Читать интересную книгу Боги и Новые создания - Джим Моррисон

недрогнувшие в огне

шелковую рубашку в цветах

режущую глаз, ожившую

паутину далекую ложь

телефонных гудков

приди, тихая

в эту попытку жизни

Всегда женственная, скрытная,

одетая в кожу, свободная,

отверженная, большая и слабая

Она была криком королевства

орды движущихся похотливых

ведунов

Где же твое воспитание

здесь, в залитой солнцем

пустыне

безграничные вселенные пыли

колючки кактуса, россыпь

побелевших камней, бутылки

и ржавые машины,

неплохой натюрморт.

Новый человек, солдат современности

пробирается узкими закоулками

сквозь загроможденные руины

когда-то напыщенного города,

нелепого ныне, ставшего

прибежищем крыс и насекомых

Он живет в машинах

бродит бессмысленно по

промерзшим школам

и не находит себе места

в тени послушания

Мониторы мертвы

Засыпанные великие сторожевые башни

чахнущие на западном побережье

так устали смотреть

если бы осталась хоть лошадь

чтобы на ней пересечь пустыню

или собака рядом

чтобы вынюхивать женщин

прикованных к позорному столбу

нет более резона

в постелях, ночью

чернота сожжена

Вглядись в городские гостиные

где танцует женщина

в европейском платье

знаменитые вальсы

как бы это было забавно

править пустынной землей

II

Ярко-красные пальмы

Угрюмые берега

и многое

многое другое

Вот что знаем мы

что никто не свободен

в школьных воспоминаниях

непрощающих

лживых улыбок

непредставимые тяготы

выстраданы теми,

кто мало способен

к страданию

но все пройдет

ляг в зеленую траву

и улыбайся, размышляй, вглядывайся

в ее полное сходство

с блудящей Королевой,

что, кажется, влюблена

сейчас в этого кавалериста

Какой приятный запах, не так ли,

Сэр, известно ли Вам

со своенравной беспечностью

взгляд назад

24 июля 1968 года Лос-Лос-Анджелес, Соединенные Штаты, Гавайи.

The LORDS: NOTES on VISION

Look where we worship.

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 prostitution. But in the grimy ring immediately surrounding the daylight

business district exists the only real crowd life of our mound, the only street

life, night life. Diseased specimens in dollar hotels, low boarding houses, bars,

pawn shops, burlesques and brothels, in dying arcades which never die, in

streets and streets of all-night cinemas.

When play dies it becomes the Game.

When sex dies it becomes Climax.

All games contain the idea of death.

Baths, bars, the indoor pool. Our injured leader prone on the sweating tile.

Chlorine on his breath and in his long hair. Lithe, although crippled,

body of a middle-weight contender. Near him the trusted journalist, confdant.

He liked men near him with a large sense of life. But most of the press were

vultures descending on the scene for curious America aplomb. Cameras inside

the coffin interviewing worms.

It takes large murder to turn rocks in the shade and expose strange worms

beneath. The lives of our discontented madmen are revealed.

Camera, as all-seeing god, satisfies our longing for omniscience. To spy on

others from this height and angle: pedestrians pass in and out of our lens like

rare aquatic insects.

Yoga powers. To make oneself invisible or small.

To become gigantic and reach to the farthest things.

To change the course of nature. To place oneself

anywhere in space or time. To summon the dead.

To exalt senses and perceive inaccessible images,

of events on other worlds, in one's deepest inner

mind, or in the minds of others.

The sniper's rifle is an extension of his eye. He kills with injurious vision.

The assassin (?), in flight, gravitated with unconscious, instinctual insect

ease, moth-like, toward a zone of safety, haven from the swarming streets.

Quickly, he was devoured in the warm, dark, silent maw of the physical

theater.

Modem circles of Hell: Oswald kills President.

Oswald enters taxi. Oswald stops at rooming house.

Oswald leaves taxi. Oswald kills Officer Tippitt.

Oswald sheds jacket. Oswald is captured.

He escaped into a movie house.

In the womb we are blind cave fish.

Everything is vague and dizzy. The skin swells and there is no more distincion

between parts of the body. An encroaching sound of threatening, mocking,

monotonous voices. This is fear and attraction of being swallowed.

Inside the dream, button sleep around your body like a glove. Free now of

space and time. Free to dissolve in the streaming summer.

Sleep is under-ocean dipped into each night.

At morning, awake dripping, gasping, eyes

stinging.

The eye looks vulgar

Inside its ugly shell.

Come out in the open

In all of your Brilliance.

Nothing. The air outside

burns my eyes.

I'll pull them out

and get rid of the burning.

Crisp hot whiteness

City Noon

Occupants of plague zone

are consumed.

(Santa Ana's are winds off deserts.)

Rip up grating and splash in gutters.

The search for water, moisture,

«wetness» of the actor, lover.

