Donne is the master, not from experience at the time he wrote, but because he was of the faith.
A side issue: these now dead masters of the first half of the twentieth century had enough training to write pastiche, and though they were moving through what is now called modernism, most of their poems are well crafted.
Pound and Joyce pushed modernism beyond coherence, and only Joyce came back from that. The generations following them are walking around the ruins. Perhaps they need to go back to the source, and rediscover classical education, which imbues a rhetorical structure the post moderns lack, calling emotional incontinence poetry.
I would call such incoherent ranting.
Webster was much possessed by death
And saw the skull beneath the skin;
And breastless creatures under ground
Leaned backward with a lipless grin.
Daffodil bulbs instead of balls
Stared from the sockets of the eyes!
He knew that thought clings round dead limbs
Tightening its lusts and luxuries.
Donne, I suppose, was such another
Who found no substitute for sense;
To seize and clutch and penetrate,
Expert beyond experience,
He knew the anguish of the marrow
The ague of the skeleton;
No contact possible to flesh
Allayed the fever of the bone.
T.S. Eliot, 1920