Indian, Indian, what did you die for? Indian said: Nothing at all…

Jim Morrison was born on December 8, 1943 in Melbourne, Florida. Best known for his years with “The Doors”, Morrison was also a poet, writer, and film maker.

Today marks the 37th anniversary of his death. He is buried at Père Lachaise cemetery in Paris, France. In celebration of the life of Jim Morrison, Lithe Demon will be posting some video tributes and poems.

An American Prayer

James Douglas Morrison (Poet, Musician)

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

On this day in 1971, Jame Douglas Morrison died at his apartment in France. Morrison wrote the following in his poetry notebook:

“I’m Me!
Can you dig it.
My meat is real.
My hands–how they move
balanced like lithe demons
My hair–so twined and writhing
The skin of my face–pinch the cheeks
My flaming sword tongue
spraying verbal fire-flys
I’m real.
I’m human
But I’m not an ordinary man
No No No”

This blog is a tribute to those human beings (artists, musicians, poets, etc) that are still attempting, maybe some succeeding, to push the envelope of existence.