Jim Morrison (1943 – 1971)
American singer, songwriter, musician, poet and founding member of The Doors.
At first flash of Eden, We race down to the sea.
Standing there on Freedom's shore.
Waiting for the sun...
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 emotional 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 to walk.
Now listen to this...
Ill tell you about texas radio and the big beat
Soft driven, slow and mad Like some new language
Reaching your head with the cold, sudden fury of a divine messenger
Let me tell you about heartache and the loss of god
Wandering, wandering in hopeless night
Out here in the perimeter there are no stars...
Out here we is stoned...
Immaculate.
Cool pools
from a tired land
sink now
in the peace of evening
Clouds weaken
and die.
The sun, an orange skull,
whispers quietly, becomes an
island, & is gone.
Do you know the warm progress under the stars?
Do you know we exist?
Have you forgotten the keys to the kingdom?
Have you been born yet
& are you alive?
This is the strangest life I’ve ever known.
Do you dare
deny my
potency
my kindness
or forgiveness?
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 nocturnal 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 glance.
Camel caravans bear
witness guns to Caesar.
Hordes crawl and seep inside
the walls. The streets
flow stone. Life goes
on absorbing war. Violence
kills the temple of no sex.
Take an Indian home to lunch.
Killer on the road
His brain is squirming like a toad.
I see myself as a huge fiery comet, a shooting star. Everyone stops, points up and gasps "Oh look at that!" Then — whoosh, and I'm gone... and they'll never see anything like it ever again... and they won't be able to forget me — ever.
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.
They can picture love affairs of chemicals and stars, a romance of stones, or the fertility of fire. Strange, fertile correspondences the alchemists sensed in unlikely orders of being. Between men and planets, plants and gestures, words and weather.
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.
(Windows work two ways, mirrors one way.)
You never walk through mirrors or swim through windows.
Indians scattered on dawn's highway bleeding
Ghosts crowd the young child's fragile eggshell mind.
The old get older
And the young get stronger
May take a week
And it may take longer
They got the guns
But we got the numbers
Gonna win, yeah
We're takin' over
Come on!
I think, in these days, especially in the States, you have to be a politician or an assassin or something, to really be a superstar.