all this brings us back to the abyss. The simple accumulation of the questionable is preparation for a bigger tumble. Interestingly this interference effect is compressed in the live (on The Live Kinks) as opposed to the dead version (on Face to Face), by subsuming the performance values under the amphetamine rage which English rock guys like to assume when confronting an audience. That is to say, the dead “Dandy” is far more questionable.    

Everyone knows that the English scene got its start on r&b. It even bloomed that way. As the British correspondent for one American pulp throwaway said on the eve of 1965: “1965 will be an r&b year.” But who could have imagined it assuming such a gloriously cynical aura. Why just last week R. Meltzer awoke with “Ride on Baby” writ large on his mind. And Flowers, Between the Buttons, Sergeant Pepper, Happy Jack, not to mention the fabulous Kinks Kontroversy and Face to Face, are further evidence for the rise of cynicism. For these big boys cynicism naturally appears as a long-term byproduct (or rationalization) of the writing process. A sort of internal necessity. But, turning back on the clock, we do find that the Kinks started out traditionally sincere.

“You Really Got Me” was (mostly) just another great English r&b album from 1964-65. (The time, after all, of the Nashville Teens.) It was distinguished by the title song which unveiled their “wall of sound” (a technical term off an album cover) and sounded astringent. So the Kinks are astringently kinetic. They get a lot of movement and density from these tricks; percussive super-chording guitar, seeming rhythmic constancy in the bass (which is heavy and sticky) and Ray Davies, on the other hand, confronted with what looks like the abyss, said this: “Someone told me a very funny story about Jim Baxter, who scored the winning goal for Scotland against England a few seasons ago. He beat three men and drove the ball past Banks, then threw his arms up in the air and proclaimed: ‘Tha’s the greetest gule y’ule ayer see.’ I like that.” Ray Davies is circumspect. Well, to be ironical is to assume a delicate stance at the lip of the abyss. And that’s different from Morrison’s.      

The Doors are spectral. Maybe more than anybody. What counts is the impression for which no significant referent detail can or should be found. The music ends and there is no detail which you can refer to actually justify your impression. But you have that impression. And it’s not even ambiguous. “The little girls they understand.” Understand? Most importantly, there is a statement being made. But how? Take the word of a Doors song. Lots of people think the songs make them “swim in mystery.” And if they think so, then they do. But usually the words aren’t really bizarre or neat enough to do that. Everybody I know thought that Strange Days wasn’t half as much fun as the first album. They figured Morrison would be a better old time type poet by now. Give the boy time, you know, he’ll grow. But in an old timesy poetry sense his songs weren’t any better. The words were good enough to be unambiguously assertive, to literally make a statement. Not good enough to automatically give you the creeps. Since the company men printed all the words (even some that weren’t there) on the inner record sleeve, there was disappointment in homes all over America. At last everything could be understood all at once. The context of mystery, a hangover from what the first album did to us all, and reinforced by the resemblance of so much of the music on the second to that of the first album, seemed threatened by clarity. Manzarek talks this way: “We’re saying that you’re not only spirit, you’re also this very sensuous being. That’s not evil, that’s a really beautiful thing. Hell appears so much more fascinating and bizarre than heaven. You have to ‘break on through to the other side’ to become the whole being.” Talking, that is, like everybody else, about how the Doors are going to take you somewhere else. As if there were somewhere else to go. I mean it would only be somewhere else if you couldn’t think of it. Conceivable things, things thought of, are well on their way to becoming familiar. The bizarre is only a name for potentially something you might think of.   

So here are the points. The Doors’ words aren’t bizarre enough. But even the words of really conventionally neat stuff (The Bible; Baudelaire; miscellaneous batwinged English poets, i.e. Blake/Coleridge; R. Meltzer, etc.) stop being bizarre when you set eyes upon them. Familiarity nibbles away surprise, and supposed then somebody sets out not to surprise you, but just to tell you what’s gotta be. Et bien, God only knows that this is what the Doors had in mind. Probably not, from the seriousness of their comments in Newsweek, the now defunct New York World Journal Tribune, the U.C.L.A. Daily Bruin, Los Angeles Free Press, Hullabaloo, The New York Post, Teen Screen, Crawdaddy!, the East Village Other, and other, other rags. But it happened anyway. Not good enough to be even Bizarro bizarre, their words are good enough to direct our intention towards the mysterious. Good enough to make impressions specific, direct and to imprison our attention; not good enough to get us all excited and provoked. That’s why they don’t read so nice and nobody should have printed them. Printing them gave folks the wrong idea.

But suddenly that previously mentioned specter rears up. A really awesome monster, it comes on rushing like Diz-Busters with too much iron in its bloodstream and zero invisibility. The first words are a simple assertion: “Strange days have found us.” More akin to a command than a provocation. Neither is the music too provocative. There are a lot of priori mystery sounds. Likely to conform to a listener’s preconceived and typical ideas of what sounds mysterious. Movie music could have been a big influence. Check the surrealist organ on “Strange Days” and “Unhappy Girls,” or that bass entrance on “You’re Lost Little Girl” which smacks of the pulp mystery (crime-detective) movie music of the era 1940-1960. I can see The Doors scoring the Invasion of the Body Snatchers or even the fabulous Mysterians. But it is your Krieger who really outdoes himself. This nice boy, often looking perplexed on stage, who may be the first with the Jimi Hendrix hair, who plays slowly with not as many notes as some, is revealed as a master of the left hand. A guitar scientist like the above Hendrix, he uses the instrument to produce explicitly technological-sounding sounds. Radically distending all sorts of notes on “Moonlight Drive.” An inordinate number some might think, without realizing that with The Doors (especially on Strange Days) inordinacy (as with Hendrix) has become stylistic. By the way, “Moonlight Drive” is also ok as half of an extraordinary Turkey Tongue system. A Turkey Tongue occurs when one cut is obviously inadequate – at least within the immediate context – as to require the following cut to adequately/ecstatically complete it. (Some classic Turkey Tongue systems are: “Mind Garden” – “My Back Pages” and “The Sergeant Pepper Reprise” – “A Day in the Life Of.”) The Strange Days Turkey Tongue is at the excruciating juncture of “Horse Latitudes” and “Moonlight Drive.” This ecstatic union turns their implicit comparison into symbiosis and their equally differential into a relationship. As a good Turkey Tongue it rescues everything in sight.

The Doors’ music functions as an absolute context. Certainly inordinancy (or even simple overstatement) had much to do with this. They put together a strikingly dense combination of assertive words, quintessential pulp sounds, Morrison’s tone of voice, his clothing, animal noises and athletics, making a statement which works for everybody. And that generated an unmistakeably explicit mystery field. They really stated this and that: “Strange days have tracked us down,” “You’re lost little girl,” “Unhappy girl, fly fast away, don’t miss your chance to swim in mystery,” “People are strange when you’re a stranger,” etc. Who ever could have believed that the mysterious could come out of such unambiguous overstatement? They did it by dropping the traditional provocative appeals to the imagination and replacing them with instructions. At last mystery and imagination have been divorced. By the Doors. This is a surprise. This is ironic. This is ingenious.          

