Awake!
Shake dreams from you hair, my Pretty Child,
my Sweet One.
Choose the Day, and choose the sign of your
day – the Day’s Divinity.
First thing you see: a vast, radiant beach,
and cool, jeweled moon.
Couples, naked, race down by its quiet
side, and we laugh like soft, mad children, smug in the wooly, cotton brains of
infancy.
The Music and Voices are all around us.
“Choose –” they croon, the Ancient Ones, “the Time has come
again.”
“Choose now,” they
croon, beneath the moon, beside an ancient lake.
“Enter again, the Sweet Forest.
Enter the Hot Dream.
Come with Us – everything is broken up, and dances.”
Indians, scattered on Dawn’s Highway, bleeding – ghosts
crowd the young child’s fragile, eggshell mind.
We have assembled inside this ancient and insane theater to
propagate our lust for life, and flee the swarming wisdom of the streets.
The barns are stormed, the windows kept, and only one of all
the rest, to dance and save us from the Divine Mockery of words.
Music inflames temperament.
Oh, Great Creator of Being: grant us one more hour to
perform our art, and perfect our lives.
We need great, golden copulations.
When the True King’s murderers are allowed to roam free, a
thousand magicians arise in the land.
Where are the feasts we were promised?
Where is the wine… the new wine, dying on the vine?
- Jim Morrison
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