& the cool fluttering rotten wind
& a child's handprint on a picture window
& the gun cocked held on the shoulder
& fire in the night waiting, in a darkened house for the cruel insane breed from town to arrive
& come poking thru smoke
& the fuel & ashes for milk
& the evil leer on their faces barking with triumph
Who will not stop them?
The hollow tree, where we three slept & dreamed in the movement of whirling shadows & grass
Tired rustle of leaves
An old man stirs the dancers with his old dance darkening
Swift shadows lean on the meat of forests to allow breathing
Gently they stir
Gently rise
The dead are new-born
Awakening with ravaged limbs and wet souls
Gently they sigh in rapt funeral amazement
Who called these dead to dance?
Was it the young woman learning to play the "Ghost Song" on her baby grang?
Was it the wilderness children?
Was it the ghost-god himself, stuttering, cheering, chatting blindly?
I called you up to anoint the earth.
I called you to announce sadness falling like burned skin
I called you to wish you well,
To glory in self like a new monster
& now, I call on you to pray:
~Jim Morrison~
April 18
Hey, I just wanted to share my all-time favourite poem by one of the greats. He was so dreamy. Another one gone way too early.
Later