Soul Memory
Under fluorescent lights,
On a wooden chair I sat.
Not moving,
Nirt ou'ing,
Not wanting to even when she begged.
In stillness,
I’m always pondering the past!
The careless boring past.
The whoring returning past.
I hear tainted laughter.
That echoes still.
And lavender tears
That fall on hard whitened stones.
She is gone again,
Yes, until she needs another jRx*
The dose of drug
That Is my soul.
Like a vampire suctions blood,
She feeds on me.
In conflict and in lovet
—John Pemell
MARCH 15,1991 — THE DECREE — PAGE 3
Morrison would see
irony in latest war
(Continued from Page 2)
people wanting to explore their
other sides. Friends who attended
the infamous Miami concert tell
me that the crowd merely wanted
Morrison to sing his hit songs; it
didn’t have a clue about what his
drunken monologue meant. As
Stone stresses, Moirison appeared
self-indulgent, gross, and petu
lant. He said we were slaves of
our institutions. He offered to lead
a revolution against (dis)-
regarding ourselves as blind,
gluttonous consumers of fashion.
Later, when we read what
Morrison vnrote and said in inter
views, we figured it out, but at
the time Morrison failed to meet
the crowd’s expectation of what
a rock concert was, and it didn’t
like that
A couple of weeks ago, as I
listened to Neil Young and Gazy
Horse whip a 1990’s crowd into
adoring frenzy, I marvelled at
Young’s capacity to survive and
wondered at Morrison’s very brief
streak across our horizon. I bought
the first Doors album in 1967;
Morrison died in 1971. Stone tries
to make Morrison into a mystic
who wanted to die as the ultimate
excess. Perhaps. And as Neil
Young as sung, it’s “better to bum
out than to rust away.” But in my
personal mythology, Morrison’s
message was — and is — that
testing the boundaries of language
and behavior is honorable if the
goal is self-awareness.
I think his body died when it
couldn’t keep up with his bound
ary testings. He was stupid to
abuse himself to death; but he
has my everlasting respect for his
honest, courageous, and ingenious
appraisal of and encouragement
of one part of humanity — the
part we most like to hide from
because it calls for a continual re-
evaluation of the rules.
If you read his words and listen
to his music, you will see that he
thought we might reach the other
side of meaninglessness through
love — of ourselves and of each
other, and of human potential.
What would he say about a
country that pretends to have
reached it by exporting death and
destruction?
“This is the end”?
I wt'eiorelatn?
IkjH, therefofe
Imkit be
9AtRTVI0PON
Fiction fantasy
Good-bye, my lovely queen
ByJOHNPERNELL
This story is a section of a
much larger piece that is still in
the works. The characters are
growing by the day in the slow
hours behind my Smith Corona
keyboard. I am present this story
as a swashbuckling fantasy sim
ply for your enjoyment of read
ing. As in all fantasy stories, the
characters are make-believe. No
one should be flattered by the
content.
She, in all eloquence, stepped
delicated from the doorway and
into the shadow-ridden room. The
air, that crept in through the oak
door, moved about the chamber
in moist clean patches.
Her hooded royal blue cloak,
soaked by the night rain, clung to
her slender poised body seduc
tively. With both hands the young
woman took hold of the hood and
pulled the drenched material away
from her face. Then the girl spoke.
“Gabriel, why are you here?”
Britany’s voice hid a trace of fear
in the question.
“I refused to allow myself to
leave Berwick without seeing you
one last time. Is that so wrong?” I
.. ,.
asked.
“Yes. Yes, it is terribly wrong.
I am the king’s wife.”
“And I, my dear Queen, am
just a peasant unworthy of your
great company.” I knew those
words would hit her in a feverish
influx of contradicting emotions.
I wanted her to feel the pain I
felt, and the helplessness. I hurt
the one person I loved. I did not
know why.
“You are no peasant, you’re
my only true love.” The tears re
turned to her blue eyes. Britany
turned away, to face the doorway,
leaving me only the view of her
long silver-blue hair that fell
down her back and over the wet
cloak. “If someone were to find
us here, we would both be ex
ecuted.”
I took a few gentle steps to
ward her. Her breathing sped up
as did my own.
“Tlien,” I said, “I suggest that
we do not get caught.”
Britany tried in earnest to
laugh, but still the fear held her
within the cloak.
I moved closer to her and
placed my hands onto her shoul
ders. Then my hands left the girl’s
shoulders and slid downward over
her responsive breast to finally
rest comfortably on her stomach.
She breathed outwardly deep and
slow, as I pulled her body near
and tight.
“Gabriel, where are you go
ing?” she asked.
“I’m not yet sure. I have few
friends in BellhoUow.”
She pivoted between my arms,
until our eyes dueled in quiet
surrender. Nearer still I pulled her,
until our lips were one. Britany’s
tongue explored, as it had count
less times before, smoothly,
quickly, and without hesitation.
Then I released my arms from
their grasp and we broke away.
The room felt suddenly cool and
indifferent.
“Goodbye, Britany, my lovely
queen.”
I left the room and the castle
like the chilling wind. From there,
I moved through the deserted
cobblestone streets toward the
wharf. Tliere, as the rain contin
ued to drop over me, I boarded
the sailing ship that allowed me
to traverse the ocean and my
emotions.
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