"All games contain the idea of death."
Just one of many insightful lines of Jim Morrison's The Lords and The New Creatures - a collection I was delighted to find recently in a used book store and to revisit after a twenty-year hiatus.
"We all live in the city.
The city forms - often physically, but inevitably
psychically - a circle. A Game. A ring of death
with sex at its center. Drive towards outskirts
of city suburbs. At the edge discover zones of
sophisticated vice and boredom, child prosti-
tution. But in the grim ring immediately surround-
ing the daylight business district exists the only
real crowd life of our mound, the only street
life, night life. Diseased specimens in dollar
hotels, boarding houses, bars, pawn shops,
burlesques and brothels, in dying arcades which
never die in streets and streets of all-night
cinemas."
The poet's perspective starts like a hawk circling 'round the city, spiraling down into the center - getting closer and closer to its prey - for Morrison, the truth - pure vision unencumbered by sense perception. My brother referred to Morrison as a "preacher," and this is astute, for the poet is critical of the passive and hypnotic nature of cinema:
"We are content with the "given" in sensation's
quest. We have been metamorphosised from a mad
body dancing on hillsides to a pair of eyes
staring in the dark."
And later:
"Films are collections of dead pictures which are
given artificial insemination.
Film spectators are quiet vampires."
The collection is split into two parts, and near the end of the first, "The Lords: Notes on Vision," Morrison again rails against the dangers modern-day pop culture:
"The Lords appease us with images. They give us
books, concerts, galleries, shows, cinemas. Es
pecially the cinemas. Through art they confuse
us and blind us to our enslavement. Art adorns
our prison walls, keeps us silent and diverted
and indifferent."
I have to admit, I have always been - and still am - a bit more enamored with this first section, "The Lords." "The New Creatures" has a different tone, focus and even style - more verse than prose. It is savage in its imagery:
The snake, the lizard, the insect eye
the huntsman's green obedience.
Quick, in raw time, serving
stealth & slumber,
grinding warm forests into restless lumber.
Now for the valley.
Now for the syrup hair.
Stabbing the eyes, widening skies
behind the skull bone.
Swift end of hunting.
Hung round the swollen torn breast
& red-stained throat.
The hounds gloat.
Take her home.
Carry our sister's body, back
to the boat."
I interpret this second half to be a description of what we are becoming - these new creatures of impure perception, out of touch with reality, blind savages returning to primal states:
The City. Hive, Web, or severed
insect mound. All citizens heirs
of the same royal parent.
The caged beast, the holy center,
a garden in the midst of the city.
Regardless of whether or not one appreciates The Doors or even considers Jim Morrison a "true" poet, this collection is thought-provoking and well worth reading.