Ill: Kkc


I met Jim Morrison in Moscow
he was doing just fine
we walked the streets
of Arbatskaya in the night
moonlight full of shadows
dancing around the houses

He had met Tatjana
in a downtown bar in Paris
late june seventyone
sick of it all
both of them
she never knew him
just wanted money
to go back to Moscow
with her basket of
fine wine and cakes
for her grandmother
Taken under these russian wings
soon to be
officially dead and buried in Paris
he landed in Moscow
they married
made a grandmother smile

He worked in a local
tractor factory
improving his poetry
in a way
you can't even imagine
beyond William Blake
and the rest of the drunken
mescalin bastard scribblers
improving his life
in a way it is difficult to picture
from the american watch tower

We went to see the concert
with the Doors
after having some russian homebrew
for the eventual chock
saw that trained monkey
wriggle rehearsed words of
for some strange reason
maybe a million bucks we laughed
rather see Lenin in his coffin
but I never cared
so over Lenin long ago
Norwegian student communists
silly table talk

We left the circus after three songs
out that emergency entry door
the most suitable Doors that night
took the metro as far as it went
climbed the stairs to the nineteenth floor
sat on the balcony smoking
talking about Sovjet tractors
the price of bread
and how the young people
are making new space and room
He took my guitar
played a Russian song
he just made the other week

You would never guess
how good it was
never imagine
how good he is

Poetry by PapaFahr The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 630 times
Written on 2011-07-11 at 14:27

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