#jimmorrison
Before you slip into unconsciousness
I'd like to have another kiss
Another flashing chance at bliss
Another kiss, another kiss
The days are bright and filled with pain
Enclose me in your gentle rain
The time you ran was too insane
We'll meet again, we'll meet again
Oh tell me where your freedom lies
The streets are fields that never die
Deliver me from reasons why
You'd rather cry, I'd rather fly
The crystal ship is being filled
A thousand girls, a thousand thrills
A million ways to spend your time
When we get back, I'll drop a line
Oct 2, 2020
Oct 2, 2020 at 7:34 PM UTC
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.
Sep 7, 2019
Sep 7, 2019 at 2:36 PM UTC
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.
Aug 17, 2019
Aug 17, 2019 at 2:47 PM UTC
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.
Jul 13, 2019
Jul 13, 2019 at 6:55 AM UTC
.
*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.
Dec 6, 2018
Dec 6, 2018 at 6:12 PM UTC
there is no way to win in a world that is male dominated.
I have taken years to fully appreciate my body. It was not something that came naturally to me,
especially with an over critical mom
constantly concerned with my health and how I presented myself and my body.
now, in a period of rebirth,
I have found it upon myself to be able to look in the mirror
and appreciate how my *** is no longer flat,
or how my collarbones poke out underneath my neck
I snap a photo, and share it on social media.
the flood of insults and suggestions drown me until I am drowning in a sea of my own tears
"You should put on more clothes. No one wants to see that"
"you leave no mystery to a man. how disgusting"
"you are pretty in the photos where you are fully clothed. why do you feel the need to show off your ***
At 16, I have learned that what I wear is not up to me.
what I wear impacts other's lives,
the half of an inch of polyester cloth
that separates my beautiful and natural body from the eyes of the rest of the world
is so crucial to be fully covering the nape of my neck,
my shoulders,
my entire stomach,
all the way past my knees
and to my ankles
so that I am locked in a prison of cotton transformed into a shirt
because heaven forbid that .5 inches of thin yet protective cloth
hangs slightly lower than the nape of my neck,
revealing that I am in fact a girl.
the constant bombardment of men
telling me I should cover up my chest and ***
makes me feel as though I am property,
that by choosing my own clothes,
I am somehow offending and threatening their existence
why is it
that when men are gazing at the naked body of a woman
for their own personal pleasure
it's ok?
but as soon as I
want to celebrate my beautiful and curvy body
men instantly become repulsed with the idea that I am not
a ball of various fabrics and turtle necks
and instead a natural woman
who isn't afraid
to show a little skin.
May 29, 2017
May 29, 2017 at 10:54 PM UTC
I imagined our last goodbye
would be something for the screens-
you would be about to board a train
(you were always the one to say goodbye)
I would make my way through the bustling crowd
and find you through the smoke
as you'd turn around,
the wind from a moving train would brush my hair ever so slightly
that at that exact moment,
you'd fancy me the prettiest girl to cross paths with
as a tear would escape from the corner of my eye,
i'd whisper from across the station;
"please don't leave me"
you are moving to Seattle-
out west to a city that never shows sun
it was meant for you.
you want to be a Bio major,
and you want to spend the rest of your days in the mountains.
Seattle is far away from the sub(urban) town you leave behind
and you never gave me the chance to see you through.
I will never forgive myself for the things I said,
but mistaking every stranger with long brown hair
and caramel-apple eyes
for you,
is punishment enough.
you are moving to Seattle,
and although I feel a bittersweet sensation
of being happy that you finally are getting your wish
(to, quote, "be away from you and this stupid ******* sleepy suburbia that offers me nothing but painful memories)
I can't help but torture myself
as I visualize you pursuing your dreams,
meeting beautiful, pale strangers that become your new friends
or finally gathering the courage to turn behind your chair and ask the
quiet redhead sitting behind you in your American Lit. class
if she'd like to grab coffee after lecture.
how can I sit back at home,
watching your through a blank, glass screen
seeing you move into the future
while i'm still stuck in the past,
heartbroken over losing the boy who left me in this do nothing town
as he moved on
to Seattle.
May 14, 2017
May 14, 2017 at 10:51 PM UTC
for more than a year,
I have been stuck with the indecision to
call you.
and it's as if I torture myself with the thought
of what I would do
if you were to bump into me at the grocery store
hair grown out past your chin,
bloodshot eyes; you smell like beer and ****
would I have the courage to confront you?
or would I take on the "little girl lost" persona
i oh so often do
and crouch behind the stand of sunflowers,
waiting until you have finished fishing through to find your favorite muffins from the display
and go on your way
i just can't fathom
after all these months of trying to change myself,
i can't change the fact that you are still plaguing my body
the bruises on my lips can still be felt.
your scent fills up the room that you refuse to walk into
and it must be some kind of ******* sickness
that no matter what you could have said to me and make me cry
it won't be enough to scare me away
Stockholm syndrome for the ones who keep themselves imprisoned in another's memory
you have made me sick and perverted
but I love you for it.
