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beth stclair Sep 7
built of tarmac road and
lizard king his song was
the end of summer,
the last summer where
the light had to leave but
somehow he left us fused to
it, intoxicated, blown
forever into our
subconscious minds
where it sunk like the
anchor of a ship.
beth stclair Aug 17
the summer’s great lizard hides
under a rock,

the summer sings of ending days, of
lonely horizons and crystal seas,

we smoulder in the sunshine
where the clouds flow in their

drifting streams, their ridges like
colossal ledges on the mountains

of the world.
"summer's almost gone, where will we be " is a quote from the group the doors.
Nigdaw Jul 13
I found you between the covers
Laid bare before me,
A beginning a middle and an end
All there for me to discover,
On white sheets, in among the small print
Along with accompanying photographs
A catalogue if you will
In chronological order, unchangeable
As this is now a past event.

But these aren’t your words
There are quotes I’ll give you that,
But not an autobiography, this truth
Belongs to someone else’s twisted opinion
Through research and interviews with also
Rans, so where are you really, not here
Not raw emotion, frustration, devotion
No one saw inside your head, plucked
Your thoughts and put it down on paper.
Pagan Paul Dec 2018
.
Rider On The Storm of trances,
LA Woman led through ritual dances.
A Poet just Waiting for the Sun,
when The End was where it all begun.
The Spy trying to Break on Through,
a native sharing his Shamans Blues.
A Ship of Fools tinged with mirth,
destined Not To Touch The Earth.
Mr Mojo Risin', the acid dream rover,
taking rest When The Music's Over.




© Pagan Paul (04/12/16)


James 'Jim' Douglas Morrison
(Poet and Rock Star)
8 December 1943 – 3 July 1971.
.
I vow I'll go straightedge, grow
old w/ U now I will try to live.
Honey? I'm royal jellydrizzler, ambro-
sia sprinkler, manuka slav-

erer, glucose washingline.
Honey? Truncated puberty bassethounds
no more mellifluous a confection-
ary spokesperson than sweet sounds

of rhyming superlatives, purple prose glaze,
cherup syrub of yr...Honey?
I'm Jack the Dripper, Jackson ******* squeez-
ing bees,

weird scenes inside
the love hive. Honey, yr krazysexykool
- were U head
girl @krazysexyskool?

Yr compassionate
becoz yr compassion art
is that yr compassion heart
has compassion smarts. Compassion farts

even vent a delectable sillage.
Honey, when U showed me yr hon-
eypot, it ate away l/ acid at my 3rd eyelid
- pineal flash! When

I showed U my bruce,
U had me feeling
so pinefresh, last of the summer spruce
decongesting

the mucus of a moose.
No relation to non-Monty Montgomery,
but when I petted yr zipper cat @clubhousecaboose,
U helped me see

- eureka!
Bing-
o! ******.  Either that or 'Each 1 of us is special in their
own way'. The Get Along Gang

was a vision thang.
I'm yr Lenin & yr my Inessa.
I'm yr Lennon & yr my May Pang.
On a ferry cross the Volga to yr Oktober rock 'n' rolla.

& tho' U've got a hermione
& I'm not into hot karl,
U're my Lenny
& I'm yr Carl.

But shock appearance of the final realisation I
could lose the U inside of U, yr inimit-
able secular seelenfunklein, strikes down high
spirits l/ L.Ritchie floored by ceilingfunkline flit.
'I live uptown. I live downtown. I live all around.'
- 'Changeling', The Doors

Facebook, festivals, coupling, karoshi.
Snorgeoisie dreaming of World War Z.
Mood wings, mood poisoning.
Wearish is this way of life.
Oh well whatever nevermind,
mama lula chekhov alrite!

Norwich is an orange nidus,
so I wear my purple sunglasses.
Should you covet them, fish
the chazzas for the like.
If you find some, or you're blinded by the sun,
mama lula chekhov alrite!

Now I'm a vespertine cyclist  
beneath an amberdamaged fudge
of doves. Quite unharassed the parish,
we duck all outriders save twilite
& that **** earworm of an eggcorn,
'mama lula chekhov alrite'.

Psychedelic hangover this morning,
but now nightcycling ,  off the beaten Ritalin.
Can't see a thing; feel everything.
I wear my (purple) sunglasses at nite,
on the crest of a midnite wheelie.
Mama lula chekhov alrite!

Underpass blades don't raid, but they mite.
I blow a kiss goodbye to the
anuses of this town's black cats.
The creak of a midnite scorer's bike.
Underpass eyes pass me by.
Mama lula chekhov alrite!

Ji-Mo, my original bad influence,
why did you throw the chapter pods away?
If felines rated classic rock bands,
every catlover knows they'd be Doors acolites,
for they share the same elegant feral mystique.
Mama lula chekhov alrite!

Did the dishiest drunkard
in the history of Los Angeles, alcodelic
Dionysus-***-Diogenes appear
to me as boghouse blues spirit guide
a la Elvis & Clarence in 'True Romance',
'Mama lula chekhov alrite'

Ji-Mo's pep mantra? Nah. But
Pere Lachaise was only pilgrimage
I ever made. Later,  le vent de gard du Nord
crooned thru the pissoir as I took le *****,
'C'est la vie, hakuna matata,
che-che-chong che-che-chong

mama lula chekhov alrite!'
“People are afraid of themselves, of their own reality; their feelings most of all. People talk about how great love is, but that’s *******. Love hurts. Feelings are disturbing. People are taught that pain is evil and dangerous. How can they deal with love if they’re afraid to feel? Pain is meant to wake us up. People try to hide their pain. But they’re wrong. Pain is something to carry, like a radio. You feel your strength in the experience of pain. It’s all in how you carry it. That’s what matters. Pain is a feeling. Your feelings are a part of you. Your own reality. If you feel ashamed of them, and hide them, you’re letting society destroy your reality. You should stand up for your right to feel your pain.
*-James Douglas Morrison
Beatnik poet and singer for The Doors,
Died in 1971 at the age of twenty-seven.
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