And now for the Doors’ specter. It first appears full grown, hovering like St. Elmo’s famous fire, around “Back Door Man.” But more of that later. Absolute contextualization has fully directed our attention so that the household phrases finally become inordinantly expansive. Imagine “When the music’s over, turn out the lights,” winding up with the long awaited resurrection. Imagine that. But we shouldn’t be too shocked. Word expansion (via an explicit or implicit field) is an old trick of Yeats and the Beatles. The specter itself is also overly familiar. Its spirit has a plentitude of arrogant and assertive disorder. Disorder has been rationalized by The Doors into something both comprehensive and modular. The spirit is comprehensive so as to taint anything they turn to. And modular so as to be applicable anywhere. That’s how The Doors taint the world. But understand there are kinds of purity. And the world can be purified by tainting it. Morrison has said: “It is a search, an opening of doors. We’re trying to break through to a clearer, purer realm.” (And along these lines don’t you forget that the melody for “My Eyes Have Seen You” starts off like the Ajax ad, “Stronger Than Dirt.”) Now if things have been absolutely tainted, they have also attained a certain absolute purity. An arrangement according to a perfect order. Purity is after all only a neutral, modular term. And for where good and/or evil come in, let’s tell a story.

Once there was a man called Gille De Raiz. He was unique because he managed to discipline both himself and his world according to Science Fiction imagination. After it was all over they called him “Bluebeard.” But he started out as a big nobleman, Marshall of France and Chief Aide to Joan of Arc. Inspired by the going examples, he wanted to make it as a saint. But having failed at that, he turned antithetical and became a real, little devil instead. This meant he stuck pitchforks up virgins and swam in the entrails of even the youngest children. There was also some black conjuring involved. Anyway, whatever he did, he did consistently, purely and absolutely. Terrific discipline directed his disorder. Science Fiction was in the saddle.

The Abyss. The Abyss is a potential – always potential – idea of absolute disorder, and I think that everybody has it at one time or another. Only potential because minds never actually grasp or encompass anything that bizarre. Because that sort of cognition would imply familiarization. And, truthfully, nothing can be both familiar and bizarre. I mean, that life these days is so consistently wonderful, and you see so much, especially at home on the tv, that the formerly bizarre has become (at best) charming. And so the bizarre is dead. And maybe mice, buffalos (because of their fringe) or even the Bonzo Dogs will be the next big thing. Be that as it may, the death of the bizarre makes it hard on traditional imagination. Now magnificent images are played out at birth. And that made it easy enough for the Doors to substitute their inordinate method for archaic imaginative provocation. Returning to The Abyss, it’s only a percussion, and lead riffs which are mostly Bizarro, rudimentary and hardly there anyway. As for the astringency, there is Ray Davies’ voice (strained as it sounds) and the fact that the melodies are usually only assumed. (Naked notes and chords without melodic mollification, sounding astringent.) Leaving this combination of vocals and band with the most consistently astringent rock sound of all time. An open invitation to Kinks’ plagiarism. Accepted by all of the other big boys. And a lot of little ones too. Incidentally, Peter Quaife’s bass entrance on The Live Kinks’ version of “You Really Got Me” is the occasion for a spectacular beef tongue. (Technically this tongue is a sliding dive from a major third to the tonic.) A fat one, it shows how profitable catering like a pig to an audience can be. Also it’s one of the most successful technologically produced animal noises.

On Kinks Size they do “Louie, Louie.” This is highly significant because it seems that the Kingsmen and their “Louie, Louie” are the source for the Kinks’ style. Recall that “Louie, Louie” was the big hit on the eve of Beatles in late 1963. And realize that the Kinks loved it well enough to even do it again on Kinks Kinkdom (a double cover). Played back-to-back (as at Salvation’s Halloween party), “Your Really Got Me” seems the plausible – if long awaited – sequel to “Louie, Louie.” And “Louie, Louie” becomes archetypically astringent, an influential song in the tradition of “Can I Get a Witness,” “Memphis,” “Hang on Sloopy,” “La Bamba” and “Tequila.” Kinks Size also has the Kinks’ second hit, “All Day and All of the Night,” a remake of “You Really Got Me,” in which (rare for a sequel) the internal tongue pressure remains enormous enough for grammatical structure to collapse as Ray Davies sings “Girl you and me last forever.” “So Tired of Waiting for You” is, of course, beautiful beyond words, so sad and so weary. The first confluence of astringency and the big Kinks’ theme of gentle and disappointed cynicism. Here it is that the Kinks’ first openly approach the abyss. Kinda Kinks featured almost the same cover photograph as Kinks Size. It also inaugurated another repetitious theme – the double K title. On it the boys rounded out their methodology. Their tone of voice (and pronunciation) became disorienting. An apparently sincere song like “Everybody’s Gonna Be Happy” was done questionably. Their voices had this really peculiar whine (Once, Paul Williams said, “What is so rare as a Kink in tune?”), The playing was rhythmically brutal. And it got hard to say what the intention was. But it’s probably just an early example of the interference effect.

Kinks Kinkdom was next. It had the unprecendented “A Well Respected Man” (their last major American hit), “Who’ll Be the Next in Line?” and “See My Friends.” And there were a lot of other great ones too. Obviously this record was an ursus magnus. It’s the first Kinks album to have noticeably fewer (absolutely and percentage-wise) repulsive cuts. “A Well Respected Man” spearheaded a then new – and currently dominant – trend toward brutal cynicism. They utilized the fragmentary enumeration of a few smutty or otherwise unsavory details as a method to discredit everything. (“He likes his fags the best … And his own sweat smells the best.”) This was very economical and demonstrated a “flair for detail.” Simultaneously the song sounded like Donovan. Impossible, you might think. (Had the interference effect really jumped the tracks by going referential?) But the folksy melody and the cultural shock of hearing Ray Davies’ voice thin, natural and alone, was actually enough to invoke the kind and flowery poet of the north. “See My Friends” proved atypically explicit and unambiguous. With “So Tired of Waiting for You” the weltschmertz could have verged on horribly metaphysical despair. Could have. But these boys looked healthy and the ambiguity was easily resolvable in the direction of a superficial sad and weary cynicism. But what if Ray Davies had discovered the secret relationship between everybody’s constant disappointment and the constancy of the turning earth? The secret of the Worm of Oroburo, even? “See My Friends” makes all this clear. Here’s real clarity, not given in a flash, but in the guise of, of all things, the Byrds.

First the words. They’re chanted in recurring cycles like this: 

            “See my friends,
            See my friends,
            Way across the river.
            She is gone,
            She is gone,
            And now there’s no one left
            ‘Cept my friends,
            Way across the river.” 

The band plays Byrd-like categorical-magical patterns. Rhythmically constant percussion (both drums and metal), constant bass and guitar. Making the words and music mutually reinforcing. Atypically the interference effect has dropped out. And it’s suddenly obvious that all that Kinks’ cynicism was yet another compact rationalization in the face of the abyss. Logically the abyss renders all conclusions questionable. The only way to authentically (and descriptively) handle anything is to put it in constant question. Positioning is primary. (Stand them on their heads and other ways too.) Both being funny and the interference do that. Later the Kinks even got obviously funny – since the subtle humor of the interference effect wasn’t subtle enough. But at this stage they settled for simplest subtlety. “See My Friends” is not only structurally (or formally) explicit. It’s also that way cognitively. The song’s words are the very ones at the core of the Kinks’ cynicism. They’re pretty art work about the abyss. In which case the Kinks have declined their old trick of making a statement inferring the abyss through – and by – the mere act of making that statement itself questionable.

