Aldous Huxley Goes to Hell

planning a short story on Aldous Huxley's LSD experience on his deathbed, for Askance writing competition. Coming along well.

-

At midnight, when the night
hums at the windows
and the desk is littered
with the debris
of many redundant efforts
that all led somehow to this
just this right now
and what is this, a beginning?
an end?
My hands are weak
upon the keys
with the suspicion
that my having something to say
was a faulty logic
to suffer for art is one thing
but to suffer
for a lie
is an absurdity
hunched shouldered
with head in hands now
I carry the weight of a world
that was never real

Fool Moon
Tonight -
Between then
And now.

The face of the moon,
It’s haunted pallor,
Convinces of mysteries
That lurk between branches,
Between sections of sky
The trees hang leaves
That blow in the cellar
That opened too soon.

A hurricane’s eye.

A man lost at sea
Sees the same moon
As a group of people
Camping in the woods
And the group of people
See the same moon
As the man lost at sea.

And some people walk by.

The sheet of night
Blinks between branches
And clouds
The moon sends a smile,
With a reminder
This is where we met
When you last saw my face
While driving for miles

And now
Between branches
I wish you goodnight.

For Beatrice

I know you are perfect
Yet I know you not.
These moments
Meant so much to me,
These useless fleeting moments.
Behind your eyes
I cannot meet you
But in my mind
I can see you
Whispering softly
And smiling gladly
And I wish
I could be
How I think
You are
When
Love
meets
your
eye.

Gratitude from the barrel's end

Thankyou for my suffering
That hands me to the ground
Thankyou for the broken heart
That stops me getting round
To further hurting myself and others
And ending up endowed
With a reputation that cannot
Be forgiven.

Thankyou for
The damage in my soul
That makes me feel that
I can reach my goal
Thankyou for the time
That I spend alone.
Thankyou for the friends
That tolerate me still.
Thanks. That is all.

Distance, over time

Andromeda seems far away
But you seem further.

Ursa minor seems far away
but I must walk
there and back
before my life is done.

And if walking is not enough
I will sail to you
my stranger.

It may take years
and I may wither
in the interim
but you will know
when we arrive there
as the sun
meets the ground
one last time.

for Wendy Cope

Buses are like women
They're red
and they've got wheels
and it's awful
when you miss one.