down
 down
   down
     down
       down
         down
           deep
             below
 
children of the caves will let their
secret fires glow
~~~
 
An explosion of birds
Dawn
Sun strokes the walls
An old man leaves the Casino
A young man reading pauses
on the path to the garden
~~~
 
Bitter winter
Fiction dogs are starving
The radio is moaning softly
calling to the dogs
There are still a few
animals left in the yard
 
Sit up all night,
talking smoking
Count the dead & wait
’til morning
Will warm names & faces
come again
Does the silver forest end?
~~~
 
December Isles
Hot morning chambers
of the New Day
Idiot first to awaken (be born)
w/shadows of new play
learned men
in Sunday best
we’ve had our chance to rest
to mourn the passing of day
to lament the death of our
glorious member
(she whispers secret messages
of love in the garden
to her friends, the bees)
The garden would be here
forevermore
~~~
 
Mexican parachute
Blue green pink
Invented of Silk
& stretched on grass
Draped in the trees
of a Mexican Park
T-shirt boys in their
Slumbering art
~~~
 
—I fear that he’s been
maim’d beyond all
recognition
 
He hears them come &
murmur over his corpse.
 
Street Pizza.
~~~
 
funny,
I keep expecting a
knock on the door
well, that’s what you
get for living around
people
 
a Knock? would shatter
my dreams’ illusions
deportment & composure
The struggle of a poor poet
to stay out of the grips
of novels & gambling
& journalism
~~~
 
A quality of ignorance,
self-deception may be
necessary to the poet’s
survival.
~~~
 
Actors must make us think
they’re real
Our friends must not
make us think we’re acting
 
They are, though, in slow
Time
 
My wild words
slip into fusion
& risk losing
the solid ground
 
So stranger, get
wilder still
 
Probe the Highlands
~~~
 
Bourbon is a wicked brew, recalling
courage milk, refined poison
of cockroach & tree-bark, leaves
& fly-wings scraped from the
land, a thick film; menstrual
fluids no doubt add their splendour.
It is the eagle’s drink.
~~~
 
Why do I drink?
So that I can write poetry.
 
Sometimes when it’s all spun out
and all that is ugly recedes
into a deep sleep
There is an awakening
and all that remains is true.
As the body is ravaged
the spirit grows stronger.
 
Forgive me Father for I know
what I do.
I want to hear the last Poem
of the last Poet.

  • 0
  • 0
  •  
  •  
Login to comment...
Email

Other works by Jim Morrison...