Kinks Kontroversy is mainly a continuation of the radical decline of the repulsive and dialectically corresponding rise of the palatable move. But that implies much. At the same time it’s a holding and perfection operation. An eclectic warehouse. (Starring hard rock, r&b, blues, Bizarro blues and the wall of sound. Even a harmonica. And other things too.) And just the spot for the most cathedral and bell-like sounds in the history of the Kinks. Metaphysical cynicism – of the sad and weary variety – is one of the repetitious themes which are held and perfected. Even the titles are dead giveaways: “The World Keeps Going Round,” “Where Have All the Good Times Gone,” “I Am Free” (by Dave Davies). Identifying futility as a characteristic of the universe and showing just how much the abyss has to do with impotence. Making these songs among the saddest of all things ever. Another outstanding groove (less repetitious, more eclectic) is Kokomo Arnold’s “Milk Cow Blues.” Basically a Bizarro blues, it has amazing intervals which cause general consternation through their false intimation of the impending resolution of all too well known blues cliches. (In a conventional sense “Milk Cow Blues” does not make it.)

The latest singles and albums complete the decline of the repulsive. Mainly because they lack repulsive cuts. However this question of the Kinks’ repulsiveness – formerly preponderant enough to appear innate – is tough and knotty. Once repulsiveness, by itself, sufficed to make their sound unique. Then folks got used to it via repetition (indicating that what passes for the innate can be only unfamiliar). But meanwhile you know, deep down, that the currently familiar and ergo potentially palatable had once been immediately repulsive. Or at least until The Kinks’ Greatest Hits! Certainly one of the greatest of the greatest hits series, it proved uniformly palatable. Also charming. Familiarity (if only fleeting) with its numerous hits and hits-that-failed took out the possibilities for extraordinary repulsiveness. And nostalgia turned the formerly repulsive charming.

The Live Kinks (their eighth album!) ties them for the lead in greatest hits type albums with the Rolling Stones. Like the Stones’ Got Live If You Want It, it’s a collection of heavily beef-tongued versions of some all-time favorites. (Chestnuts.) Mostly done in the favored amphetamine rage style. There’s also an honest attempt made at reviving the now moribund bizarre with a medley of “Milk Cow Blues,” the “Batman Theme” and “Tired of Waiting for You.” Lasting for 8:30, it’s a true spectacular, with the interference effect working through three songs and complexity enough to blind the bull. Maybe this is the Kinks’ high point. Maybe. But there are people who would buy this album for the hysteria alone. As a strictly formalized (i.e. theatrical and determined) freak-out, it’s pretty hollow and not about to scare. The arrogance and hysteria are not only predictable and expected, they’re also – perfect. It was recorded in Scotland.

Face to Face came out of the boat, a vintage production, pretty well cured and aged by the “legal matters,” just the Kinks album to be found entirely (and right off the bat) palatable. All of the big Kinks themes were there: from metaphysical despair (“Fancy,” “Rainy Day in June,” “Sunny Afternoon,” “Too Much on My Mind”) to a new trend in the direction of an ever-increasingly brutal cynicism (“Dandy” – with snarling “Most Exclusive Residence for Sale” – with the best ever background Duck chorus, “Session Man,” “House in the Country,” “Little Miss Queen of Darkness”) to simplest sarcasm (“Party Line,” “Rosy Won’t You Please Come Home,” “House in Waikiki”). Explicitly expanding (for the first time) the interference effect to album-wide dimensions. (Maybe this is the Kinks’ high point.) Here everything is made questionable. And that does it for the Kinks. The Kinks have exchanged stable imaginative objects out of the bizarre (like the Doors do) for disconcerting things put into motion via interference. Metaphysical desperation, cynicism and sarcasm are then all mutually out-of-phase (interfering) positions. (With cynicism the most inclusive position of them all.) Positions which make possible the exposure of all possible subjects in every which way. (Cynicism is motion and cynicism is exposure.) Absolute positioning has taken its place with bicycle riding and science as a way of life. Shimmering, cynically disjointed objects – themselves the isomorph of the abyss because they are just as unimaginably unstable as the very abyss – are the Kinks’ meat.

Philosophically one can say only this: the Kinks are and have been very dynamic. (They breathe fire.)

(And everything that the fabulous Kinks ever did, that was ever available within this great country, is now available on variously obscure Reprise waxings. Incidentally, this is also the label of Frank Sinatra.)

Sandy Pearlman

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Jim Morrison – “The Lords”

July 17, 2009 at 8:57 am (Jim Morrison, Poetry & Literature)

Notes on Vision

Look where we worship. We all live in the city.

The city forms- often physically, but inevitably
psychically- a circle. A Game. A ring of death
with sex at its center. Drive towards outskirts
of city suburbs. At the edge of discover zones of
sophisticated vice and boredom, child prosti-
tution. But in the grimy ring immediately surround-
ing the daylight business district exists the only
real crowd life of our mound, the only street
life, night life. Diseased specimens in dollar
hotels, low boarding houses, bars, pawn shops,
burlesques and brothels, in dying arcades which
never die, in streets and streets of all-night
When play dies it becomes the Game.
When sex dies it becomes Climax.

All games contain the idea of death.

Baths, bars, the indoor pool. Our injured leader
prone on the sweating tile. Chlorine on his breath
and in his long hair. Lithe, although crippled,
body of a middle-weight contender. Near him
the trusted journalist, confidant. He liked men
near him with a large sense of life. But most
of the press were vultures descending on the
scene for curious America aplomb. Cameras
inside the coffin interviewing worms.

It takes large murder to turn rocks in the shade
and expose strange worms beneath. The lives of
our discontented madmen are revealed.

Camera, as all-seeing god, satisfies our longing
for omniscience. To spy on others from this
height and angle: pedestrians pass in and out of
our lens like rare aquatic insects.

Yoga powers. To make oneself invisible or small.
To become gigantic and reach to the farthest things.
To change the course of nature. To place oneself
anywhere in space or time. To summon the dead.
To exalt senses and perceive inaccessible images,
of events on other worlds, in one’s deepest inner
mind, or in the minds of others.

The sniper’s rifle is an extension of his eye. He
kills with injurious vision.

The assassin(?), in flight, gravitated with
unconscious, instinctual insect ease, moth-
like, toward a zone of safety, haven from the
swarming streets. Quickly, he was devoured
in the warm, dark, silent maw of the physical

Modern circles of Hell: Oswald(?) kills President.
Oswald enters taxi. Oswald stops at rooming house.
Oswald leaves taxi. Oswald kills Officer Tippitt.
Oswald sheds jacket. Oswald is captured.

He escaped into a movie house.

In the womb we are blind cave fish.

Everything is vague and dizzy. The skin swells and
there is no more distinction between parts of the
body. An encroaching sound of threatening,
mocking, monotonous voices. This is fear and
attraction of being swallowed.

Inside the dream, button sleep around your body
like a glove. Free now of space and time. Free
to dissolve in the streaming summer.

Sleep is an under-ocean dipped into each night
At morning, awake dripping, gasping, eyes

The eye looks vulgar
Inside its ugly shell.
Come out in the open
In all of your Brilliance.

Nothing. The air outside
burns my eyes.
I’ll pull them out
and get rid of the burning.

Crisp hot whiteness
City Noon
Occupants of plague zone
are consumed.

(Santa Ana’s are winds off deserts.)

