This post is for you. I love this poem posted in a comment by poet/novelist Linda Sienkiewicz– Linda explains in her comment that the ‘he’ at the end of this Jim Morrison poem is another of her celeb. crushes, Russell Crowe.
Linda took her Jim Morrison obsession and made a whole haunting chapbook about it (see Linda’s word-press website)–
I can relate. I took my obsession with scandal skaters Tonya Harding and Nancy Kerrigan and (so far) have written a novella, chamber opera and rock opera (new productions forthcoming) and now film script (film forthcoming) all about T&N.
Has anyone out there done anything similarly crazy? Read Linda’s vivid visceral poem and see if you might want to try obsessing creatively, on the page or stage… Thanxx to Linda for this, our first Art on the Blog:
Thirty years is a long time, Morrison—
my mantra, my shaman, my sweet
erotic nihilist. It’s too weird to think
you’d show up panting
at my back door, and I’m no longer
the lone, braless freak in a high
school full of fresh-faced cornhuskers,
no more the sweet sixteen leather-whip
whose kohl-lined, bloodshot eyes saw your face
in every Rorschach blot, who believed
she alone could light your fire.
Admit it, Jimbo, the closest I’d get
to you now is a zipless fuck with some
look-alike on your grave in Père Lachaise.
I’ve found a new bad boy—
dingo-barking-mad with your apocalyptic
intensity— ten thousand watts of it burning
night and day in my brain.
You think he likes older women? Okay,
so maybe he doesn’t, but look, Mojo, I’m sick
of microwaving Lean Cuisine, washing
my pantyhose in the bathroom sink
every night, waking up in the same bed.
He’ll be the gladiator to defend my dreams,
someone to squeeze when my day stumbles
down the stairs into the basement.
Yes, you’re beautiful, you’ll always
be beautiful — isn’t that the tragedy
of The End? And maybe asking the Antichrist
to be an angel is a lot, but, I could use your help.
What I’m saying is: please look after him.
Don’t let him die in a bathtub in Paris or
anything. I got a big load of laundry to do.
-Linda K. Sienkiewicz
Published in Main Street Rag