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Post by TheWallsScreamedPoetry on Dec 22, 2004 16:10:41 GMT
Dry Water was the name for a series of short poems that appear in both The American Night and Wilderness. Some were published when Jim was alive...... in Image magazine in LA during October 1969 and in January 1971 by Circus magazine. I am fond of Untrampled footsteps from this work and maybe it was another cog in his possible plans for a follow up to Lords & New Creatures......pity he never saw it all in print.....
(I)
Untrampled footsteps Borderline dreams Occasion for sinners alive if it seems given to wander alone at the shore wanton to whisper I am no more Am as my heart beats live as I can wanton to whisper faraway sands
(II)
My weary westward wanderer Faraway is as it seems & so alone shall shelter Come along unto my sails as weary islands go prosper merry as I went I shall no more the sailor Shall I ho the sailor
(III)
Where were you when I needed you? Where indeed but in some sheltered Sturdy heaven; wasted, broken sadly broke & one thin thing to get us thru
(IV)
Urchin crawl broke spenders bleeders all brew North stained lot he was lost out on an aircraft high above long awkward brewer's shelters breed
this ugly crew our poisoned jet god get us love & get us speed To get us home again love Crippled by people cut by nothing Public housing the incredible damage can be cured
(V)
She's my girl friend: I wouldn't tell her Name but I think you already know her Name is Square fire insect marble saffron intro demi-rag in flames
it's the same game whether you call it by her real name
(VI)
She lives in the city under the sea Prisoner of pirates prisoner of dreams I want to be w/her want her to see
The things I've created sea-shells that bleed Sensitive seeds of impossible warships
Dragon-fly hovers & wavers & teases The weeds & his wings are in terrible fury
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Post by TheWallsScreamedPoetry on Mar 28, 2005 15:15:33 GMT
This stuff is cool....anyone else like this particular segment of Morrison writings?
DRY WATER
The velvet fur of religion The polish of knife handle & coin The universe of organic gears or microscope mechanical embryo metal doll The night is a steel machine grinding its slow stained wheels The brain is filled w/ clocks, & drills & water down drains Knifehandle, thick blood like the coin & cloth they rub & the skin they love to touch
the graveyard, the tombstone, the gloomstone & runestone The sand & the moon, mating deep in the Western night waiting for the escape of one of our gang The hangman's noose is a silver sluice bait comeon man your meat is hanging on the wing of the raven man's bird, poet's soul
Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhh the thin rustle of weeds the voice comes from faraway inside, awaiting its birth in a cool room, on tendril bone The insane free chummy cackle of infants in a ballroom, of a family of friends around a table, laden w/ feast-food soft guilty female laughter the barroom, the men's room people assemble to establish armies & find their foe & fight
Clustered in watchful terror by vine-growth, the hollow bush dry cancerous wells We awoke before dawn, slipped into the canyon
Noon schoolyard screamed w/ play, the lunch hour ending ropes & balls slapped hard at cement sand, the female land was bright, all swelling to degree most comfortless & guarding
A record noise shot out & stunned the earth. The music had been bolted w/ new sound. Run, run the end of repose an anthem has churned the bad guys are winning.
Silver shaken in the gloom I left her
Trees waste & sway forever
Marble porch & sylvan frieze Down on her knees
She begs the spiderking to wed her Slides into bed
He turns her over
There is a leather pouch that's full of silver
It spills like water
She left And took the coins I gave her
As to the drowning man hoarse whisper invokes, on the edge, an arroyo Sangre de Christo
Violence in a time of plenty
There is one deaf witness on the bank, the shore leaning in finery against a ruined wall as Jesus did. Red livid lips, pale flesh withdrawn from ragged dress, pit of the past & screens unveiled in the scarred chalk wall
When, often, one is not deluged by rain, 3 drops suffice The war is over there I am neither doctor nor saint Christ or soldier Now, friends, don't look at me sadly ranting like some incomprehensible child I know by my breath of what I speak, & what I've seen needs telling.
Please, freeze! Danger near. A message has started its path to the heart of the brain A thin signal is on its way An arrow of hope, predicting rain A death-rod bearing pain
I
I will not come again I will not come again into the swirl The bitter wine-soaked stallion eats the seed, all labor is a lie; no vice is kindled in these loins to melt or vie w/ any strong particulating smile. Leave sundry stones alive.
II
Now that you have gone all alone the desert to explore & left me here alone
the calmness of the town where a girl in black gets in a car & searches numbly for her keys;
Now that you have gone or strayed away
I sit, & listen to the hiss of traffic & invoke into this burned & gutted room some ghost, some vague resemblance of a time
Offon, on and off, like one long sick electric dream. This state is confused state. Out there her life like warm connectors, plug into her soul From every side & melt her form for me.
But I deserve this, Greatest cannibal of all. Some tired future. Let me sleep. Get on w/ the disease.
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Post by TheWallsScreamedPoetry on Mar 15, 2006 23:08:52 GMT
On March 16th 1969 The Los Angeles Image magazine publishes an excerpt from Jim Morrison's poem 'Dry Water'.
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Post by TheWallsScreamedPoetry on Jul 16, 2006 9:54:03 GMT
This is the sort of thing that would be a cool addition to the Doors new Box Set a booklet of something like the Dry Water Poetry with a few non Doors photos of Jim................
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Post by ensenada on Jul 16, 2006 13:00:34 GMT
just read this. its kinda mad aint it. it isnt bad, but it doesnt seem to have as much of an effect on me as a lot of jim's other poetry does.
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Post by TheWallsScreamedPoetry on Mar 17, 2011 17:45:05 GMT
In this dim cave we can go no further. Here money is key to smooth age. Horses, givers of guilt. Great bags of gold.
I want obedience!
We examine this ancient & insane theatre, obscene like luxuriant churches altars.
I confess to scarves cool floors stroked curtain
The actors are twice-blessed before us. This is too serious & severe.
Great mystery! Timeless passion patterned in stillness.
------------------------------------
Sex for you was thread which binds us even now on this pale planet.
To the poet & cover-girl, photo in color, to armies that join, out on a desert, & to Samson & all his generals bound quiet now w/exotic arch-angels of dusk, in Sumarian & N. African slumbers.
The bazaar is crowded as dancers thrive. Snake-wreaths & pleasures. I take you to a low cave called "Calipah".
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Post by TheWallsScreamedPoetry on Dec 2, 2011 11:42:55 GMT
STAND THERE LISTENING Stand there listening you will hear them tiny shapes just beyond the moon Star-flys, jarts, dismal fronds stirring ape-jaws striving to make the morning mail call
Cry owl. Hark to the wood-vine. Suckle-snake crawls, gnawing restive
I know you. The one who left to go warning. Wishless now & sullen. Transfer deferred.
Steal me a peach from the orange tree grove-keeper
She fell.
What are you doing w/ your hand on her breast?
She fell, mam.
Give her to me.
Yes, mam.
Go tell the master what you've done.
They killed him.
Later.
Going up the stairs handcuffed to his cell.
A shot-gun blast Behind the back.
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