Rip up grating and splash in gutters.
The search for water, moisture,
“wetness” of the actor, lover.

“Players”-the child, the actor, and the gambler.
The idea of chance is absent from the world of the
child and primitive. The gambler also feels in
service of an alien power. Chance is a survival
of religion in the modern city, as is theater,
more often cinema, the religion of possession.

What sacrifice, at what price can the city be born?

There are no longer “dancers”, the possessed.
The cleavage of men into actor and spectators
is the central fact of our time. We are obsessed
with heroes who live for us and whom we punish.
If all the radios and televisions were deprived
of their sources of power, all books and paintings
burned tomorrow, all shows and cinemas closed,
all the arts of vicarious existence…

We are content with the “given” in sensation’s
quest.  We have been metamorphosised from a mad
body dancing on hillsides to a pair of eyes
staring in the dark.

Not one of the prisoners regained sexual balance.
Depressions, impotency, sleeplessness…erotic
dispersion in languages, reading, games, music,
and gymnastics.

The prisoners built their own theater which
testified to an incredible surfeit of leisure.
A young sailor, forced into female roles, soon
became the “town” darling, for by this time they
called themselves a town, and elected a mayor,
police, aldermen.

In old Russia, the Czar, each year, granted-
out of the shrewdness of his own soul or one of
his advisors’- a week’s freedom for one convict
in each of his prisons. The choice was left to the
prisoners themselves and it was determined in
several ways. Sometimes by vote, sometimes by lot,
often by force. It was apparent that the chosen
must be a man of magic, virility, experience,
perhaps narrative skill, a man of possibility, in
short, a hero. Impossible situation at the
moment of freedom, impossible selection,
defining our world in its percussions.

A room moves over a landscape, uprooting the mind,
astonishing vision. A gray film melts off the
eyes, and runs down the cheeks. Farewell.

Modern life is a journey by car. The Passengers
change terribly in their reeking seats, or roam
from car to car, subject to unceasing transformation.
Inevitable progress is made toward the beginning
(there is no difference in terminals), as we
slice through cities, whose ripped backsides present
a moving picture of windows, signs, streets,
buildings. Sometimes other vessels, closed
worlds, vacuums, travel along beside to move
ahead or fall utterly behind.

Destroy roofs, walls, see in all the rooms at once.

From the air we trapped gods, with the gods’
omniscient gaze, but without their power to be
inside minds and cities as they fly above.

June 30th. On the sun roof. He woke up suddenly.
At that instant a jet from the air base crawled
in silence overhead. On the beach, children try
to leap into its swift shadow.

The bird or insect that stumbles into a room
and cannot find the window. Because they know
no “windows”.

Wasps, poised in the window,
Excellent dancers,
detached, are not inclined
into our chamber.

Room of withering mesh
read love’s vocabulary
in the green lamp
of tumescent flesh.

When men conceived buildings,
and closed themselves in chambers,
first trees and caves.

(Windows work two ways,
mirrors one way.)

You never walk through mirrors
or swim through windows.

Cure blindness with a whore’s spittle.

In Rome, prostitutes were exhibited on roofs
above the public highways for the dubious
hygiene of loose tides of men whose potential
lust endangered the fragile order of power.
It is even reported that patrician ladies, masked
and naked, sometimes offered themselves up to
these deprived eyes for private excitements of
their own.

More or less, we’re all afflicted with the psychology
of the voyeur. Not in a strictly clinical or
criminal sense, but in our whole physical and
stance before the world. Whenever we seek to break
this spell of passivity, our actions are cruel and
awkward and generally obscene, like an invalid who
has forgotten how to walk.

The voyeur, the peeper, the Peeping Tom, is a dark
comedian. He is repulsive in his dark anonymity,
in his secret invasion. He is pitifully alone.
But, strangely, he is able through this same silence
and concealment to make unknowing partner of
within his eye’s range. This is his threat and

There are no glass houses. The shades are drawn
and “real” life begins. Some activities are impossible
in the open. And these secret events are the voyeur’s
game. He seeks them out with his myriad army of
eyes- like the child’s notion of a Diety who sees
all. “Everything?” asks the child. “Yes, every-
thing”, they answer, and the child is left to cope
with this divine intrusion.

The voyeur is masturbator, the mirror his badge,
the window his prey.

Urge to come to terms with the “Outside”, by
absorbing, interiorizing it. I won’t come out,
you must come in to me. Into my womb-garden
where I peer out. Where I can construct a universe
within the skull, to rival the real.

She said, “Your eyes are always black”. The pupil
opens to seize the object of vision.

Imagery is born of loss. Loss of the”friendly
expanses”. The breast is removed and the face
imposes its cold, curious, forceful, and inscrutable

You may enjoy life from afar. You may look at
things but not taste them. You may caress
the mother only with the eyes.

You cannot touch these phantoms.

French Deck. Solitary stroker of cards. He
dealt himself a hand. Turn stills of the past in
unending permutations, shuffle and begin. Sort
the images again. And sort them again. This
game reveals germs of truth, and death.

The world becomes an apparently infinite, yet
possibly finite, card game. Image combinations,
permutations, comprise the world game.

A mild possession, devoid of risk, at bottom
sterile. With an image there is no attendant

Muybridge derived his animal subjects from the
Philadelphia Zoological Garden, male performers
from the University. The women were professional
artists’ models, also actrsses and dancers,
parading nude before the 48 cameras.

Films are collections of dead pictures which are
given artificial insemination.

Film spectators are quiet vampires.

Cinema is most totalitarian of the arts.  All
energy and sensation is sucked up into the skull,
a cerebral erection, skull bloated with blood.
Caligula wished a single neck for all his subjects
that he could behead a kingdom with one blow.
Cinema is this transforming agent. The body
exists for the sake of the eyes; it becomes a
dry stalk to support these two soft insatiable

Film confers a kind of spurious eternity.

Each film depends upon all the others and drives
you on to others. Cinema was a novelty, a scientific
toy, until a sufficient body of works had been
amassed, enough to create an intermittent other
world, a powerful, infinite mythology to be dipped
into at will.

Films have an illusion of timelessness fostered
by their regular, indomitable appearance.

The appeal of cinema lies in the fear of death.

The modern East creates the greatest body of films.
Cinema is a new form of an ancient tradition- the
shadow play. Even their theater is an imitation
of it. Born in India or China, the shadow show
was aligned with religious ritual, linked with
celebrations which centered around cremation of the

It is wrong to assume, as some have done, that
cinema belongs to women. Cinema is created by
men for the consolation of men.

The shadow plays originally were restricted to
male audiences. Men could view these dream shows
from either side of the screen. When women later
began to be admitted, they were allowed to attend
only to the shadows.

Male genitals are small faces
forming trinities of thieves
and Christs
Fathers, sons, and ghosts.

A nose hangs over a wall
and two half eyes, sad eyes,
mute and handless, multiply
an endless round of victories.

These dry and secret triumphs, fought
in stalls and stamped in prisons,
glorify our walls
and scorch our vision.

A horror of empty spaces
propagates this seal on private places.

Kynaston’s Bride
may not appear
but the odor of her flesh
is never very far.

A drunken crowd knocked over the apparatus,
and Mayhew’s showman, exhibiting at Islington
Green, burned up, with his mate, inside.

In 1832, Gropius was astounding Paris with his
Pleorama. The audience was transformed into
the crew aboard a ship engaged in battle. Fire,
screaming, sailors, drowning.

