In late 1969, Jim Morrison wrote a poem in honour of Brian Jones

I'm a resident of a city
They've just picked me to play the Prince of Denmark
Poor Ophelia
All the ghosts he never saw, floating to doom on an iron candle

Come back, brave warrior,
Do the dive 
On another channel

Hot buttered pool
Where's Marrakesh
under the Falls
the wild storm
where savages fell out
in late afternoon
monsters of rhythm

You've left your
Nothing
to compete with
Silence
I hope you went out 
Smiling
Like a child
Into the cool remnant 
of a dream

The angel man
with Serpents competing
for his palms
and fingers
Finally claimed

This benevolent
Soul

Ophelia

Leaves, sodden
in silk

Chlorine 
dream
mad stifled
Witness

The diving board, the plunge
The pool

You were a fighter
a damask musky muse

You were the bleached
Sun
for TV afternoon

horned-toads
maverick of a yellow spot

Look now to where it's got
You

in meat heaven
w/ the cannibals
& jews

The gardener
Found
The body, rampant, floating

Lucky Stiff
What is the green pale stuff
You've made of

poke holes in the goddess
Skin

Will he Stink
Carried heavenward
Thru the halls
of music

No chance

Requiem for a heavy

That smile
That porky satyr's
leer
has leaped upward

into the loam

Copyright, James Douglas Morrison, 1969.