blankpage: Natascha @ worx-a film by Volker Stockel

the celebration of the lizard king

Lions in the street and roaming

Dogs in heat, rabid, foaming

A beast caged in the heart of a city

The body of his mother

Rotting in the summer ground.

He fled the town.

He went down South

And crossed the border

Left the chaos & disorder

Back there

Over his shoulder.

One morning he awoke in a green hotel

With a strange creature groaning beside him.

Sweat oozed from its shiny skin.

Is everybody in?

The ceremony is about to begin.

Wake up!

You can't remember where it was.

Had this dream stopped?

The snake was pale gold glazed & shrunken.

We were afraid to touch it.

The sheets were hot dead prisons.

And she was beside me, old,

She's, no; young.

Her dark red hair.

The white soft skin.

Now, run to the mirror in the bathroom,

Look!

She's coming in here.

I can't live through each slow century

Of her moving.

I let my cheek slide down

The cool smooth tile

Feel the good cold stinging blood.

The smooth hissing snakes

Of rain...

Once I had a little game

I liked to crawl back in my brain

I think you know the game I mean

I mean the game called "Go Insane"

Now you should try this little game

Just close your eyes forget your name

Forget the world, forget the people

And we'll erect a different steeple.

This little game is fun to do.

Just close your eyes, no way to lose

And I'm right here, I'm going too

Release control, we're breaking through

Way back deep into the brain

Way back past the realm of pain

Back where there's never any rain

And the rain falls gently on the town

And over the heads of all of us

And in the labyrinth of streams beneath

Quiet unearthly presence of

Nervous hill dwellers in the gentle hills around

Reptiles abounding

Fossils, caves, cool air heights

Each house repeats a mold

Windows rolled

A beast car locked in against morning

All now sleeping

Rugs silent, mirrors vacant

Dust blind under the beds of lawful couples

Wound in sheets

And daughters, smug with semen

Eyes in their nipples

Wait! There's been a slaughter here

Don't stop to speak or look around

Your gloves and fan are on the ground

We're getting out of town

We're going on the run

And you're the one I want to come!

Not to touch the earth, not to see the sun

Nothing left to do but run, run, run

Let's run, let's run

House upon the hill, moon is lying still

Shadows of the trees witnessing the wild breeze

Come on, baby, run with me

Let's run

Run with me, run with me, run with me

Let's run

The mansion is warm at the top of the hill

Rich are the rooms and the comforts there

Red are the arms of luxuriant chairs

And you won't know a thing till you get inside

Dead president's corpse in the driver's car

The engine runs on glue and tar

Come on along, not going very far

To the east to meet the Czar

Run with me, run with me, run with me

Let's run

Some outlaws live by the side of a lake

The minister's daughter's in love with the snake

Who lives in a well by the side of the road

Wake up, girl! We're almost home

Sun, sun, sun

Burn, burn, burn

Moon, moon, moon

I will get you soon...soon...soon

I am the Lizard King

I can do anything

We came down the rivers and highways

We came down from forests and falls

We came down from Carson and Springfield

We came down from Phoenix enthralled

And I can tell you the names of the kingdoms

I can tell you the things that you know

Listening for a fistful of silence

Climbing valleys into the shade

For seven years I dwelt in the loose palace of exile

Playing strange games with the girls of the island

Now I have come again to the land of the fair

And the strong and the wise

Brothers and sisters of the pale forest

Children of night

Who among you will run with the hunt?

Now night arrives with her purple legion

Retire now to your tents and to your dreams

Tomorrow we enter the town of my birth

I want to be ready.

jim morrison (1943-1971)

the brewing of soma

the fagots blazed, the caldron’s smoke
up through the green wood curled;
“bring honey from the hollow oak,
brink milky sap,” the brewers spoke,
in the childhood of the world.

and brewed they well or brewed they ill,
the priests thrust in their rods,
first tasted, and then drank their fill,
and shouted, with one voice and will,
“behold, the drink of gods!”

they drank, and lo! in heart and brain
a new, glad life began;
the gray of hair grew young again,
the sick man laughed away his pain,
the cripple leaped and ran.

"drink, mortals, what the gods have sent,
forget your long annoy."
so sang the priests. from tent to tent
the soma’s sacred madness went,
a storm of drunken joy.

then knew each rapt inebriate
a winged and glorious birth,
soared upward, with strange joy elate,
beat, with dazed head, varuna’s gate,
and sobered, sank to earth.

the land with soma’s praises rang;
on gihon’s banks of shade
its hymns the dusky maidens sang;
in joy of life or mortal pang
all men to soma prayed.

the morning twilight of the race
sends down these matin psalms;
and still with wondering eyes we trace
the simple prayers to soma’s grace,
that vedic verse embalms.

as in that child-world’s early year,
each after age has striven
by music, incense, vigils drear,
and trance, to bring the skies more near,
or lift men up to heaven!

some fever of the blood and brain,
some self-exalting spell,
the scourger’s keen delight of pain,
the dervish dance, the orphic strain,
the wild-haired bacchant’s yell,—

the desert’s hair-grown hermit sunk
the saner brute below;
the naked santon, hashish-drunk,
the cloister madness of the monk,
the fakir’s torture show!

and yet the past comes round again,
and new doth old fulfil;
in sensual transports wild as vain
we brew in many a christian fane
the heathen soma still!

dear lord and father of mankind,
forgive our foolish ways!
reclothe us in our rightful mind,
in purer lives thy service find,
in deeper reverence, praise.

in simple trust like theirs who heard
beside the syrian sea
the gracious calling of the lord,
let us, like them, without a word
rise up and follow thee.

o sabbath rest by galilee!
o calm of hills above,
where jesus knelt to share with thee
the silence of eternity
interpreted by love!

with that deep hush subduing all
our words and works that drown
the tender whisper of thy call,
as noiseless let thy blessing fall
as fell thy manna down.

drop thy still dews of quietness,
till all our strivings cease;
take from our souls the strain and stress,
and let our ordered lives confess
the beauty of thy peace.

breathe through the heats of our desire
thy coolness and thy balm;
let sense be numb, let flesh retire;
speak through the earthquake, wind, and fire,
o still, small voice of calm!

john greeleaf whittier (1807-1892)

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Montag, 7. Februar 2011

Natascha @ worx-a film by Volker Stockel

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