Jim Morrison – Cajun Mutt Press

It Killed Part of The Future___(for Phil..12/3/23)

In too deep. Behind enemy lines.

We fought so hard for the world’s rebirth of spirit

It’s rebirth of innocence
& Beauty

& Love

We fought so hard for it
It killed part of the future

Hear The Drum___(12/2/23 after the funeral)

HEAR THE DRUM of the Playful Bard

HEAR THE DRUM OF THE eternal Shard

HEAR the gospel of inky-fingered void blanket on a collision course w/ all dream

If we don’t love & LIVE

NO REGRETS NO PRETENSE

MASKS must be broken
As the weapon of self-destruction

& the pure science of our true selves be known

Cease lending idle mind galaxies ON PETTY
STARLESS WONDERS

Cease lending idle imaginations
To the BLACK MIRROR filled with the laughter of the dead
Eating creativity

& SPIRIT

& ERASING WHOLE LIVES w the eraser of despair

& FORLORN

When BEAUTY is the only comfort

How cd we live in such a world
As this

A BELL RINGS & the Playful Bard

Vanishes w another figure
In to the distance
Drum in hand

MAD GLEAMING EYES OF CREATION

HEAR THE DRUM simple.

HEAR HIS DRUM

HEAR his wrestling the thick protoplasmic mucous of Nirvana for his world

The Playful Bard

Spreading rhythmic inventions
Across multiple multiverses

HEAR THE LINGERING FINGERNAIL

SCRATCHING GOD’S NOSE WHILE HE RESTS

HEAR THE EVER LASTING & RUSTED LIVING LIGHT

SHADOW OF TRUTH & HOPE

yet be warned if you file in
Procession

A pilgrimage we may find
IN THE IMMEASURABLE PLAYGROUND OF WORDS

Quite the pilgrimage
See. The golden, pissed on
Typewriter in the corner

RU MI AMUSINGLY THOUGHT WAS A SIMPSONS CHESS SET

Vibrating the color of Philthy

Oh DEATH who Have Singed/Melted/Fused

we two together by your
invisible life extracting
bound hand

I SEE YOU, THERE;
making the rounds
aided by the embalmers
cold hands & blue sleeves

I SEE YOUR PATH
I SEE YOUR WEAKNESS
& IMPERMANENCE

oh limiting concept of DEATH

YOU HIT LIKE MY SISTER

IS THAT ALL YOU GOT

i laugh, I can hear PHILTHY
PHIL THE PHILOSOPHER
belly laughing
all the way to the next door

oh DEATH you didn’t even knock us down; & my friend who you “ took” ALLOWED YOUR PUNK ASS TO COME

—(12/3/23)

Mythology of Grief_Virgoan Elegy

the inescapable inertia of all this here where i sit

traveling the astral interstates
Highways & back roads

Looking for you

I have a message from MERCURY

He says you can have a pair of his winged sandals

HERE

mute twizted & MAD GLEAMING EYES

he took them
Smiled

& PUSHED/FORCED ME
BACK IN TO MY BODY

I Keep Hearing Jim Morrison

chanting the spoken intro
To The Soft Parade

yeah, it’s definitely chanting
over & over
just the intro

WHEN I WAS BACK IN SEMINARY SCHOOL

THERE WAS PUT FORTH THE PROPOSITION

THAT YOU CAN PETITION THE LORD WITH PRAYER

THAT YOU CAN PETITION THE LORD W PRAYER

That you can petition the Lord w/ prayer

YOU CAN NOT PETITION THE
LORD WITH PRAYER

my ass asleep in oak armed writing chair

Feet planted like landing on foreign soil w/ a weapon

Or no passport

867-5309 on the radio

Reminding me that a rude ass cop that was a douchenozzle while you were lying there
Possibly already gone
& Medics working for a response

FULL ADRENAL HOPE OF
EMTS TO SAVE YOUR LIFE

& I almost cry again
& then remember
WE ARE WARRIORS

Brother Merritt (AKA Friday’s Storm) at The 10th & “Final” Gonzofest
Standing in front of “Obey Giant” by Shepard Fairey
High Horse Bar in Louisville, KY, 2023

Merritt Waldon is a 50-year-old poet/artist who has been published in a wide variety of magazines/journals, and has four books published. He has devoted his entire life & being to Poetry.
He lives in Austin Indiana.

Frailty’s Baggage~ Dreaming of Jim Morrison

There is no grief in language
when you’re stricken, cast down,
changes silhouette past silence
pausing sullenly through the
echoing corridors of my mind.
Torn posters without poetry,
without song, without love,
face hopes and fears in the mirrors
of pain; and his sex hangs unhidden,
and his metal heart sweeps through
abandoned philosophy as the curtain
closes on the sensual train.

I want repetition of song, recollection
in truth; to create from the oblique,
denying the erotic, an obeisance to
the power it steals from those of us
who can’t find anything to live for,
but everything to die for. Cast not your
demons of treachery, tears, anger, and
betrayal on me; the elevator is rising.
There’s fumbled endorphins offered
up as a cocktail with some really good
whiskey and meth cocaine. Smell the
lily and the rose,

let the bricks soften to deep greens,
let God speak austere though vacant
fields while you grow stillborn
through drugs so sweet. Let the
suicide take on its own craft and magic,
as daylight comes and a stranger’s face
brings forgiveness; blooming, blooming,
in the scent of your sweet blood. Your rib
is gone, son of Adam and He shall
have her heart; lowered lids expand as
they rise in total annihilation. Tick tock.
White roses growing in the corner,

lilies dead on the sidewalk.

Theresa likes to write about matters of self-inflection and personal experiences. She likes to write about matters of an out-of-body, out-of-mind state, as well as subjects of idyllic, pagan nature and the occult. Theresa writes horror, as well as concrete gritty and realistic dramas. Theresa is said to be a witch and a poet, (within the horror writing community) and she has been published in a number of magazines, ezines, anthologies, and books throughout the years. She is a former elementary school, a psychic medium/reader, and advisor.