Poetry from the Village Recorders December 1970

[TheWallsScreamedPoetry]

On 8th December 1970 Jim Morrison and a few friends armed with reams of paper and bottles of booze took over the Village Recorders Studio in West LA and laid down a birthday present for Jim Morrison by Jim Morrison.
Little is known about the session except for the excellent report Frank Lisciandro made in his wonderful book 'An Hour For Magic' which contains a few photos of the session.
A tiny bit was used for American Prayer but to this day the bulk of what was recorded remains out of reach of Doors fans and in the hands of Corky Courson.
The Rock is Dead bootleg which claimed to be from the December 8th session was in fact from March 1969 and part of the session that made up The Lost Paris Tapes!
Would it not be a wonderful tribute to release these tapes on CD or even DVD and share Jim's last moment in the sun with those who care most for his art?



It was the greatest night of my life
Although I still had not found a wife
I had my friends right there beside me

Indians scattered on dawn's highway bleeding
Ghosts crown the young child's fragile eggshell mind

We scaled the wall
We tripped thru the graveyard
Ancient shapes were all around us
No music but the wet grass
felt fresh beside the fog

Two made love in a silent spot
one chased a rabbit into the dark
A girl got drunk & made the dead
And I gave empty sermons to my head

Cemetery cool & quiet
Hate to leave
your sacred lay
Dread the milky coming of the day


The phone
rings
We create the dawnI fell on the earth
& raped the snow
I got married to life
& breathed w/ my marrow
I saw young dancers
I am meat & need fuel
Need the whorey glimmer of tears
in women, all ages
Laughter sandwich, fuel
for the lunch of meat minds
Now damn you, dance
Now dance
or die sleek & fat in your
reeking seats, still
buckled for flightIf the writer can write, &
the farmer can sow
Then all miracles concur,
appear, & start happening
If the children eat, if there
time of crying was Mid­<br>Night




A clean paper or pure
white wall. One false
line, a scratch, a mistake.
Unerasable. So obscure
by adding million other
tracings, blend it,
cover over.

But the original scratch
remains, written in
gold blood, shining.

Desire for a Perfect Life

[TheWallsScreamedPoetry]

Where are my dreamers
Today & tonight.
Where are my dancers
leaping madly
whirling & screaming

Where are my women
quietly dreaming
caught like angels
on the dark porch
of a velvet ranch
dance dance dance dance
dance dance dance




If the writer can write, &
the farmer can sow
Then all miracles concur,
appear, & start happening
If the children eat, if their
time of crying was Mid-
Night

The earth needs them
soft dogs on the snow
Nestled in Spring
When sun makes wine
& blood dances dangerous
in the veins or vine

[TheWallsScreamedPoetry]

Ledger domain
Wilderness pain
cruel swimming ambience
sweet swimming fish hook smile
I love you all the while
even w/the little child
by the hand
& squeeze

You're learning
fast

Keep off the walk
listen to the children talk

[TheWallsScreamedPoetry]

Releasing this session in it's entirety on CD would be a far better tribute to commemorate 40 years since Jim Morrison's death than another rehash of LA Woman.

Of course it would not make as much money and after all that is what it has all boiled down to 40 years later.

[TheWallsScreamedPoetry]

This poem is included on the disc that comes with the Morrison Scrapbook.
Supposedly it is a segment from the December 8th 1970 session.

We can invent Kingdoms of our own
Grand purple thrones, those chairs of lust
And love we must, in beds of rust
Steel doors lock in prisoner's screams
And muzak, AM, rocks their dreams
No black men's pride to hoist the beams
While mocking angels sift what seems
To be a collage of magazine dust
Scratched on foreheads of walls of trust
This is just jail for those who must
Get up in the morning & fight for such
Unusable standards
While weeping maidens
Show-off penury and pout
Ravings for a mad
Staff

[Clown Boy]

It would be so cool if this was released on the 50th anniversary. We should start a petition or something. This beautiful piece of history needs to be heard. I think John Haeny might know something about it.

"I personally guarded those tapes providing them ‘safe custody’ for nearly 25 years until, in the mid-ninety’s, when at the request of Jim’s Estate I finally returned the master tapes to them, with a few confidential conditions attached."

What were those conditions?

I pray this session sees the light of day, now I'm going to get some tacos.


Gently they stir, gently rise.
The dead are newborn 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 grand?
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.
And now I call you to pray.