Robert Baker, an Edinburgh artist, while in jail
for debt, was struck by the effect of light shining
through the bars of his cell through a letter he
was reading, and out of this perception he in-
vented the first Panorama, a concave, transparent
picture view of the city.

The invention was soon replace by the Diorama,
which added the illusion of movement by shifting
the room. Also sounds and novel lighting effects.
Daguerre’s London Diorama still stands in Regent’s
Park, a rare survival, since these shows depended
always on effects of artificial light, produced
by lamps or gas jets, and nearly always ended
in fire.

Phantasmagoria, magic lantern shows, spectacles
without substance. They achieved complete
sensory experiences through noise, incense,
lightning, water. There may be a time when
we’ll attend Weather Theaters to recall the
sensation of rain.

Cinema has evolved in two paths.

One is spectacle. Like the phantasmagoria, its
goal is the creation of a total substitute
sensory world.

The other is peep show, which claims for its
realm both the erotic and the untampered obser-
vance of real life, and imitates the keyhole or
voyeur’s window without need of color, noise

Cinema discovers its fondest affinities, not
with painting, literature, or theater, but with
the popular diversions- comics, chess, French,
and Tarot decks, magazines, and tattooing.

Cinema derives not from painting, literature,
sculpture, theater, but from ancient popular
wizardry. It is the contemporary manifestation
of an evolving history of shadows, a delight in
pictures that move, a belief in magic. Its
lineage is entwined from the earliest beginning
with Priests and sorcery, a summoning of phantoms.
With, at first, only slight aid of the mirror and
fire, men called up dark and secret visits from
regions in the buried mind. In these seances,
shades are spirits which ward off evil.

The spectator is a dying animal.

Invoke, palliate, drive away the Dead. Nightly.

Through ventriloquism, gestures, play with objects,
and rare variations of the body in space,
the shaman signaled his “trip” to an audience
which share the journey.

In the seance, the shaman led. A sensuous panic,
deliberately evoked through drugs, chants, dancing,
hurls the shaman into trance. Changed voice,
convulsive movement. He acts like a madman. These
professional hysterics, chosen precisely for their
psychotic leaning, were once esteemed. They
mediated between man and spirit-world. Their mental
travels formed the crux of the religious life of
the tribe.

Principle of seance: to cure illness. A mood
might overtake a people burdened by hisorical
events or dying in a bad landscape. They seek
deliverance from doom, death, dread. Seek possess-
ion, the visit of gods and powers, a rewinning
of the life source from demon possessors. The
cure is culled from ecstasy. Cure illness or
prevent its visit, revive the sick, and regain
stolen, soul.

It is wrong to assume that art needs the spectator
in order to be. The film runs on without any eyes.
The spectator cannot exist without it. It insures
his existence.

The happening / the event in which ether is introduced
into a roomful of people through air vents makes
the chemical an actor. Its agent, or injector,
is an artist-showman who creates a performance
to witness himself. The people consider themselves
audience, while they perform for each other,
and the gas acts out poems of its own through
the medium of the human body. This approaches
the psychology of the orgy while remaining in
the realm of the Game and its infinite permu-

The aim of the happening is to cure boredom,
wash the eyes, make childlike reconnections
with the stream of life. Its lowest, widest
aim is for purgation of perception. The happening
attempts to engage all the senses, the total
organism, and achieve total response in the face of
traditional arts which focus on narrower inlets
of sensation.

Multimedias are invariably sad comedies. They
work as a kind of colorful group therapy, a
woeful mating of actors and viewers, a mutual
semimasturbation. The performers seem to need
their audience and the spectators- the spectators
would find these same mild titillations in a freak
show or Fun Fair and fancier, more complete
amusements in a Mexican cathouse.

Novices, we watch the moves of silkworms who excite
their bodies in moist leaves and weave wet nests
of hair and skin.

This is a model of our liquid resting world
dissolving bone and melting marrow
opening pores as wide as windows.

The “stranger” was sensed as greatest menace
in ancient communities.

Metamorphose. An object is cut off fom its name,
habits, associations. Detached, it becomes only
the thing, in and of itself. When this disintegration
into pure existence is at last achieved, the object
is free to become endlessly anything.

The subject says “I see first lots of things
which dance…then everything becomes gradually

Objects as they exist in time the clean eye and
camera give us. Not falsified by “seeing”.

When there are as yet no objects.

Early film makers, who- like the alchemists-
delighted in a willful obscurity about their craft,
in order to withhold their skills from profane

Separate, purify, reunite. The formula of
Ars Magna, and its heir, the cinema.

The camera is androgynous machine, a kind of
mechanical hermaphrodite.

In his retort the alchemist repeats the work of

Few would defend a small view of Alchemy as “Mother
of Chemistry”, and confuse its true goal with those
external metal arts. Alchemy is an erotic science,
involved in buried aspects of reality, aimed
at purifying and transforming all being and matter.
Not to suggest that material operations are ever
abandoned. The adept holds to both the mystical
and physical work.

The alchemists detect in the sexual activity of
man a correspondence with the world’s creation,
with the growth of plants, and with mineral
formations. When they see the union of rain
and earth, they see it in an erotic sense, as
copulation. And this extends to all natural
realms of matter. For they can picture love
affairs of chemicals and stars, a romance
of stones, or the fertility of fire.

Stange, fertile correspondences the alchemists
sensed in unlikely orders of being. Between
men and planets, plants and gestures, words and
weather. These disturbing connections: an in-
fant’s cry and the stroke of silk; the whorl
of an ear and an appearance of dogs in the yard;
a woman’s head lowered in sleep and the morning
dance of cannibals; these are conjunctions which
transcend the sterile signal of any “willed”
montage. These juxtapositions of objects, sounds,
actions, colors, weapons, wounds, and odors shine
in an unheard-of way, impossible ways.

Film is nothing when not an illumination of
this chain of being which makes a needle poised
in flesh call up explosions in a foreign capitol.

Cinema returns us to anima, religion of matter,
which gives each thing its special divinity and
sees gods in all things and beings.

Cinema, heir of alchemy, last of an erotic science.

Surround Emperor of Body.
Bali Bali dancers
Will not break my temple.

suck eyes into the head.

The rosy body cross
secret in flow
controls its flow.

in body weights dance
and music, mimesis, body.

entertain embryo
sweet dangerous thrust flow.

The Lords. Events take place beyond our knowledge
or control. Our lives are lived for us. We can
only try to enslave others. But gradually, special
perceptions are being developed. The idea of the
“Lords” is beginning to form in some minds. We
should enlist them into bands of perceivers to
tour the labyrinth during their mysterious noc-
turnal appearances. The Lords have secret entrances,
and they know disguises. But they give themselves
away in minor ways. Too much glint of light in
the eye. A wrong gesture. Too long and curious a

The Lords appease us with images. They give us
books, concerts, galleries, shows, cinemas. Es-
pecially the cinemas. Through art they confuse
us and blind us to our enslavement. Art adorns
our prison walls, keeps us silent and diverted
and indifferent.

Dull lions prone on a watery beach.
The universe kneels at the swamp
to curiously eye its own raw
postures of decay
in the mirror of human consciousness.

Absent and peopled mirror, absorbent,
passive to whatever visits
and retains its interest.

Door of passage to the other side,
the soul frees itself in stride.

