The poet scribbled in his old yellowed notebook. He wrote of soldiers and sailors, war and whiskey, Indians, highways and mystery trains. He wrote of ghosts, death, demons and angels. Most often though, he wrote of the pale, freckled, red haired Irish queen.
He lit his cigarette and stared out the window of his French hotel room, up at the sombre summer sky. Albinoni’s Adagio wept through the speakers of his old radio. He watched the street, scattered with strange looking people. They scurried and scampered and seemed to be racing against time. He was one of them once. But that was a lifetime ago.
2.00AM. He was having a soak in the tub, surrounded in steam. The cigarette in his hand was the last stick left. There
zwas a bottle of whiskey on the floor. Next to it, his thick notebook, now almost completely filled up, lay opened. He combed back his thick, untamed curls with his foamy fingers and looked down at the familiar words – words he already had etched in the corners of his mind. He spoke the verses out loud and listened as his voice echoed against the moulding walls as if speaking back to him.
Leading to unlikely unions
Whose endings are expected
Expiration dates are inevitable
Bonds are meaningless now
Reduced to nothing more
Than once strong ties
Time takes a pause
And our lives seem lost
Still we keep moving
Yet blindly confident
Of better days ahead
One last mouthful of the hot brown liquid and the glass bottle was emptied. Subdued and lonesome, he drank too much to be sober but not enough to be drunk. Soon all that would change. He had always thought that death was dreadful. But at that moment – hunched in the water, crippled with regret, worry and fear – he wished it would come sooner. He shut his eyes. They never opened again.
Entry filed under: Writings. Tags: alcohol, Dawn's Highway, death, emptiness, frustration, James Douglas Morrison, Jim Morrison, Jim Morrison young lion, Jimbo, Lizard King, loss, Mojo, Mystery Train, Queen of the HIghway, The Doors, Time Works Like Acid.