Jim Morrison’s Aubade

1 February 2016

You grab my morning
hard-on, and we are borne

to the immortal motel
where we will lodge

a brief lifetime, sheltering
from an Egyptian sun

that burns down upon
the illegible gravestones

in the withered cemetery.
The feathered Indian

chants ecstatic outside
our door, until the end

of the banal frenzy, which
returns us to this bungalow,

an azure morning,
the day’s first beer.

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