Jim Morrison is neither the first nor the last musician to engage with poetry. However, this poetry (unlike in most cases) is neither a prelude nor a complement to his music. It comes from a different realm where the ear has not yet discovered death and melody in the whisper of the Sirens, and where the dominant organ is the eye. It is the time when Morrison was fascinatedly studying the art and technique of cinema, and believed, as he had to believe, that the secret of this world lies in the games of vision, in the psychology of the voyeur and the submissive spectator, in the fatal and sorrowful philosophy of one who blinds himself to know the truth, like Oedipus. The blending of genres here is also a consequence of an ambitious and hermetic effort: these texts can be read as aphorisms or as notes for essays that were never written, because they speak honestly about the reality that was lost where later spectacle and performance were born; but they can also be read as poems because they guide the reader into the world of illusion and alchemy, into a world made of words that are filled (like the words of Rimbaud) with genius and mournful emotion. These poems seem to speak of revolution, but in reality, they speak only of a revolutionary poetry, that is, a revolution of form.