«Players» — the child, the actor, and the gambler.

The idea of chance is absent from the world of the

child and primitive. The gambler also feels in

service of an alien power. Chance is a survival

of religion in the modern city, as is theater,

more often cinema, the religion of possession.

What sacrifice, at what price can the city be born?

There are no longer «dancers», the possessed.

The cleavage of men into actor and spectators

is the central fact of our time. We are obsessed

with heroes who live for us and whom we punish.

If all the radios and televisions were deprived

of their sources of power, all books and paintings

burned tomorrow, all shows and cinemas closed,

all the arts of vicarious existence…

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.

Not one of the prisoners regained sexual balance.

Depressions, impotency, sleeplessness… erotic

dispersion in languages, reading, games, music,

and gymnastics.

The prisoners built their own theater which

testified to an incredible surfeit of leisure.

A young sailor, forced into female roles, soon

became the «town» darling, for by this time they

called themselves a town, and elected a mayor,

police, aldermen.

In old Russia, the Czar, each year, granted-

out of the shrewdness of his own soul or one of

his advisors' — a week's freedom for one convict

in each of his prisons. The choice was left to the

prisoners themselves and it was determined in

several ways. Sometimes by vote, sometimes by lot,

often by force. It was apparent that the chosen

must be a man of magic, virility, experience,

perhaps narrative skill, a man of possibility, in

short, a hero. Impossible situation at the

moment of freedom, impossible selection,

defining our world in its percussions.

A room moves over a landscape, uprooting the mind, astonishing vision. A

gray film melts off the eyes, and runs down the cheeks. Farewell.

Modern life is a journey by car. The Passengers

change terribly in their reeking seats, or roam

from car to car, subject to unceasing

transformation. Inevitable progress is made toward

the beginning (there is no difference in terminals),

as we slice through cities, whose ripped backsides

present a moving picture of windows, signs, streets,

buildings. Sometimes other vessels, closed

worlds, vacuums, travel along beside to move

ahead or fall utterly behind.

Destroy roofs, walls, see in all the rooms at once.

From the air we trapped gods, with the gods'

omniscient gaze, but without power to be

inside minds and cities as they fly above.

June 30th. On the sun roof. He woke up suddenly.

At that instant a jet from the air base crawled

in silence overhead. On the beach, children try

to leap into its swift shadow.

The bird or insect that stumbles into a room

and cannot find the window. Because they know

no «windows.»

Wasps, poised in the window,

Excellent dancers,

detached, are not inclined

into our chamber.

Room of withering mesh

read love's vocabulary

in the green lamp

of tumescent flesh.

When men conceived buildings,

and closed themselves in chambers,

first trees and caves.

(Windows work two ways,

mirrors one way.)

You never walk through mirrors

or swim through windows.

Cure blindness with a whore's spittle.

In Rome, prostitutes were exhibited on roofs above the public highways for

the dubious hygiene of loose tides of men whose potential lust endangered the

fragile order of power. It is even reported that patrician ladies, masked

and naked, sometimes offered themselves up to these deprived eyes for private

excitements of their own.

More or less, we're all afflicted with the psychology of the voyeur. Not in a

strictly clinical or criminal sense, but in our whole physical and emotional

stance before the world. Whenever we seek to break this spell of passivity, our

actions are cruel and awkward and generally obscene, like an invalid who has

forgotten how to walk.

The voyeur, the peeper, the Peeping Tom, is a dark comedian. He is

repulsive in his dark anonymity, in his secret invasion. He is pitifully

alone. But, strangely, he is able through this same silence and concealment to

make unknowing partner of anyone within his eye's range. This is his threat

and power.

There are no glass houses. The shades are drawn and «real» life begins. Some

activities are impossible in the open. And these secret events are the voyeur's

game. He seeks them out with his myriad army of eyes — like the child's

notion of a Deity who sees all. «Everything?» asks the child. «Yes, every-

thing», they answer, and the child is left to cope

with this divine intrusion.

The voyeur is masturbator, the mirror his badge, the window his prey.

Urge to come to terms with the «0utside», by

absorbing, interiorizing it. I won't come out,

you must come in to me. Into my womb-garden

where I peer out. Where I can construct a universe

within the skull, to rival the real.

She said, «Your eyes are always black.» The pupil

opens to seize the object of vision.

Imagery is bom of loss. Loss of the «friendly

expanses». The breast is removed and the face

imposes its cold, curious, forceful, and inscrutable

presence.

You may enjoy life from afar. You may look at

things but not taste them. You may caress

the mother only with the eyes.

You cannot touch these phantoms.

French Deck. Solitary stroker of cards. He

dealt himself a hand. Turn stills of the past in

unending permutations, shuffle and begin. Sort

the images again. And sort them again. This

game reveals germs of truth, and death.

The world becomes an apparently infinite, yet