Turn mirrors to the wall
in the house of the new dead.

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Jim Morrison – “Paris Journal”

June 23, 2009 at 6:38 pm (Jim Morrison, Poetry & Literature)

So much forgotten already
So much forgotten
So much to forget

Once the idea of purity
born, all was lost

The Black Musician
in a house up the hill

Nigger in the woodpile
Skeleton in the closet

Sorry, Didn’t mean you.

An old man, someone’s

& sees us still in the room
of off-key piano & bad

him off to work
& new wife arriving

(The candle-forests of

beggar nuns w/moving
smiles, small velvet sacks
& cataleptic eyes

straying to the gaudy
Mosaic calendar

I write like this
to seize you

give me your love, your
tired eyes, sad for

A small & undiscover’d
park-we ramble

And the posters scream
safe revolt

& the tired walls barely
fall, graffiti into
dry cement sand

an overfed vacuum

I remember freeways

Summer, beside you

Storms passing

electric fires in the night

“rain, night, misery-
the back-ends of wagons”

Shake it! Wanda,
fat stranded swamp

We still need you

Shake your roly-poly
Thighs inside that
Southern tent

So what.

It was really wild
She started nude & put
on her clothes

An old & cheap hotel
w/bums in the lobby
genteel bums of satisfied

Across the street, a
famous pool-hall
where the actors meet

former ace-home of
beat musicians
beat poets & beat

in the Zen tradition
from China to the
in 4 easy lifetimes

Weeping, he left his pad
on orders from police
& furnishings hauled
away, all records &
momentos, & reporters
calculating tears &
curses for the press:

“I hope the Chinese junkies
get you”

& they will
for the poppy
rules the world

That handsome gentle

Sweet Billy!

Do you remember
the snake
your lover

tender in the tumbled
sand & cactus

I do.

And I remember
Stars in the shotgun

eating pussy
til the mind runs

Is it rolling, God

in the Persian Night?

“There’s a palace
in the canyon
where you & I
were born

Now I’m a lonely Man
Let me back into
the Garden

Blue Shadows
of the Canyon
I met you
& now you’re gone

& now my dream is gone
Let me back into your Garden

A man searching
for lost Paradise
Can seem a fool
to those who never
sought the other world

Where friends do lie & drift
Insanely in
Their own private gardens”

The cunt bloomed
& the paper walls

A monster arrived
in the mirror
To mock the room
& its fool

Give me songs
to sing
& emerald dreams
to dream

& I’ll give you love


underwater, it was
immediately strange
& familiar

the black boy’s
from the boat, fins & mask,

Nostrils bled liquid
crystal blood
as they rose to surface

Rose & moved strong
in their wet world

Below was a Kingdom
Empire of still sand
& yes, party-colored
-they are the last
to leave
The gay sea

I eat you
avoiding your wordy
& spit out pearls

The little girl gave
little cries of surprise
as the club struck
her sides

I was there
By the fire in the

I saw them charge
& heard the indian

felt the adrenalin
of flight-fear

the exhilaration of terror
sloshed drunk in
the flashy battle blood

Naked we come
& bruised we go
nude pastry
for the slow soft worms

This is my poem
for you
Great flowing funky flower’d beast

Great perfumed wreck of hell

Great good disease
& summer plague

Great god-damned shit-ass
Mother-fucking freak

You lie, you cheat,
you steal, you kill

you drink the Southern
Madness swill
of greed

you die utterly & alone

Mud up to your braces
Someone new in your

& who would that be?

You know

You know more
than you let on

Much more than you betray

Great slimy angel-whore
you’ve been good to me

You really have

been swell to me

Tell them you came & saw
& look’d into my eyes
& saw the shadow
of the guard receding
Thoughts in time
& out of season
The Hitchiker stood
by the side of the road
& levelled his thumb
in the calm calculus
of reason.

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Jim Morrison – “The Celebration of the Lizard”

June 3, 2009 at 6:48 pm (Jim Morrison, Poetry & Literature)

Lions in the street and roaming
Dogs in heat, rabid, foaming
A beast caged in the heart of a city
The body of his mother
Rotting in the summer ground
He fled the town
He went down South and crossed the border
Left the chaos and disorder
Back there over his shoulder
One morning he awoke in a green hotel
With a strange creature groaning beside him
Sweat oozed from its shiny skin
Is everybody in?
The ceremony is about to begin

Wake up!
You can’t remember where it was
Had this dream stopped?
The snake was pale gold
Glazed and shrunken
We were afraid to touch it
The sheets were hot dead prisons
Now, run to the mirror in the bathroom
I can’t live thru each slow century of her moving
I let my cheek slide down
The cool smooth tile
Feel the good cold stinging blood
The smooth hissing snakes of rain . . .

Once I had, a little game
I liked to crawl back into my brain
I think you know the game I mean
I mean the game called ‘go insane’
Now you should try this little game
Just close your eyes forget your name
Forget the world forget the people
And we’ll erect a different steeple
This little game is fun to do
Just close your eyes no way to lose
And I’m right there I’m going too
Release control we’re breaking thru

Way back deep into the brain
Back where there’s never any pain
And the rain falls gently on the town
And in the labyrinth of streams
Beneath, the quiet unearthly presence of
Nervous hill dwellers in the gentle hills around
Reptiles abounding
Fossils, caves, cool air heights
Each house repeats a mold
Windows rolled
Beast car locked in against morning
All now sleeping
Rugs silent, mirrors vacant
Dust blind under the beds of lawful couples
Wound in sheets
And daughters, smug
With semen eyes in their nipples
There’s been a slaughter here

(Don’t stop to speak or look around
Your gloves and fan are on the ground
We’re getting out of town
We’re going on the run
And you’re the one I want to come)

Not to touch the earth
Not to see the sun
Nothing left to do, but
Run, run, run
Let’s run
House upon the hill
Moon is lying still
Shadows of the trees
Witnessing the wild breeze
C’mon baby run with me
Let’s run
Run with me
Run with me
Run with me
Let’s run
The mansion is warm, at the top of the hill
Rich are the rooms and the comforts there
Red are the arms of luxuriant chairs
And you won’t know a thing till you get inside
Dead president’s corpse in the driver’s car
The engine runs on glue and tar
C’mon along, we’re not going very far
To the East to meet the Czar

Some outlaws lived by the side of the lake
The minister’s daughter’s in love with the snake
Who lives in a well by the side of the road
Wake up, girl! We’re almost home
Sun, sun, sun
Burn, burn, burn
Soon, soon, soon
Moon, moon, moon
I will get you

Let the carnival bells ring
Let the serpent sing
Let everything
We came down
The rivers and highways
We came down from
Forests and falls
We came down from
Carson and Springfield
We came down from
Phoenix enthralled
And I can tell you
The names of the Kingdom
I can tell you
The things that you know
Listening for a fistful of silence
Climbing valleys into the shade

‘I am the Lizard King
I can do anything
I can make the earth stop in its tracks
I made the blue cars go away
For seven years I dwelt
In the loose palace of exile
Playing strange games
With the girls of the island
Now I have come again
To the land of the fair, and the strong, and the wise
Brothers and sisters of the pale forest
O Children of Night
Who among you will run with the hunt?
Now Night arrives with her purple legion
Retire now to your tents and to your dreams
Tomorrow we enter the town of my birth
I want to be ready’

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Jim Morrison – “Dry Water”

