from The Lords and New Creatures by Jim Morrison

The Lords
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. 
Copyright  1969-1970 by James Douglas Morrison

The New Creatures
Snakeskin jacket 
Indian eyes 
Brilliant hair 
He moves in disturbed 
Nile insect 
You parade thru the soft summer 
We watch your eager rifle decay 
Your wilderness 
Your teeming emptiness 
Pale forest on verge of light 
More of your miracles 
More of your magic arms 
Bitter grazing in sick pastures 
Animal sadness & the daybed 
Iron curtains pried open. 
The elaborate sun implies 
dust, knives, voices. 
Call out of the Wilderness 
Call out of fever, receiving 
the wet dreams of an Aztec King. 
The banks are high and overgrown 
rich w/warm green danger. 
Unlock the canals. 
Punish our sister's sweet playmate distress. 
Do you want us that way w/the rest? 
Do you adore us? 
When you return will you 
still want to play w/us? 
Fall down. 
Strange gods arrive in fast enemy poses. 
Their shirts are soft marrying 
cloth and hair together. 
All along their arms ornaments 
conceal veins bluer than blood 
pretending welcome. 
Soft lizard eyes connect. 
Their soft drained insect cries erect 
new fear, where fears reign. 
The rustling of sex against their skin. 
The wind withdraws all sound. 
Stamp your witness on the punished ground. 
Wounds, stags, & arrows 
Hooded flashing legs plunge 
near the tranquil women. 
Startling obedience fom the pool people. 
Astonishing caves to plunder. 
Loose, nerveless ballets of looting. 
Boys are running. 
Girls are screaming, falling. 
The air is thick w/smoke. 
Dead crackling wires dance pools 
of sea blood. 
Lizard woman 
w/your insect eyes 
w/your wild surprise. 
Warm daughter of silence. 
Turn your back w/a slither of moaning wisdom. 
The unblinking blind eyes 

