Strange Days – Jim Morrison

Strange Days

The Doors

Strange days have found us.
Strange days have tracked us down.
They’re going to destroy
our casual joys.
We shall go on playing
or find a new town.

Strange eyes fill strange rooms.
Voices will signal their tired end.
The hostess is grinning.
Her guests sleep from sinning.
Hear me talk of sin
and you know this is it.

Strange days have found us
and through their strange hours
we linger alone.
Bodies confused.
Memories misused.
As we run from the day
to a strange night of stone.

Jim Morrison – Visionary Poet

Ode To L.A. While Thinking Of Brian Jones, Deceased – Jim Morrison

ODE TO LA WHILE THINKING OF BRIAN JONES, DECEASED

I’m a resident of a city
They’ve just picked me to play
the Prince of Denmark

Poor Ophelia

All those ghosts he never saw
Floating to doom
On an iron candle

Come back, brave warrior
Do the dive
On another channel

Hot buttered pool
Where’s Marrakesh
Under the falls
the wild storm
where savages fell out
in late afternoon
monsters of rhythm

You’ve left your
Nothing
to compete w/
Silence

I hope you went out
Smiling
Like a child
Into the cool remnant
of a dream

The angel man
w/ Serpents competing
for his palms
& fingers
Finally claimed
This benevolent
Soul

Ophelia

Leaves, sodden
in silk

Chlorine
dream
mad stifled
Witness

The diving board, the plunge
The pool

You were a fighter
a damask musky muse

You were the bleached
Sun
for TV afternoon

horned-toads
maverick of a yellow spot

Look now to where it’s got
You

in meat heaven
w/ the cannibals
& jews

The gardener
Found
The body, rampant, Floating

Lucky Stiff
What is this green pale stuff
You’re made of

Poke holes in the goddess
Skin

Will he Stink
Carried heavenward
Thru the halls
of music

No Chance.

Requiem for a heavy
That smile
That porky satyr’s
leer
has leaped upward

into the loam

Road to Nowhere

The hitchhiker

Stood by the side of the road

And leveled his thumb

In the calm calculus of reason

-Jim Morrison

A Dialogue on the Relationship Between The Artist and Their Audience

JIM
(wry)
Oh and what is my goal Paul? Death?

PAUL
“Death old friend”.

JIM
(laughing)
Wrong. I just want the pure beauty
of absolute zero and sing the blues
man — do nuthin, go nowhere, just
be.

TOM
With that waistline Jimbo you got no
choice.

JIM
(laughs, goodnatured)
What’s wrong with being a large
mammal, a big beast like a tank. I
feel great!

DOG
Yeah. What’s wrong with being fat.

TOM
You mean “Crawling King Flab”? Rock
is cock babe and your rock is dyin’.

JIM
Rock is death! There is no longer
belief. Hey, I’ll write poetry and
direct movies.

TOM
And what are you offering? Sex? You
can’t get it up. Salvation? You can’t
even save yourself. Come on Jim,
you’re not gonna be remembered.

JIM
Miss?…

STEWARDESS
What do you need?

JIM
Some love.

MIKE
They’ll still be talking about Jim
when you’re a walk on Baker. I’ll
make you a deal. When you do
something, I’ll criticize it.

JIM
The first two novels come along they
love you, next few they slam but if
you stay around long enough, one day
they say, “hey he’s part of the
national psyche”.

TOM
(a cruel sarcasm Jim
seems to enjoy)
…if you live long enough, don’t
kid yourself Jimbo — you’re all
alone out there, Jimbo, cept for me,
cause you’re too wacked out man,
they’re scared, you’re too fuckin
crazy.

JIM
(feigning innocence)
I wasn’t mad, Tom. I was only
interested in freedom.

TOM
(the devil)
Bullshit! You’re bored, you’re not
free. You tested all the limits,
fame, fucking, money, — whatcha
gonna do now Jimbo! When the music’s
over, when you’re too fat and ugly
to get on a stage, whatcha gonna do
for act three — puke on Heaven’s
door?

JIM
Listen you two bit fuckin actor, you
underestimate the audience. You think
they all want a better job, a house,
two cars, money, that’s what you
think but you know what they really
want, Tom, in their lives, what they
really want —

TOM
Tell me.

JIM
(a whisper)
…something sacred, that’s what
they want, something sacred.

Jim Morrison – Writer on the Storm

This guy made poetry something I wanted to be a part of. This guy. Not a teacher. No one I knew read or wrote poems. Then, I learned about James D. Morrison. The guy in this picture. Before his career as lead singer for The Doors, already a poet himself. And, apparently, an outlaw.