released August 13, 2021

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 an 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.
~~~

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 metamorphosed 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.

A room moves over a landscape, uprooting the mind,
astonishing vision. A gray film melts off the
 eyes, and runs down the cheeks. Farewell.


Destroy roofs, walls, see in all the rooms at once.
From the air we trapped gods, with the gods’
omniscient gaze, but without their 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 over head. 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 “Outside”, 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 born 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 
possibly finite, card game. Image combinations,
 permutations, comprise the world game.


A mild possession, devoid of risk, at bottom
 sterile.
With an image there is no attendant danger.

Muybridge derived his animal subjects from the
 Philadelphia Zoological Garden, male performers
 from the University. The women were professional
 artists’ models, also actresses and dancers,
parading nude before the 48 cameras.

Films are collections of dead pictures which are 
given artificial insemination.
~~~
Film spectators are quiet vampires.

Cinema is most totalitarian of the arts.  All
 energy and sensation is sucked up into the skull,
 a cerebral erection, skull bloated with blood.
 Caligula wished a single neck for all his subjects 
that he could behead a kingdom with one blow.
 Cinema is this transforming agent. The body
 exists for the sake of the eyes; it becomes a
 dry stalk to support these two soft insatiable 
jewels.


Film confers a kind of spurious eternity.

Each film depends upon all the others and drives
 you on to others. Cinema was a novelty, a scientific 
toy, until a sufficient body of works had been 
amassed, enough to create an intermittent other
world, a powerful, infinite mythology to be dipped
into at will.
Films have an illusion of timelessness fostered
by their regular, indomitable appearance.
~~~
The appeal of cinema lies in the fear of death.
~~~
The modern East creates the greatest body of films.
Cinema is a new form of an ancient tradition- the
shadow play. Even their theater is an imitation
of it. Born in India or China, the shadow show
was aligned with religious ritual, linked with
celebrations which centered around cremation of the
 dead.
It is wrong to assume, as some have done, that
cinema belongs to women. Cinema is created by
men for the consolation of men.


The shadow plays originally were restricted to
male audiences. Men could view these dream shows
from either side of the screen. When women later
began to be admitted, they were allowed to attend
only to the shadows.
Male genitals are small faces
forming trinities of thieves
and Christs
Fathers, sons, and ghosts.
A nose hangs over a wall
and two half eyes, sad eyes,
mute and handless, multiply
an endless round of victories.
These dry and secret triumphs, fought
in stalls and stamped in prisons,
glorify our walls
and scorch our vision.
A horror of empty spaces
propagates this seal on private places.

Phantasmagoria, magic lantern shows, spectacles
without substance. They achieved complete
sensory experiences through noise, incense,
lightning, water. There may be a time when
we’ll attend Weather Theaters to recall the
sensation of rain.


The spectator is a dying animal.
Invoke, palliate, drive away the Dead. Nightly.
Through ventriloquism, gestures, play with objects,
and rare variations of the body in space,
the shaman signaled his “trip” to an audience
which share the journey.
In the seance, the shaman led. A sensuous panic,
deliberately evoked through drugs, chants, dancing,
hurls the shaman into trance. Changed voice,
convulsive movement. He acts like a madman. These
professional hysterics, chosen precisely for their
psychotic leaning, were once esteemed. They
mediated between man and spirit-world. Their mental
travels formed the crux of the religious life of
the tribe.

Principle of seance: to cure illness. A mood
might overtake a people burdened by historical
events or dying in a bad landscape. They seek
deliverance from doom, death, dread. Seek possess-
ion, the visit of gods and powers, a re-winning
of the life source from demon possessors. The
cure is culled from ecstasy. Cure illness or
prevent its visit, revive the sick, and regain
stolen, soul.
It is wrong to assume that art needs the spectator
in order to be. The film runs on without any eyes.
The spectator cannot exist without it. It insures
his existence.
The happening / the event in which ether is introduced 
into a roomful of people through air vents makes 
the chemical an actor. Its agent, or injector,
is an artist-showman who creates a performance
 to witness himself. The people consider themselves 
audience, while they perform for each other,
 and the gas acts out poems of its own through 
the medium of the human body. This approaches 
the psychology of the orgy while remaining in 
the realm of the Game and its infinite permutations.
The aim of the happening is to cure boredom,
wash the eyes, make childlike reconnections 
with the stream of life. Its lowest, widest
aim is for purgation of perception. The happening
 attempts to engage all the senses, the total
 organism, and achieve total response in the face of
 traditional arts which focus on narrower inlets
of sensation.

The “stranger” was sensed as greatest menace 
in ancient communities.

Objects as they exist in time the clean eye and
camera give us. Not falsified by “seeing”.

When there are as yet no objects.

In his retort the alchemist repeats the work of 
Nature.
Few would defend a small view of Alchemy as “Mother 
of Chemistry”, and confuse its true goal with those
 external metal arts. Alchemy is an erotic science, 
involved in buried aspects of reality, aimed
 at purifying and transforming all being and matter.
 Not to suggest that material operations are ever
 abandoned. The adept holds to both the mystical 
and physical work.

The alchemists detect in the sexual activity of 
man a correspondence with the world’s creation, 
with the growth of plants, and with mineral 
formations. When they see the union of rain
 and earth, they see it in an erotic sense, as
copulation. And this extends to all natural
 realms of matter. For they can picture love 
affairs of chemicals and stars, a romance
of stones, or the fertility of fire.

Cinema returns us to anima, religion of matter,
 which gives each thing its special divinity and
sees gods in all things and beings.
Cinema, heir of alchemy, last of an erotic science.
Surround Emperor of Body.

Bali Bali dancers

Will not break my temple.
Explorers 
suck eyes into the head.
The rosy body cross 
secret in flow 
controls its flow.
Wrestlers 
in body weights dance 
and music, mimesis, body.
Swimmers 
entertain embryo 
sweet dangerous thrust flow.


The Lords. Events take place beyond our knowledge
 or control. Our lives are lived for us. We can
 only try to enslave others. But gradually, special
 perceptions are being developed. The idea of the
“Lords” is beginning to form in some minds. We
 should enlist them into bands of perceivers to 
tour the labyrinth during their mysterious nocturnal appearances.
The Lords have secret entrances,
 and they know disguises. But they give themselves
 away in minor ways. Too much glint of light in
the eye. A wrong gesture. Too long and curious a
 glance.
Dull lions prone on a watery beach.
The universe kneels at the swamp 
to curiously eye its own raw 
postures of decay

in the mirror of human consciousness.
Absent and peopled mirror, absorbent, passive to whatever visits 
and retains its interest.
Door of passage to the other side,
 the soul frees itself in stride.
Turn mirrors to the wall
 in the house of the new dead.

full poem:
beatpatrol.wordpress.com/2009/07/17/jim-morrison-the-lords/