behind walls new histories rise 
and wake growling & whining 
the weird dawn of dreams. 
Dogs lie sleeping. 
The wolf howls. 
A creature lives out the war. 
A forest. 
A rustle of cut words, choking 
The snake, the lizard, the insect eye 
the huntsman's green obedience. 
Quick, in raw time, serving 
stealth & slumber, 
grinding warm forests into restless lumber. 
Now for the valley. 
Now for the syrup hair. 
Stabbing the eyes, widening skies 
behind the skull bone. 
Swift end of hunting. 
Hug round the swollen torn breast 
& red-stained throat. 
The hounds gloat. 
Take her home. 
Carry our sister's body, back 
to the boat. 
A pair of Wings 
High winds of Karma 
Laughter & young voices 
in the mts. 
the Negro, Africa 
eyes like time 
Build temporary habitations, games 
& chambers, play there, hide. 
First man stood, shifting stance 
while germs of sight 
unfurl'd Flags in his skull 
and quickening, hair, nails, skin 
turned slowly, whirl'd, in 
the warm aquarium, warm 
wheel turning. 
Cave fish, eels, & gray salamanders 
turn in their night career of sleep. 
The idea of vision escapes 
the animal worm whose earth 
is an ocean, whose eye is its body. 
The theory is that birth is prompted 
by the child's desire to leave the womb. 
But in the photograph an unborn horse's 
neck strains inward w/legs scooped out. 
From this everything follows: 
Swallow milk at the breast 
until there's no milk. 
Squeeze wealth at the rim 
until tile pools claim it. 
He swallows seed, his pride 
until w/pale mouth legs 
she sucks the root, dreading 
world to devour child. 
Doesn't the ground swallow me 
when I die, or the sea 
if I die at sea? 
The City: Hive, Web, or severed 
insect mound. All citizens heirs 
of the same royal parent. 
The caged beast, the holy center, 
a garden in the midst of the city. 
"See Naples & die". 
Jump ship. Rats, sailors 
& death. 
So many wild pigeons. 
Animals ripe w/new diseases. 
"There is only one disease 
and I am its catalyst", 
cried doomed pride of the carrier. 
Fighting, dancing, gambling, 
bars, cinemas thrive 
in the avid summer. 
Savage destiny 
Naked girl, seen from behind, 
on a natural road 
explore the labyrinth 
young woman left on the desert 
A city gone mad w/fever 
Sisters of the unicorn, dance 
Sisters & brothers of Pyramid 
Mangled hands 
Tales of the Old Days 
Discovery of the Sacred Pool 
Mute-handed stillness baby cry 
The wild dog 
The sacred beast 
Find her! 
He goes to see the girl 
of the ghetto. 
Dark savage streets. 
A hut, lighted by candle. 
She is magician 
Female prophet 
Dressed in the past 
All arrayed. 
The stars 
The moon 
She reads the future 
in your hand. 
The walls are garish red 
The stairs 
High discordant screaming 
She has the tokens. 
"You too" 
"Don't go" 
He flees. 
Music renews. 
The mating-pit. 
Tempted to leap in circle. 
Negroes riot. 
A file of young people 
going thru a small woods. 
They are filming something 
in the street, in front of 
our house. 
Walking to the riot 
Spreads to the houses 
the lawns 
suddenly alive now 
I don't dig what they did 
to that girl 
Mercy pack 
Wild song they sing 
As they chop her hands 
Nailed to a ghost 
I saw a lynching 
Met the strange men 
of the southern swamp 
Cypress was their talk 
Fish-call & bird-song 
Roots & signs 
out of all knowing 
They chanced to be there 
Guides, to the white 
An armed camp. 
Army army 
burning itself in 
Jackal, we sniff after the survivors of caravans. 
We reap bloody crops on war fields. 
No meat of any corpse deprives our lean bellies. 
Hunger drives us on scented winds. 
Stranger, traveler, 
peer into our eyes & translate 
the horrible barking of ancient dogs. 
Camel caravans bear 
witness guns to Caesar. 
Hordes crawl & seep inside 
the walls. The streets 
flow stone. Life goes 
on absorbing war. Violence 
kills the temple of no sex. 
Terrible shouts start 
the journey 
-if they had migrated sooner 
-a high wailing keening 
piercing animal lament 
from a woman 
high atop a Mt. tower 
-Thin wire fence 
in the mind 
dividing the heart 
They smile 
Leave!No come here 
Leave her! 
A creature is nursing 
its child 
soft arms around 
the head & neck 
a mouth to connect 
leave this child alone 
This one is mine 
I'm taking her home 
Back to the rain 
The assassin's bullet 
Marries the King 
Dissembling miles of air 
To kiss the crown. 
The Prince rambles in blood. 
Ode to the neck 
That was groomed 
For rape's gown. 
Cancer city 
Urban fall 
Summer sadness 
The highways of the old town 
Ghosts in cars 
Electric shadows 
the dead seal 
the dog crucifix 
ghosts of the dead car sun. 
Stop the car. 
Rain. Night. 
Sea-bird sea-moan 
Earthquake murmuring 
Fast-burning incense 
Clamoring surging 
Serpentine road 
To the Chinese caves 
Home of the winds 
The gods of mourning 
The city sleeps 

& the unhappy children 
roam w/ animal gangs. 
They seem to speak 
to their friends 
the dogs 
who teach them trails. 
Who can catch them? 
Who can make them come 
The tent girl 
at midnight 
stole to the well 
& met her lover there 
They talked a while 
& laughed 
& then he left 
She put an orange pillow 
on her breast 
In the morning 
Chief w/drew his troops 
& planned a map 
The horsemen rose on up 
The women fixed the ropes 
on tight 
The tents are folded now 
We march toward the sea. 
Catalog of horrors 
Descriptions of Natural disaster 
Lists of miracles in the divine corridor 
Catalog of objects in the room 
List of things in the sacred river 
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 delight 
at night 
to hear their quiet voices 
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 
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. 
Tell the girl to go home 
We need a witness 
to the killing. 
The artists of Hell 
set up easels in parks 
the terrible landscape, 
where citizens find anxious pleasure 
preyed upon by savage bands of youths 
I can't believe this is happening 
I can't believe all these people 
are sniffing each other 
& backing away 
teeth grinning 
hair raised, growling, here in 
the slaughtered wind 
I am ghost killer. 
witnessing to all 
my blessed sanction 
This is it 
no more fun 
the death of all joy 
has come. 
Do you dare 
deny my 
my kindness 
or forgiveness? 
Just try 
you will fry 
like the rest 
in holiness 
And not for a 
will I spare 
any time 
for you 
Ghost children 
down there 
in the frightening world 
You are alone 
& have no need of other 
you & the child mother 
who bore you 
who weaned you 
who made you man 
Photo-booth killer 
fragile bandit 
straight from ambush 
Kill me! 
Kill the child who made 
Kill the thought-provoking 
senator of lust 
who brought you to this state. 
Kill hate 
Kill badness 
Kill madness 
Kill photo mother murder tree 
Kill me. 
Kill yourself 
Kill the little blind elf. 
The beautiful monster 
vomits a stream of watches 
clocks jewels knives silver 
coins & copper blood 
The well of time & trouble 
whiskey bottles perfume 
razor blades beads 
liquid insects hammers 
& thin nails the feet of 
birds eagle feathers & claws 
machine parts chrome 
teeth hair shards of 
pottery & skulls the ruins 
of our time the debris by 
a lake the gleaming 
beer cans & rust & sable 
menstrual fur 
Dance naked on broken 

