Songs for a Fool!

The Doors


An American Prayer
The Doors - Jim Morrison

"Do you know the warm progress
under the stars?
Do you know we exist?
Have you forgotten the keys
to the Kingdom
Have you been borne yet
and are you alive?
Let's reinvent the gods, all the myths
of the ages

Celebrate symbols from deep elder forests

[Have you forgotten the lessons
of the ancient war]

We need great golden copulations

The fathers are cackling in trees
of the forest

Our mother is dead in the sea

Do you know we are being led
to slaughters by placid admirals

and that fat slow generals are getting
obscene on young blood

Do you know we are ruled by T.V.

The moon is a dry blood beast

Guerrilla bands are rolling numbers
in the next block of green vine

amassing for warfare on innocent
herdsmen who are just dying

O great creator of being

grant us more hour to
perform our art
and perfect our lives

The moths and atheists are doubtly divine
and dying

We live, we die
and death not ends it

Journey we more into the

Cling to cunts and cocks
of despair

We got our final vision
by clap

Colombus' groin got
filled with green death

(I touched her tigh and death smiled)

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

With the divine mockery
of words

Music inflames temperament

(When the true King's murderers
are allowed to roam free
a 1000 magicians arise
in the land

Where are the feasts
we are promised

Where is the wine
The New Wine
resident mockery
give an hour for magic

We of the purple glove

We of startling flight
and velvet hour

We of arabic pleasure's breed

We of sundome and the night

Give us a creed
To believe
A night of Lust
Give us trust in
The Night
Give us color
hundred hues
a rich Mandala
for me and for you
and for your silky
pillowed house
a head, wisdom
and a bed
Troubled decree
Resident mockery
has claimed thee
We used to believe
in the good old days
We still receive
In little ways
The things of Kindness
and unsporting brow
Forget and allow
Did you know freedom exists
in a school book
Did you know madmen are
running our prison
within a jail, within a goal
within a white free protestant
We're perched headlong
on the edge of a boredom
We're reaching for death
on the end of a candle
We're trying for something
That's already found us
Wow, I'm sick of doubt
Live in the light of cetain
Cruel bindings
The servants have the power
dog-men and their mean women
pulling poor blankets over
our sailors
I'm sick of dour faces
Staring at me from the T.V.
Tower, I want roses in
my garden bower; dig?
Royal babies, rubies
must now replace aborted
Strangers in the mud
These mutants, blood-meal
for the plant that's plowed
They are waiting to take us into
the severed garden
Do you know how pale and wanton thillful
comes death on a strange hour
unannonced, unplanned for
like a scaring over-friendly guest you've
brought to bed
Death makes angels of us all
and gives us wings
where we had shoulders
smooth as raven's claws
No more money, no more fancy dress
This other Kingdom seems by far the best
until its other jaw revaels incest
and loose obedience to a vegetable law
I will not go
Prefer a Feast of Friends
To the Giant Family."

The Doors - Jim Morrison

Shake dreams from your hairs
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 in a 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 the dawn's highway bleeding
Ghosts crowd the young child's fragile eggshell mind.
Me and my-ah-mother and father-and a
grandmother and a grandfather-were driving through
the desert, at dawn, and a truck load of Indian
workers had either hit another car, or just-I don't
knwo what happened-but there were Indians scattered
all over the highway, leeding to death.
So the car pulls up and stops. That was the first time
I tasted fear. I musta' been abour four-like a child is
like a flower, his head is just floating in the
breeze, man
The reaction I get now thinking about it, looking
back-is that the souls of the ghosts of those dead
Indians...maybe one or two of them...were just
running around freaking out, and just leaped into my
soul. And they are still there.

Newborn awakening
The Doors - Jim Morrison

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 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 on you to pray.

Mourir pour des Idées
G. Brassens

Mourir pour des idé's, l'idée est excellente.
Moi, j'ai faillit mourir de ne l'avoir pas eu'.
Car, tous ceux qui l'avaient, multitude accablante,
En hurlant à la mort me sont tombés dessus.
Ils ont su me convaicre et ma muse insolente,
Abjurant ses erreurs, se rallie à leur foi
Avec un soupçon de réserve toutefois:
Mourons pour des idées, d'accord, mais de mort lente,
D'accord, mais de mort lente.

Jugeant qu'il n'y a pas péril en la demeure,
Allons vers l'autre monde en flânant en chemin
Car, à forcer l'allure, il arrive qu'on meure
Pour des idé's n'ayant plus cours le lendemain.
Or, s'il est une chose amère, désolante,
En rendant l'âme à dieu, c'est bien de constater
Qu'on a fait fausse rout', qu'on s'est trompé d'idé's.
Mourons pour des idé's, d'accord, mais de mort lente,
D'accord, mais de mort lente.

Les saint jean bouche d'or qui prêchent le martyre,
Le plus souvent, d'ailleurs, s'attardent ici-bas.
Mourir pour des idé's, c'est la cas de le dire,
C'est leur raison de vivre, ils ne s'en privent pas.
Dans presque tous les camps on en voit qui supplantent
Bientôt Mathusalem dans la longévité.
J'en coonclus qu'il doivent se dire, en aparté:
"Mourons pour des idé's, d'accord, mais de mort lente,
D'accord, mais de mort lente."

Des idé's réclamant le fameux sacrifice,
Les sectes de tout poil en offrent des séquelles,
Et la question se pose aux victimes novices:
Mourir pour des idé's, c'est bien beau, mais lesquelles?
Et comme toutes sont entre elles ressemblantes,
Quand il les voit venir avec leur gros drapeau,
Le sage, en hésitant, tourne autour du tombeau.
Mourons pour des ié's, d'accord, mais de mort lente,
D'accord, mais de mort lente.

Encore, s'il suffisait de quelques hécatombes
Pour qu'enfin tout changeât, qu'enfin tout s'arrangeât!
Depuis tant de "grands soirs" que tant de têtes tombent,
Au paradis sur terre on y serait déjà.
Mais l'âge d'or sans cesse est remis aux calendes,
Les dieux ont toujours soif, n'en ont jamais assez,
Et c'est la mort, la mort toujours recommencé'...
Mourons pour des idé's, d'accord, mais de mort lente,
D'accord, mais de mort lente.

O vous, les boutefeux, ô vous, les bons apôtres,
Mourez donc les premiers, nous vous cédons le pas,
Mais, de grâce, morbleu ! Laissez vivre les autres!
Car, enfin, la Camarde est assez vigilante,
Elle n'a pas besoin qu'on lui tienne la faux.
Plus de danse macabre autour des échaffauds:
Mourons pour des idé's, d'accord, mais de mort lente,
D'accord, mais de mort lente.

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