Jim Morrison would throw a massive party at the cemetery in Paris
Where his mortal remains were buried one bleak summer day in 1971.
He was the man who came back through the door, bored enough
To score an attendance at his own wake, and to read more 
From Joyce’s work-in-progress The Finnegan’s Wake.
Anybody who has ever passed through the doors of perception
Will be changed, changed utterly, a terrible beauty is born
She may be wise enough to be  unsure of everything,
For, to be sure, she will question everything
As did William Blake as he saw through the material screen
To what is really always there, love-invisible-in-the-air.
These wise fools, often locked away in prisons and lunatic asylums,
As was the case with the beautiful soul, John Clare,:
Never self-satisfied, humble, seeking to fix, if only for a while,
The ever-slippery smile bridging
The unfathomable mysteries that surround us.