bones feet bleed & stain 
glass cuts cover your mind 

& the dry end of vacuum 
boat while the people 
drop lines in still pools 
& pull ancient trout 
from the deep home. Scales 
crusted & gleaming green 
A knife was stolen. A 
valuable hunting knife 
By some strange boys 
from the other camp across 
the Lake 
Are these our friends 
racing & shuddering 
thru the calm vales of parliament 
My son will not die in the war 
He will return 
numbed peasant voice of Orient 
Last time you said 
this was the only way 
voice of tender young girl 
Running & speaking 
infected green 
consult the oracle 
bitter creek 
they exist on rainwater 
mantra mate 
maker of brandy 
The poison isles 
The poison 
Take this thin granule 
of evil snakeroot 
from the southern 
way out miracle 
will find thee 
The chopper blazed over 
inward click & sure 
blasted matter, made 
the time bombs free 
of leprous lands 
spotted w/ hunger 
& clinging to law 
show us your ragged head 
& silted smiling eyes 
calm in fire 
a silky flowered shirt 
edging the eyes, alive 
spidery, distant 
dial lies 
come, calm one 
into the life-try 
already wifelike 
latent, leathery, loose 
lawless, large & languid 
She was a kindom-cry 
legion of lewd marching 
Where are your manners 
out there on the sunlit 
boundless glaxies of dust 
cactus spines, beads 
bleach stones, bottles 
& rust cars, stored for shaping 
The new man, time-soldier 
picked his way narrowly 
thru the crowded ruins 
of once grave city, gone 
comic now w/ rats 
& insects of refuge 
He lives in cars 
goes fruitless thru 
the frozen schools 
& finds no space 
in shades of 
the monitors are silenced 
the great graveled guard-towers 
sicken on the westward beach 
so tired of watching 
if only one horse were left 
to ride thru the waste 
a dog at his side 
to sniff meat-maids 
chained on the public poles 
there is no more argument 
in beds, at night 
blackness is burned 
Stare into the parlors of town 
where a woman dances 
in her European gown 
to the great waltzes 
this could be fun 
to rule a wasteland 
Cherry palms 
Terrible shores 
& more 
& many more 
This we know 
that all are free 
in the school-made 
text of the unforgiven 
deceit smiles 
incredible hardships are suffered 
by those barely able 
to endure 
but all will pass 
lie down in green grass 
& smile, & muse, & gaze 
upon her smooth 
to the mating-Queen 
who it seems 
is in love 
w/the horseman 
now, isn't that fragrant 
Sir, isn't that knowing 
w/a wayward careless 
backward glance 
Copyright  1969-1970 by James Douglas Morrison 

here is one entitled:

Dry Water

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

& screens 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 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.


These poems are called:





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 sang

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


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




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?





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 fells.

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 crown 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 smoke 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 monsters

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 there

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, Roundolay, 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 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 out there

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 folk follow & loose-

tree Now here's the run 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

& castanets 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 glided 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

w/ no





Why the desire for death.

A clean paper or 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