JIM MORRISON
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.
***********
Pourquoi je bois ?
Pour pouvoir écrire de la poésie.
Parfois lorsque tout est diffus
et que toute laideur s’efface
en un profond sommeil
Il y a un éveil
et tout ce qui demeure est vrai.
Tandis que le cœur est ravagé
l’esprit se fortifie.
Pardonne-moi mon père car je sais
ce que je fais.
Je veux entendre le dernier poème
du dernier Poète.
PARIS JOURNAL
1971
So much forgotten already
So much forgotten
So much to forget
Once the idea of purity
born, all was lost
irrevocably
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
daughter
Arises
& sees us still in the room
of off-key piano & bad
paintings
him off to work
& new wife arriving
(The candle-forests of
Notre-Dame)
beggar nuns w/moving
smiles, small velvet sacks
& cataleptic eyes
straying to the gaudy
Mosaic calendar
Windows
I write like this
to seize you
give me your love, your
tired eyes, sad for
delivery
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
dust-clock
I remember freeways
Summer, beside you
Ocean-brother
Storms passing
electric fires in the night
"rain, night, misery-
the back-ends of wagons"
Shake it! Wanda,
fat stranded swamp
Woman
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
poverty
Across the street, a
famous pool-hall
where the actors meet
former ace-home of
beat musicians
beat poets & beat
wanderers
in the Zen tradition
from China to the
Subway
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
flower
Sweet Billy!
Do you remember
the snake
your lover
tender in the tumbled
brush-weed
sand & cactus
I do.
And I remember
Stars in the shotgun
night
eating pussy
til the mind runs
clean
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
Trembled
A monster arrived
in the mirror
To mock the room
& its fool
alone
Give me songs
to sing
& emerald dreams
to dream
& I'll give you love
unfolding
Sun
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
fishes
-they are the last
to leave
The gay sea
I eat you
avoiding your wordy
bones
& 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
Phonebooth
I saw them charge
& heard the indian
war-scream
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
below
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
knickers
& 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.
THE LOST PARIS TAPES
The Lost Paris Tapes is the title given to a recorded collection of unedited poems and songs by Jim Morrison. Although Morrison intentionally made the recordings, they are considered bootlegs because they were never officially released to the public in their unedited form by Morrison or his heirs.
The title of the collection is however a misnomer, because most of the recordings were made in Los Angeles in March 1969; long before Morrison traveled to Paris (where he died under mysterious circumstances in 1971). Morrison took these Los Angeles recordings with him to Paris, where they were found among his belongings after his death.
Los Angeles session (March 1969)
The Los Angeles session features a serious but relaxed Morrison taping spoken-word versions of his own written poetry. Morrison can be heard repeating certain sections of poems for technical or aesthetic reasons, and he can be heard giving occasional production cues, such as when certain sound effects should be added at a later date. Morrison's efforts to obtain clear recordings and his additional verbal directions suggest that he planned to use the recordings in a much more ambitious project that would merge his smoothly edited voiceovers with background sounds and music.
Some of these recordings were later mixed with new music tracks recorded by surviving Doors members Ray Manzarek, Robbie Krieger, and John Densmore, and released as the official Doors album An American Prayer. The March 1969 recording of "Orange County Suite" with Jim on piano was later used and mixed with new music recorded by the surviving Doors members Ray Manzarek, Robbie Krieger, and John Densmore, and released as part of their 1997 4 CD "Box Set". This new Doors version also appears on the 1999 box set compilation CD Essential Rarities.
Paris session (17 June 1971)
The only recording on the collection that Morrison actually made in Paris is a segment featuring an apparently drunken Morrison playing around in a studio with two equally inebriated American street musicians. Morrison had befriended the street musicians only a short time earlier, when he found them performing Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young tunes on a Paris sidewalk.
Doors keyboardist Ray Manzarek has referred to this recording as "drunken gibberish," observing, "If you haven't heard them, you're missing nothing."
However, once Morrison gave up trying to perform with the two street musicians, he broke into a solo performance of "Orange County Suite." A writer for Rolling Stone magazine later called this piece "an astounding version of . . . [an] unfinished, unrealized paean to his old lady (Pamela Courson) that had been rejected from at least two Doors albums. . . . It was a drunken, and mostly ad-libbed, recording. Yet, listening carefully . . . , one hears the authentic last of Jim Morrison, two weeks before he died, as he roars spontaneous verses and imagery about his hard-hearted woman, his anguish and his obsessions, easily deploying a poetic champion's compositional facility for the natural cadence and spontaneous rhyme."
Morrison offhandedly labeled the resulting reel-to-reel tape of the session "Jomo and the Smoothies" (Jomo being a pseudonym for Morrison).