May 6, 2009 at 6:35 pm (Jim Morrison, Poetry & Literature)

The velvet fur of religion
The polish of knife handle & coin
The universe of organic gears
or microscope mechanical
embryo metal doll
The night is a steel machine
grinding its slow stained wheels
The brain is filled w/clocks, & drills
& water down drains
Knife-handle, thick blood
like the coin & cloth
they rub & the skin they love
to touch

the graveyard, the tombstone,
the gloomstone & runestone
The sand & the moon, mating
deep in the Western night
waiting for the escape
of one of our gang
The hangman’s noose is a
silver sluice bait
come-on man
your meat is hanging
on the wing of the raven
man’s bird, poet’s soul

the thin rustle of weeds
the voice comes from faraway
inside, awaiting its birth
in a cool room, on tendril bone
The insane free chummy cackle
of infants in a ballroom, of a
family of friends around
a table, laden w/feast-food
soft guilty female laughter
the bar-room, the men’s room
people assemble to establish
armies & find their foe
& fight

Clustered in watchful terror
by vine-growth, the hollow bush
dry cancerous wells
We awoke before dawn, slipped
into the canyon

Noon schoolyard screamed
w/play, the lunch hour ending
ropes & balls slapped hard at
cement sand, the female land
was bright, all swelling to degree
most comfortless & guarding

A record noise shot out
& stunned the earth. The music
had been bolted w/new sound.
Run, run the end of repose
an anthem has churned
the bad guys are winning.

Silver shaken in the gloom
I left her

Trees waste & sway forever

Marble porch & sylvan frieze
Down on her knees

She begs the spider-king to wed her
Slides into bed

He turns her over

There is a leather pouch
that’s full of silver

It spills like water

She left
And took the coins I gave her.

As to the drowning man
hoarse whisper
invokes, on the edge,
an arroyo
Sangre de Christo

Violence in a time of plenty

There is one deaf witness
on the bank, the shore
leaning in finery against
a ruined wall
as Jesus did. Red livid lips,
pale flesh withdrawn from
ragged dress, pit of the past
& secrets unveiled in the
scarred chalk wall

When, often, one is not deluged
by rain, 3 drops suffice
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.

Please, freeze!
Danger near.
A message has started its path
to the heart of the brain
A thin signal is on its way
An arrow of hope, predicting rain
A death-rod bearing pain

I will not come again
I will not come again
into the swirl
The bitter wine-soaked
stallion eats the seed,
all labor is a lie;
no vice is kindled in
these loins to melt
or vie w/any strong
particulating smile.
Leave sundry stones alive.

Now that you have gone
all alone
the desert to explore
& left me here alone

the calmness of the town
where a girl in black
gets in a car
& searches numbly
for her keys;

Now that you have gone
or strayed away-

I sit, & listen to the hiss
of traffic & invoke
into this burned & gutted
room some ghost, some
vague resemblance of a time

Off-on, on and off,
like one long sick
electric dream.
This state is confused
state. Out there everyone
is greedy for love.

They will drain her life
like warm connectors,
plug into her soul
From every side & melt
her form for me.

But I deserve this,
Greatest cannibal of all.
Some tired future.
Let me sleep.
Get on w/the disease.

In this dim cave
we can go no further.
Here money is key
to smooth age. Horses,
givers of guilt. Great
bags of gold.

I want obedience!

We examine this ancient
& insane theatre, obscene
like luxuriant churches

I confess
to scarves
cool floors
stroked curtain

The actors are twice-blessed
before us. This is
too serious & severe.

Great mystery!
Timeless passion
patterned in stillness.

Sex for you
was thread
which binds
us even now
on this pale

To the poet
& cover-girl,
photo in color,
to armies
that join,
out on a desert,
& to Samson
& all his
bound quiet
now w/exotic
of dusk, in
& N. African

The bazaar is crowded
as dancers thrive.
Snake-wreaths & pleasures.
I take you to a low cave
called “Calipah”.

Stand there listening
you will hear them
tiny shapes just beyond
the moon
Star-flys, jarts,
dismal fronds
stirring ape-jaws striving
to make the morning
mail call

Cry owl.
Hark to the wood-vine.
Suckle-snake crawls, gnawing

I know you.
The one who left to go
warning. Wishless now
& sullen. Transfer

Steal me a peach
from the orange tree

She fell.

What are you doing
w/your hand on her

She fell, mam.

Give her to me.

Yes, mam.

Go tell the master
what you’ve done.

They killed him.


Going up the stairs
to his cell.

A shot-gun blast
Behind the back.


Untrampled footsteps
Borderline dreams
Occasion for sinners
alive if it seems
given to wander
alone at the shore
wanton to whisper
I am no more
Am as my heart beats
live as I can
wanton to whisper
faraway sands


Now come into my pretty isle
My weary westward wanderer
Faraway is as it seems
& so alone shall shelter
Come along unto my sails
as weary islands go
prosper merry as I went
I shall no more the sailor
Shall I ho the sailor


Where were you when I needed you?
Where indeed but in some sheltered
Sturdy heaven; wasted, broken
sadly broke & one thin thing to get us thru


Urchin crawl broke
spenders bleeders all
brew North
stained lot
he was lost
out on an aircraft
high above
long awkward brewer’s
shelters breed

this ugly crew
our poisoned jet
god get us love & get
us speed
To get us home again
Crippled by people
cut by nothing
Public housing
the incredible damage
can be cured


She’s my girl friend:
I wouldn’t tell her
Name but I think
you already know her
Square fire insect
marble saffron intro
demi-rag in flames

it’s the same game
whether you call it
by her real name


She lives in the city
under the sea
Prisoner of pirates
prisoner of dreams
I want to be w/her
want her to see

The things I’ve created
sea-shells that bleed
Sensitive seeds
of impossible warships

Dragon-fly hovers
& wavers & teases
The weeds & his wings
are in terrible fury

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Jim Morrison – “The Village Tapes”

April 28, 2009 at 7:41 pm (Jim Morrison, Poetry & Literature)

for all the world lies
hushed & fallen
green ships dangle
on the surface of
Ocean, & sky-birds
glide smugly among
the planes
Gaunt crippled houses
Strangle the cliffs
In the East, in the cities
a hum of life
begins, now come

Of the Great Insane
American Night
We sing
sending our gift
to its vast promise

Pilots are a problem
The rain & hungry sea
greedy for steel

Say a soft American Prayer
A quiet animal sigh
for the strong plane

We rode on opium tires
from the colossal
airport chess game
at dawn, new from glass
in the broken night

landed then in quiet
fog, beside the times
out of this strange river

Then gladly thru
a wasted morning
happy to be alive to
signs of life
a dog,
a school girl
are we in Harlem?


accept this ancient
which has travelled
far to greet us
From the East
w/the sun

Call out to him
From the mountain
high, from high

as the mind
& wends its way
to freedom

grant us one more day
& hour
the hero of this dream
who heals & guides us

Forgive me, Blacks
you who unite
as I fear & gently
fall on darkness

Science of Night

Earth Air Fire Water
Mother Father Sons & Daughters
Airplane in the starry night
First fright
Forest follow free
I love thee
watch how I love thee

The Politics of ecstasy are real
Can’t you feel them working
thru you
Turning night into day
Mixing sun w/the sea.