Apr 23, 2017
Apr 23, 2017 at 9:36 AM UTC
one day I will listen to your words harass my ears in song,
and those words will no longer be about me.
instead it will be white noise,
the static enemy that murmurs paranoia through the stale air
of a room left unkempt
a knife stabbed in the lower abdomen
pull it out and let me bleed out
and maybe you'll be able to apologize after i'm gone
or maybe not
in the early hours of dawn
it is a challenge to vigorously write your name down on the paper
that lays crumpled by my bedside because I can't get the "A" in your name right
it reminds me of the day I didn't want to get out of the car but did
you spot me, i hear a gasp from my friend
but i keep on walking
because i know if i look back
I'm a goner.
Apr 15, 2017
Apr 15, 2017 at 8:01 PM UTC
he keeps me
trapped in a prism prison of different shades and tints of red
crimson, scarlet, marlot
follow me down into some kind of thing we'll drag on for months
keeping the dead animal of our situation-ship around until the neighbors complain of the stench
i dont know, dude.
i open myself up and i see the same shades of red flowing out
the stench is there as well- i smell like a gun
anxiety chews away at the rest of my body,
gnawing on my ear, feeding me more information i didn't need to hear
you say i'm trigger happy when it comes to jumping to conclusions
if i'm a gun, you're the smoke from the shot.
Apr 5, 2017
Apr 5, 2017 at 10:57 AM UTC
Words Heavy (Kiss Bukowski)
Drinking White Russians with Black Kenyans,
not joking you I was just in Ethiopia,
this it not a Haiku or a Love Poem,
this is gifted insanity like Jim Morrison,
no jealousy I’m already Seamus Heaney,
isn’t it ironic how we can be both depressed and happy,
like a ghost that won’t leave earth,
or a Self that’s over the hill but still tries to write ****
oh that’s touching,
like John Updike meeting E.E. Cummings,
not gay no way,
but I’d still kiss Charles Bukowski,
no bukkaki though,
because I’m a Simple Man and rather than,
bukkaki I’d probably like to make Love One on One,
I guess I’m New School and Old Fashion,
flirting with Death like I’ve already got my chips cashed in,
Life a Trip and can be a B!tch it depends on how you’re acting,
as an overwhelming sense of anxiety creeps into me,
like being Maya Angelou performing a show for the ****
a Civil Rights Superhero,
that makes Her point without any lustful thoughts of revenge,
presence light as a snowflake,
words heavy as the weight of the world on her back as it bends,
words heavy as the weight of the world on my will as it bends,
all the white watching my own show from the front row,
drinking White Russians with Black Kenyans,
joking I’m not joking,
I was just in Ethiopia,
this it not a Haiku or a Love Poem,
this is gifted insanity like Jim Morrison…
∆ Aaron LA Lux ∆
Apr 2, 2017
Apr 2, 2017 at 7:57 PM UTC
(a conversational tone, because I'm sick of being mature)
I have resorted to living under the four gray walls and ceiling
because even though this room still reminds me of you,
It reminds me of a lot of things.
therefore, this room isn't primarily of your memory...
****
Last year around this time I'm sure you were still prodding around
I revisited the place I was on my birthday when I got a text from you
you said I was being an attention *****
but then you proceeded to ask to come over
you were weird.
the field of the festival
where we escaped for a second to breath
the graveyard we went to
and there were two headstones, side by side
that had my name, yours
we laughed about it,
you joking that we were going to burn each other out so much
that the gravediggers dug our ditches early
i drive past your place all the **** time
how is that good for my mental health?
mental health
I've been thinking about my mental health a lot lately
it shouldn't be healthy that after almost two years
i'm still hurt by you
my friends don't say i'm crazy
but i see it in their eyes
the shallow glances they give each other
i know i'm losing it;
one simple push away from a mental breakdown
lol, it's coming
once i fall, i'll fall back to you
who knows if you'll be there to catch me after all these months of not talking
of you wanting me dead
of me wanting to be
of you finding other lovers
of me not
of me knowing you're out there, that you're in my head
no,
how do i recover from that
when my entire head has been dedicated to the galleria of memorabilia from a lover I can't seem to get over
Feb 28, 2017
Feb 28, 2017 at 10:17 AM UTC
it's so ****** up but
I see him in you
same face, same hair
but the eyes
the eyes do not lie
and he is not in your eyes
i miss him a lot.