Track listing
MARCH 1969 POETRY SESSION:
- Session Start (0:16)
- In That Year... [False Start] (1:02)
- In That Year... (3:00)
- Bird Of Prey (1:55)
- Tape Noon (2:22)
- Whiskey, Mystics And Men (3:38)
- Orange County Suite (5:34)
- All Hail The American Night (5:57)
- The American Night (0:34)
- The Holy Sha (0:37)
- Hitler Poem (0:44)
- Can We Resolve The Past (1:55)
- Always A Playground Instructor (1:32)
- There's A Belief... (0:25)
- Indian, Indian... (0:18)
- Woman In The Window (2:40)
- She's Selling News... (1:11)
- Science Of Night (0:24)
- Tales Of The American Night (0:36)
- Now Listen To This (0:46)
- Babylon Fading (0:39)
- Thank You, O Lord (0:35)
JOMO & THE SMOOTHIES TAPE:
- 23. Warm Up & Tuning (4:30)
- 24. "Starting Now!" (1:14)
- 25. Orange County Suite (8:41)
DECEMBER 8, 1970 POETRY SESSION:
- 26. Graveyard Poem (0:50)
- 27. The Politics Of Ecstacy (0:10)
FEAST OF FRIENDS:
- 28. "Earth, Air, Fire, Water" (0:53)
HWY:
- 29. Dawn's Highway (3:57)
- 30. Phone Booth (2:29)
An American Prayer
An American Prayer - Une Prière Américaine
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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 borne yet & are you alive? Let's reinvent the gods, all the myths of the ages Celebrate symbols from deep elder forests [Have you forgotten the lessons of the ancient war] We need great golden copulations The fathers are cackling in trees of the forest Our mother is dead in the sea Do you know we are being led to slaughters by placid admirals & that fat slow generals are getting obscene on young blood Do you know we are ruled by T.V. The moon is a dry blood beast Guerilla bands are rolling numbers in the next block of green vine amassing for warfare on innocent herdsmen who are just dying O great creator of being grant us one more hour to perform our art & perfect our lives The moths & atheists are doubly divine & dying We live, we die & death not ends it Journey we more into the Nightmare Cling to life our passion'd flower Cling to cunts & cocks of despair We got our final vision by clap Columbus' groin got filled w/ green death (I touched her thigh & death smiled) We have assembled inside this ancient & insane theatre To propagate our lust for life & flee the swarming wisdom of the streets The barns are stormed The windows kept & only one of all the rest To dance & save us W/ the divine mockery of words Music inflames temperament (When the true King's murderers are allowed to roam free a 1000 magicians arise in the land) Where are the feasts we were promised Where is the wine The New Wine (dying on the vine) resident mockery give us an hour for magic We of the purple glove We of the starling flight & velvet hour We of arabic pleasure's breed We of sundome & the night Give us a creed To believe A night of Lust Give us trust in The Night Give of color hundred hues a rich Mandala for me & you & for your silky pillowed house a head, wisdom & a bed Troubled decree Resident mockery has claimed thee We used to believe in the good old days We still receive In little ways The Things of Kindness & unsporting brow Forget & allow Did you know freedom exists in a school book Did you know madmen are running our prison w/in a jail, w/in a gaol w/in a white free protestant Maelstrom We're perched headlong on the edge of boredom We're reaching for death on the end of a candle We're trying for something That's already found us We can invent Kingdoms of our own grand purple thrones, those chairs of lust & love we must, in beds of rust Steel doors lock in prisoner's screams & muzak, AM, rocks their dreams No black men's pride to hoist the beams while mocking angels sift what seems To be a collage of magazine dust Scratched on foreheads of walls of trust This is just jail for those who must get up in the morning & fight for such unusable standards while weeping maidens show-off penury & pout ravings for a mad staff Wow, I'm sick of doubt Live in the light of certain South Cruel bindings The servants have the power dog-men & their mean women pulling poor blankets over our sailors (& where were you in our lean hour) Milking your moustache? or grinding a flower? I'm sick of dour faces Staring at me from the T.V. Tower. I want roses in my garden bower; dig? Royal babies, rubies must now replace aborted Strangers in the mud These mutants, blood-meal for the plant that's plowed They are waiting to take us into the severed garden Do you know how pale & wanton thrillful comes death on strange hour unannounced, unplanned for like a scaring over-friendly guest you've brought to bed Death makes angels of us all & gives us wings where we had shoulders smooth as raven's claws No more money, no more fancy dress This other Kingdom seems by far the best until its other jaw reveals incest & loose obedience to a vegetable law I will not go Prefer a Feast of Friends To the Giant family |