Ledger domain
Wilderness pain
cruel swimming ambience
sweet swimming fish hook smile
I love you all the while
even w/the little child
by the hand
& squeeze

You’re learning

Keep off the walk
listen to the children talk

Cobra sun / Fever smile
-No man kill me

“Who is this insane messenger?”

In times like these we need
men around us who can
see clearly & speak the truth.

Out of breath

Raving witness

-Who comes?


~Cassandra at the Well~

Help! Help! Save us!
Save us!
We’re dying, fella, do something.
Get us out of this!
Save us!
I’m dying.
What have we done now!
We’ve done it, fella, we’ve committed the

This is the end of us, fella.
I love you fella.
I love you fella.
I love you cause you’re you.

But you’ve got to help us.
What have we done, fella,
What have we done now?

Where are my dreamers
Today & tonight.
Where are my dancers
leaping madly
whirling & screaming

Where are my women
quietly dreaming
caught like angels
on the dark porch
of a velvet ranch
dance dance dance dance
dance dance dance

It was the greatest night of my life
Although I still had not found a wife
I had my friends right there beside me

Indians scattered on dawn’s highway bleeding
Ghosts crowd the young child’s fragile eggshell mind

We scaled the wall
We tripped thru the graveyard
Ancient shapes were all around us
No music but the wet grass
felt fresh beside the fog

Two made love in a silent spot
one chased a rabbit into the dark
A girl got drunk & made the dead
And I gave empty sermons to my head

Cemetery cool & quiet
Hate to leave
your sacred lay
Dread the milky coming of the day

In this full-throated
Sex’d cry
we must try again
to speak of the ununited
miles of sleep around
Bumbling thru slumber
Blind numbers

In a tiled room
We sit & brood
Refuse to move
The guards refuse

and in the last place
and in the last sweet breath
& in stroke of sine-wise crab

and in stars of plenty, stars of greed
in the written book & majesties
in fulfillment on a cliff
on the inside of butter
on smooth backs & camels
in the open vessel
in the vein
in lives untold
who witnessed everything

For those people who died
for Nirvana
for the heavenly creed
for you, for me

These lines are written
to convey the message
To ignore the warning
To spree upward into
Tantalizing voices
To visit under-seas
Things more horrible
than war
Things out of the tales
Great beasts
Suffering extinction

All these monstrous
Words forsaken, falling
by all Hell
loose walls, forgotten
tumbling down into
Night/Fast friends
fellows of the one true cross
earthly lovers crash
sweet sorrow blackness
on the spilled roadside
down, into fire
silence, cry

Argue w/breath
while I cry

it must come
like dream
from the center
where liquor’s

it must come
like the dawn
soft haste
No hurry
hairs curl

The phone
We create the dawn

I fell on the earth
& raped the snow
I got married to life
& breathed w/my marrow
I saw young dancers
I am meat & need fuel
Need the whorey glimmer of tears
in women, all ages
Laughter sandwich, fuel
for the lunch of meat minds
Now damn you, dance
Now dance
or die sleek & fat in your
reeking seats, still
buckled for flight

If the writer can write, &
the farmer can sow
Then all miracles concur,
appear, & start happening
If the children eat, if their
time of crying was Mid-

The earth needs them
soft dogs on the snow
Nestled in Spring
When sun makes wine
& blood dances dangerous
in the veins or vine

To have just come wondering
if the world is real is
sick to see the shape she’s
made of.  What wandering
lunacy have we soft created?

Certain no one meant it
sure someone started
Where is he?
Where is he or it when
we need her?
Where are you?
In a flower?

To have just been born
for beauty & see sadness
What is this frail sickness?

Round-up, Rondolay, Rhonda,
Red, Rich roll ruse rune
rake roan ran regard
if you know what I mean.
This is concrete imagery Vermont
The mouth leads this way
I that way
No good faster the hand too slow
To exist in time we die construct
prisms in a void
The truth  faster  These hang-ups
hold-ups  shooting the republic
The president’s dream behind
The throne
four-score fast fever the clinic
the wisdom syphilis doctor nurse
Indians americans Atlantis
Save us  guide us  in time of need
prayer to the mind cell body
prayer to center of man  prayer
to evening’s last whisper  as the
hand silently glides into peaceful
thorns  stones  storms
I await your coming
w/negligence   Speak to me!
don’t leave me here alone  Torture
clinic chamber  I know the man
arrested  The stale bars  his mother
who will help a match a cigarette
I’m going. God? What is your name

There must be some way to define
stop happening space shades
postures poses snapshots  The
World behind the word & all
utterance  Can’t now
coming for us  soon leave  all over
The Republic is a big cross in a
big cross the nation  The world on fire
Taxi from Africa  The Grand Hotel
He was drunk  a big party last
night there.  Pastures fields
skunks snake invisible night birds
night hawks  summer disasters
out of doors  listen to the lions
roar in the empty fields
These are forgotten
lands  Speak confidently of
the forest  the end  the joke
is on me  most certainly
There must be someone today who
knows  they do  but they can’t
Tell you  like feeding a child
Wine  like sniffing cortex
blue babies lists  real estate
cleaning offices  word-vomit
mind soup  crawling lice  book bonds.

Feeling streams lead to losers
back going back in all directions
sleeping these insane hours
I’ll never wake up in a good mood
again.  I’m sick of these
stinking boots.  Stories of animals
in the woods  not stupid  but
like indians peeping our  their
little eyes in the night  I know
the forest & the evil moon tide.
“We sure look funny don’t we fella?”
Plu-perfect.  Forgotten.  Songs
are good streams for a laugh.
The mind bird was a good fella
Who minded labyrinths & lived
in a well  He knew Jesus
Knew Newman  Knew me &
Morganfield  I hope you can
understand these last parables
were hope (less) sure  if you can
regard them as anything beyond
matter  Surely not more than
Twice-fold fork follow & loose-
tree  Now here’s the rub  rune

Rib-bait squalor the women of the
quarter yawned & meandered
swimming dust tide for food
scraps to child feed  No noon
for misses  The Church called bells
inhabitants of the well  come to hell
come to the bell  funeral jive
Negroes plenty, fluttering their
dark smiles.  Mindless lepers-
con-men  The movie is popular
This season  in all the hotels
rich tourists from the continent
shore up & hold a story seance
nightly  The birds tell & they
Know all  Telephones crooks
& castenets  The lines are wired
Listen  hear those voices & all
This long distance from the other half
I love to hear ya ramble boy
missionary stallion  One day
The devil arrived only no one tell
or you’ll ruin the outcome.  He
walked to the pulpit & saved
The city while certainly scoring
Someone’s female daughter.
When his cloak was hoisted
The snake was seen & we all
slipped back to lethargy.

Buildings gilded no interruptions.

Constructions everywhere.  Our
own house was solid astrology
Tiny flutes won their starlings
sunrise.  And in the estuary
side-traps stopped our dinner
He came home w/bags of meat
& sacks of flour & the bread
rose & the family flourished.

Those who Race toward Death
Those who wait
Those who worry

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.

Fence my sacred fire
I want. To be simple, black & clean
A dim nothingness
The sea is green
like the child’s version of a
Christmas dream

Why the desire for death.

A clean paper or a pure
white wall. One false
line, a scratch, a mistake.
Unerasable. So obscure
by adding million other
tracings, blend it,
cover over.

But the original scratch
remains, written in
gold blood, shining.

Desire for a Perfect Life

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