Feb 21, 2017
Feb 21, 2017 at 9:37 PM UTC
I dream of the one day where we meet again; anew
two from the same soul
seeing you, a past lover
as a new individual
different in appearance, different in mind
maybe we will meet once more
when you no longer support your temper
and I my immaturity
we will be cloaked in a new moon's light
seeing each other through skin and bones
forget insecurities; forget past disagreements
oh, but I am humbled
such prideful thinking it is to ever imagine another chance in this life
to get things right
I am not yet developed to receive you
so for now,
I will dismiss this as naïve thinking
Feb 5, 2017
Feb 5, 2017 at 5:47 PM UTC
All hail the Lizard King,
whose esoteric words crawl like sirens
over hungry rocks
baring teeth to the hypnotized sailor
steering his ship into the jagged maw.
All hail the Lizard King,
perched upon his Dionysian throne,
ambrosial ecstasies fill his cup
while jongleurs dance to psychedelic chansons.
At his feet
prey the nubile maidens of yore
flower-eyed and pearly-teethed.
His eyes, mighty azure pools of madness
within which Byzantine kings were murdered--
blood darts through the mysterious waters
into the hysterical white void.
Alexander the Great
sits poised like a statue
where his libido crouches like a panther
'til the aural adonis
leaps from his confines
an amorous figure of tantalizing flesh and blood
with supple lips pouting, naked muscles taut,
mad eyes gleaming.
All hail the Lizard King,
from lush lips poetic decrees
sing forth into the endless night
penetrating taverns and bedrooms and radios
and stadiums.
The electric shaman leaps from his throne
to cast his wicked incantation,
a spark from his eyes shoots to the pyre
where a lustful blue flame erupts from
the bones of the prophets.
HIs voice soothing, haunting,
the sonic alchemist
sings his siren song into the cataclysm
where we are cast in abeyance--
We follow him,
but is he only leading us deeper
into the darkness,
or does he truly see the light?
The endless night.
All hail the Lizard King.
Dec 28, 2016
Dec 28, 2016 at 10:06 PM UTC
As the poet grew tired
Of what he had seen and
What he had known,
He turned to his garden
He picked the most beautiful,
Wild and strange flower.
A Jasmine; one rare
And unique piece of perfection
As he gazed endlessly
At this pure flower
He knew this was one,
One he could keep.
A rose in a garden of thorns
No beauty as equal to her
As the poet took care, of
The lovely flower
It changed into a human,
An extraordinary woman
With diamond eyes
And flawless looks
The poet grabbed her hand
Kissed her neck and said,
‘I am the poet and
You are my muse’
Dec 15, 2016
Dec 15, 2016 at 7:58 AM UTC
You were draped across a girlfriend's bedroom wall
where a cross would be,
your arms held out loosely like an ambiguous invitation,
shielding your countenance from extraneous intrusions
under which she would sleep soundly
in the shroud of your incantation.
Your fallen angel wings beating back bad dreams
slain mercilessly
and falling at your feet.
Your lips slightly pouting, eyes dark,
obfuscating the madness and sex-crazed hallucinations
they harbor.
Hair purposefully unkempt,
disheveled sensuously atop your head,
tufts of hair brushed across your broad chest--
Bare muscles taut and taunting,
placed topographically on the poised temple--
those ready to worship bow their heads
in reverence to the sonic alchemist.
The modern adonis,
sculpted out of the Mississippi Delta Blues
and Dionysian wet dreams--
brought to life with the electric current pulsating through the microphone and its stand upon which you straddle with skin-tight leather pants--
Your left hand around its waist,
your right cupped over the phallus--
your lips part and your cataclysmal eyes
envelop the darkness before you--
Your image,
tormented and tantalizing
in an open invitation
to prostrate ourselves before you
and succumb to your hypnotic stare.
The door opens.
Oct 13, 2016
Oct 13, 2016 at 12:14 AM UTC
The drugged door
Opened , then shut
Ushered an era
Of pernicious rebellion
A voice that stood up
To stand down
Conquering
And then conquered
In death
Be sleeping
Overdosed
And weeping…
Sing your protests
Vehemently
Hallucinate the dreams
That will never come true…
All your false hopes
Are trapped in a
Revolving door
That shall never swing back
Nor can ever swing in…
Goodbye rock prince
Sleep well
In your forever slumber
I can still feel your music
And I can still hear your pain…
But so many years have passed now..
Since you’ve made your final bow..
Yet you remain
A misunderstood icon
A tortured soul
A misguided prophet
With a sensual face…
Screaming wildly
And being screamed at
In return
Goodnight my prince
I close the door
And you are gone…
But not really gone,
Your voice will always
Sing those haunted, twisted songs
You interpreted so well…
Selling your soul for a high..
Burying your sorrows where you lie
Dec 10, 2015
Dec 10, 2015 at 6:22 AM UTC