Savez-vous la chaleur du progrès sous les étoiles ? Savez-vous que nous existons ? Avez-vous oubliés les clés du Royaume Avez-vous déjà été mis au monde & êtes-vous en vie ? Ré-inventons les dieux, tous les mythes des siècles Célébrons les symboles des profondes forêts anciennes (Avez-vous oublié les leçons de la guerre antique) Il nous faut de grandes copulations dorées Les pères ricanent dans les arbres de la forêt Notre mère est morte dans la mer Savez-vous que nous sommes conduits aux massacres par de placides amiraux & que de gras et lents généraux sont rendus obscènes par le sang jeune Savez-vous que nous sommes gouvernés par la télé La lune est une bête au sang sec Des groupes de guérilleros roulent des joints dans le carré de vigne voisin thésaurisant pour la guerre sur le dos d'innocents bouviers qui ne font que mourir O grand créateur de ce qui est accorde-nous une heure de plus pour accomplir notre art & parfaire nos vies Les mites & les athées sont doublement divins & mourants Nous vivons, nous mourons & la mort n'arrête rien Nous poursuivons notre voyage dans le Cauchemar Accrochez-vous à la vie Notre fleur passionée Accrochez-vous aux cons & aux bites du désespoir Notre ultime vision nous a été donnée par la chaude-pisse L'entre-jambe de Colomb s'est gonflé de mort verte (J'ai touché sa hanche & la mort a souri) Nous nous sommes assemblés dans ce théâtre antique & fou Pour propager notre rage de vivre & fuir la sagesse grouillante des rues Les portes ouvertes sont enfoncées (1) Les fenêtres gardées & seule de tout le reste Pour danser et nous sauver Avec le divin simulacre des mots La musique enflamme le tempérament (Qaund on permet aux meurtriers du seul Roi de rôder en liberté un millier de magiciens surgissent dans le pays) Où sont les festins qui nous ont été promis Où est le vin Le vin nouveau (il meurt sur la vigne) simulacre résident donne-nous une heure pour la magie Nous du gant pourpre Nous du vol d'étourneau & de l'heure de velours Nous de la race du plaisir arabe Nous du dôme solaire & de la nuit Donne-nous une profession Pour croire Une nuit de luxure Donne-nous espoir dans La Nuit Donne de la couleur cent teintes un riche Mandala pour moi & toi & pour votre maison coussinée de soie une tête, la sagesse & un lit Décret troublé Le simulacre résident t'a revendiqué Nous avons cru au bon vieux temps Nous en profitons encore Dans une moindre mesure Les Choses de la Bonté & un sourcil peu engageant Pardonnent & permettent Saviez-vous que la liberté existe dans un livre de classe Saviez-vous que des fous dirigent notre prison Dans une geôle, dans un cachot Dans un tourbillon blanc, libre et protestant Nous sommes juchés la tête en bas au bord de l'ennui Nous cherchons à atteindre la mort au bout d'une bougie Nous essayons de trouver quelque chose Qui nous a déjà trouvés Nous pouvons inventer nos propres Royaumes de grands trônes pourpres, ces sièges de luxure & aimer il nous faut, sur des lits de rouille Des portes d'acier enferment les cris du prisonnier & de la muzak, grandes ondes, berce leurs rêves Pas de fierté d'homme noir pour hisser les poutres tandis que des anges moqueurs filtrent les apparences Être un collage de poussière de magazine Gratté sur les fronts de murs de confiance Ceci n'est qu'une prison pour ceux qui doivent se lever le matin & lutter pour de telles valeurs inutilisables tandis que des demoiselles en pleurs étaient leur indigence & font la moue paroles incohérentes pour un personnel enragé Oh, j'en ai assez de douter Vivez dans la lumière de la certitude Sudiste Liens cruels Les serviteurs ont le pouvoir hommes-chiens & leurs viles femelles couvrant de draps misérables nos marins (& où donc citez-vous à notre heure d'abstinence) Traire votre moustache ? où moudre une fleur ? J'en ai assez des visages austères Qui me fixent du haut de leur tour de Télé. Je veux des roses dans la tonnelle de mon jardin : pigé ? Bébés royaux, rubis doivent maintenant remplacer les Étrangers avortés dans la boue Ces mutants, nourriture de sang pour la plante qu'on a labourée Ils nous attendent pour nous ammener dans les jardins désunis Savez-vous la pâleur et les frissons impudiques de la mort qui vient à une heure étrange sans être annoncée, sans être escomptée comme un invité effrayant et trop amical qu'on aurait pris dans son lit La mort fait de nous tous des anges & nous donne des ailes là où nous avions des épaules douces comme des serres de corbeau Plus d'argent, plus de déguisement Cet autre Royaume semble de loin le meilleur jusqu'à ce que l'autre mâchoire révèle l'inceste & le respect relaché à une loi végétale Je n'irai pas Je préfère un Festin d'Amis À la famille Géante |
