Ode To Mr. Mojo Risin: James Douglas Morrison!

He rendered to the frail spirit of music- a carefree, restless spark

Born to delight, often away from the mind, but never out of sight

He sang and danced and sang and danced

From the birth of the morning to the dying end of the night

Songs that captured the fierce spark of imagination

Something you could only experience but could not possibly fathom

He was the zeal of an operatic tearjerker, he was the phantom of emotion none could fight

Those who say, they know him, knew him not

His was the voice that mated with eternity, his was a persona inexplicable, not blithe

Whether it is Riders On The Storm or Light My Fire

His voice spoketh an incandescence that didn’t let one wallow in the mire

The concerts, the gigs, the shitfcukery and chicks,

To each of them, he was both; a firefighter saving mankind

But also the prince of despair

I tell you what, he was all of that but purely here with a suitcase full of songs

Each that perhaps stemmed from a space of longing

But for upholding the spirit of sound

He was, but the Shaman, not the showman

The one who tried to set the night on fire

Whilst dangling the line of limitation and incomprehensible

Akin to an unclothed mortal walking on a barbed wire

His own didn’t get him, how could they

When he was beyond normal human comprehension, born to sway

Beyond glory untouched by boundations or decay

In Jim Morrison’s lifespan, we heard, we felt, we experienced and we still do,

Things that though were born inside a recording studio

But were purely meant to widen one’s imagination

Then be it war, rage, rebellion, love, sex or poetry

Jim Morrison opened the gates of The Doors with such a profound sense of magic

That it did seem, on one occasion too many, that he went beyond himself, courting with the tragic

Doing music, not just girls, making love beyond the grasp of self control

Receding so often to what seemed dead ends, whether drugs, draining night-outs or that thing called the bottle

But despite it all, he hit the peaks not the falls

Of the joy of creation

Whether through lyrics that still haunt the mind and move the soul

And who knows, it could well have been the case for both- his fans as well as the sacred ghouls

The latter, according to Jim Morrison, possessed his soul

But who knows what is true and what fell foul

For we are here for the music and lyrics

The ruthlessness, the delight, the damage and destruction too

For let it be asked just how many barring The Doors could get you through

Further to the end of the night and beyond the coming of the day

Like holding a lightbulb whilst confounded by darkness; it’s like making a way

Making a way to get around the one who’d have awoken emotion in The Buddha

And would’ve put the abominable to shame

For in the hearts of hearts of this Electric Shaman

There lay such charisma and light

That it would sharpen the edge of a sword called intellect

And yet, depress the most hopeful of what he or she had to say

All of which makes sense for it’s true that there are things unknown and things unknown

And indeed, in between that stand the Doors

Of Jim Morrison’s endlessly enterprising spirit

That moved, cautioned, reviled, floored, and to both by the way:

Those that admire the profundity called creation

The wannabe hipsters who know nothing about music and just wanna slay!