Morrison’s Confession to St. Peter

BY OLDEPUNK    

jimmorrison

St. Peter greets his next soul at the gates, and asks for his name.  This particular soul shakes his long hair out then looks up and says:

“As long as there is something to hold onto

there will always be hope, struggle, curiosity

As long as I still draw breath

there will always be adversity

until there comes a time in life when I can no longer see

I will know there is something that cannot be taken from me

As long as there is a mother to bring life

there will always be fertility

As long as there is a father guiding

there will always be integrity

As long as there is a son to raise

there will always be prosperity

As long as there is a daughter to praise

there will always be felicity

until there comes a time in life when I cannot be me

I will know that there is something that I cannot see

As long as there is someone to teach

there will always be university

as long as there is more than one way to interpret the lesson

there will always be controversy

As long as there is a student to make a stand for truth and justice

there will always be a revolutionary

As long as there is a brother with which to share

there will always be honesty

As long as there is a sister to love

there will always be family

and the dream of equality

When there comes a time in life

when these are things I can no longer see

I will know that this is what will be the death of the free”

Jim pauses, looks around, and then says,

“By the way, mister, where in the hell are we?

 

https://ramjetpoetry.wordpress.com/

 

28-Introducing Nate Leland

Whisper and the Roar

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28 by Nate Leland

I watched the moon rise like she was forgetting
another lover every minute,
like tonight… she was finally
gonna make it,
gonna trampoline off clouds and find her way without
orbit.

Gravity been too heavy,
and the oceans are exactly as big as they seem.
Do you know what it’s like
when even water follows you everywhere you go,
but doesn’t have the time or inclination to touch you?

She was the opposite of meteorites,
bound for space where she would revolve around no one.

When your life is a reflection of another’s light,
how would you feel about the one who monthly blotted you out
and recarved your face every night in shades of his image?

Tonight she is untarnished.
Tonight her texture is only the shadows of her own character.
Tonight she is so beautiful and generous,
the man in the moon nothing but…

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Letting

The Dirty Limerick

Coarse motes
of
volcanic ash
swirl and stream

inside this
untamed atmós.

They nibble in
sharp, little stings
on the tender
pink membranes

at the joints of
my eyelids.

——

Eardrums burst
by
hot vapor, and

eyeballs abraded
by
violent
gusts,

I impel this
body move on,
in short, sure
steps.

——

My left heel
catches a slick—

screams out a rubber
squeak of
thick
liquid, trapped
between
sole and stone.

I have slipped
in blood—
my own blood.

It smells,
and I am stilled;

because

it is not the sickly
ferrous tinge of
the wounded and
dying—

it smells like
lavender
and honeysuckle—

a red-black,
arterial nectar
to ink my
footprints.

——

Blind, deaf, and
bathed in
uncommon fragrance—

one of haîma
and
spring blooms—

I stamp out my
path;

flung
forward,

certain of
nothing but
movement,

with teeth
and
bones bared.

——

If you,
too, lose
your way in

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In Your Absence – Max Meunier

how do i go on
now that this bitter husk
no longer bears your burden

now that shattered skies
no longer paint your visage white

left with naught
but false impressions
framed upon your pillow

and all the stars have fallen
from the absence of your eyes

Max Meunier (Max Meunier Poetry)

[Max states: “I write about the things going on in my life. I am a feminist, humanist, cat loving musician bound by whimsy and the incessant analysis of hyper-vigilant observations.  I am obsessed with words and rhythmically woven wordplay.” We are honored to have him as a member of our tribe.]

Little Mister Full of Promise

Mick Hugh!

Mick's Neon Fog

Here are ten years spent searching for the antithesis of a life uselessly lent to Keurig machines brewing, daily traffic migrations idling, flat-screen TV’s streaming: Here are the screams of the mad-eyed peeling their scalps to let out the vacancies eating away at their brains. Here are the years spent shifting desks in dormitories where your youth went for a degree in death management: You found yourself crawling naked hysterical on the sidewalk well past sun-rise. You took the plunge and scrapped gum from the sidewalk, making yourself a lunch to carry downtown for a day staring listlessly at trees in the park, where you found, on a pedestal, a mirror looking down at you. Here are your dreams above the obscurity of the crowds – a PhD in philosophy, Mr. Little Camus you could change the world.

Here are the scars on your forehead the time you realized the…

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