American Daydream (Inspired By Jim Morrison)

‘Enter the hot dream  
come with us    
everything is broken up and dances’    
    
                 - Jim Morrison    
     
Hellbent on glittering    
streets a morass of Americanism    
as you shake the fairy dust from the    
severed gardens of your eyes.    
     
Polyamorous one,      
the white knights love you,    
why shouldn’t they.    
     
Night was a candle    
blowing itself out around you.    
     
      .....    
     
Hear the daylight    
forgive its brash distain      
of your white world    
given to wanting and wasting    
what already has been.    
     
The dawn is not a dove,    
dismembered blankness,    
it is only a silence in your eyes,    
a dream of feathers      
waiting for a soul to redeem.    
It waits for eternity.    
     
Fairies in blackness    
knarled in wisdom    
they flitter as the street crawls along,    
serpentine and flaring,    
boots pound it into itself.    
     
Do you hear it shimmering,    
it is the death of your      
forgotton birth you walk upon,    
not this life.    
     
       .....    
     
Awaken to the daydream:    
I haven’t awoken yet,    
shouldn’t I?    
     
The last poet writes of this    
wondering not, why not,    
he dances ‘round the hot coals    
of attrition    
merging with his ashen words floating.    
     
Awaken to the spectacle of your own freedom.    
The dogs are hungry for its raw glory,    
its virgin mourning a raging beast      
devouring a first sex,    
It has been here before.    
     
Reunite with the havoc of your    
screaming, bloody wilting rose.    
Its murder cracks the night      
in thunderous, neon air.    
It calls to you, it is me, it is me.    
Remember this night,    
do not forget yourself there.    
     
        .....    
     
The music of this night isn’t over yet,    
it has only just begun.    
We all sing the same song.    
     
And the ravens are mocking us,    
Hallelujiah.    
     
You are one with their delicate peace    
in hellfire burning.    
My feet are burning,    
the sky is burning,    
rise and become a star,    
burn and become a shooting star    
skimming a blind light,    
dimming in an immaculate war    
     
Come home, wanderer,    
come home to carnage;    
warm bodies in the ground      
crying petals which become the flowers    
you pick,    
the wildness, you enfold and search for,    
yet it was always there within you,    
a friend to the end    
a fair brother or sister;    
red-haired, blue-veined, white-boned patriot,    
the saints are weeping, crying.    
A sunken vision is dying,    
how it is quested for,    
for it is the unknown.    
It knows not if it is home, or where it came from.    
     
It only knows the ragged horizon it sees,    
the ghosts crowding its conscience,    
it only knows the maladies of      
the great wars it survived,    
fought heroicly in dusty afterglows of    
a spangled fortress within where    
an iron door beckons.    
     
We have not forgotten you where    
a lost little girl sleeps,    
her dreams were white moths      
drawn to the beacon of      
your wild promises.    
     
Your wars were subjects,    
questions into the dark cries of sunsets,    
little night-glories climbing trellises      
on your house within.    
     
There, a light is on, someone is home,    
a door opens,      
an invitation to walk through.    
     
           .....