TRIAD MOVEMENTS TOWARDS THE WAIT OF THE SUN
A three part story-adventure of the Doors’ vocalist, Jim Morrison
Another stunning piece of surrealism from The Society’s resident writer ERIC LASTICK ….
( PART 1)
CRYSTAL SHIP IN WAKING HOURS: A genesis on board. Crystal take wave…of waters of ship too sail, “the poetic” on time of hypnotic float …paddle to it’s form. Know of the ship…It’s crystal insides. Jim’s world & all our world’s, inn opener of message, as if in bottle-spring”, straight through time. What a spectacular built ship this night to these forwards; in past, present tense—-too the moment of poetic lines. Future song among the generational pull of the seas…in upcoming days, years…and journey’s for all; trust and linger. An Opus ring…treasure blend of no end. Sea through channels, only Jim can see. Gem a lobe, an ear to hear—-as the Crystal ship reminds of almost Nursery rhythms for the sleepy-eyed wonders of the sea… as moonlight approaches, the gold deck of kid-like frolic…step into the night, by day…day towards night.
(PART 2)
PAM AND JIM MORRISON: Exiles from the forefronts of ”Rock ‘n’ Roll”
PARIS POET, Jim Morrison, riding the causeway of tender leads—towards the northern river…and sways through the high hills of green—as the Ireland mind lends of bloodlines of time. In 1971 Pam and Jim rejoice a new life…and that being of France. Centering fine spirits of olden Bush-mills. Sips, then gulps too dances and riches, as boyfriend, girlfriend—too a new day, nineteen seventy one…as a fast growing poet on the lend; and in all the absences and forefronts of his command of ”Rock’n’ Roll” (When the music’s over)
Love lasts in the craziest sly of the poet. The lion themed, in tastes too— not conquer of art, but to sip through these Bush mills—of someplace else, other than the doors that perceive. Allegorical be of the olive branch, verses the unknowns and bewares there of the unknown soldier” An old admiral helper-hand of Southeast Asia’s, ”Gulf of ton-waters”. ”NO NEVER”, as Jim once implied, to which his very own kind…and it’s bloodline were all distant dead, in these eyes that which beholds! Next, as the Ray Manzarek organ streams of consciousness. The lighten fire. The pyre of sorely and sour things…and all love of passion. The very riches of family and friends… disclosed a special bin of all those yesterday events. And rather close— of the doors that perceive. His obsession of sex and death, as a black magic—too never draw a line in the hot of the sands—too those infatuation dances on the hot rails…circuses and lewd drinking ends, in a Dade county Florida, Cooper-rue in Blue. A coat and badge beat squad …as Jim sung for it’s shorten everlasting …when the music’s over”.
Jim’s main squeeze, Lady love, Pamela…a sudden whelp of the heavies—too those so— sad stamped, hit travels. The frequent of the Paris winds. Odd ball poet’s themes—too a needle tracked infernal! Metaphor is all to real—too her man’s end! The bathtub last breath…pulse reads of negative zero. Cold stored wrappings of luke warm to cold of Morrison’s last day. The strange of the Paris twists. Turns a final hedge stone—as the alley cats great groupings…and uneasy stay-ed of the poet… and legendary rocker at the grave grounds of these Paris holds!
(PART 3)
CATS OUT UNDER THE STARS: Quarter till three. Quarter moon, deep cat-nip slumber…weigh the night—order-up the melatonin. The vitality of all those yesterdays. Hallowed flare…buried tall tale weeds where dreams still, ”mean to mend”. To fix in a darkened furred dream.
DREAM SEQUENCE…imagine a typical back alley-way; as i, the whole embodiment of a Tom cat—and right along with another, to the prowling and poking out of the cold darkened alleyways of an Urban setting…as 2 brash fireballs—leap up the fire escapes… and back sections of the poorer classes. Jim, my Tomcat colleague in crime, fearlessly takes too the very top of a dumpster, in a rather self driven dive-bomb effort; rummaging through discards of stale bread and salad sides. Fish-heads staring back at him .. by an old corner restaurant. Tomcat Jim, with eyes in a line of a ”dozen-set” of fish eyes, that gleam in the night watch, of a burly grimy dressed— a white smock man, ditching trays of dried egg—while Jim goes face down in his whiskered malaise, at his first-come, first-serve, wildcat indulgences. This gruff looking man begins to smack the handle end of his broom, attempting too shoo away, Jim, the Tomcat…who runs from harms way.A restless yell of ”Varments” ”street thugs” ”Misfits” Echos the backstreets we run… alongside the familiar face of Jim Morrison, rock star legend, in actual cat form! Check paw too tail, as two fleeting cats on the go…riders of a hateful human storm. Sledging through life’s rains. Towering lions allude the attack, yet scavengers that we are, as. Morrison begins to stir crush and gutted by claw of the opportunity of a back alley hunt… with 2 cats on the move—too have our fun, tangled in the mischief all of the night, in a cat nip trove…dizzying and drunk-like fun!
SEND FOR ME, MY OWNER…just not tonight. Cats out under the stars. Street derelicts, grease filed walls. Sips of cheap dirt wine. A bum loses over a ”pop can” of gravy train, as Morrison quick-step and a cat arm wave…as he celebrates with his tooth grip can in mouth! The mean loud and stumble bum, one by one too their own cornered expressions—and share in bottle breath…reek and bottled of ten land bastards of blackened dark gray, as they are complicated. Gray ticks in the stillness and ugliness—where film noirs, of like dreams. Serotonin at twelve after three…leaked are the thoughts, fears and visions of two poets in two distinct parallel realms! Seems so real, of all the endeavors of ink pages…paper leaflets scatter, as Jim, the Tomcat, drinks from a pet bowl of a last days whiskey, in the vanities and throwaways of all yesterdays. Self hate berate and minimizes a belief and self worth. Call it psychological cat warfare—too the stirs and fangs. Some may call it witchery of such high intensity. The intellectual best suited ways of upping the ante. Yet deep down in this drenched wine bath dream, a literary angle turn to a beggar of the soul, in realms and back alleyways, never writing quite up to speed. Esoteric in an inescapable bitter claw…as cats drop their pens, doing the better part of nine lives. Canterbury muse pass down the flash pan alley—two poet cats who fight and fester…and in need to put a lid to an under tail. Two cats raise coattails of poets past…as 2 cats under the stars. In Dreams…in wonders. Though a plain of existences to learn from…and wake the day with a simple reason and joy of the written word—too it’s truest sense in one good night sleep. When the music’s over, turnout the lights.
#jimmorrison #thedoors