awake

Awake.
Shake dreams from your hair, 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 and cooled jeweled moon
couples naked race down by it's 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 dawn's highway bleeding.
Ghosts crowd the young child’s fragile eggshell mind.

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 have stormed, the windows kept
and only one of all the rest
to dance and save us from the divine mockery of words.
Music inflames temperament.

Oh great creator of being,
grant us one more hour
to perform our art and perfect our lives.

We need great golden copulations.

When the true king's murderers are allowed to roam free
a thousand magicians arise in the land.
Where are the feasts we were promised?

Thank you oh lord for the white blind light.
Thank you oh lord for the white blind light.
A city rises from the sea
I had a splitting headache
from which the future is made.

The Ghost Song, Jim Morrison/The Doors