After many a summer time must have a stop:

an emptied stage and canopy hung starless.

Aldous Huxley's dying, Kennedy's been shot

and all the western world is watching Dallas.

 

He tells his wife to tip the boy some dollars

for the oxygen tanks; though his days are spent,

there's an infinite succession of tomorrows

Huxley is attempting to circumvent.

 

A worn out stoic, the literary gent,

something of a saint or bodhisattva

undertaking a brave new experiment

to illuminate the world he'll find hereafter.

 

The boundless nature of ego-ambition

inhibits the religious experience:

Huxley adopted a yogic position,

counterpoint to this tear-wet transience.

 

Idolaters venerate the sacred ground

of dubious Golden Ages and Utopias;

only outside of history is goodness found 

and mankind is a martyr to myopia.

 

The western world murders a scarecrow saviour

and confabulates a Cuban connection;

a fine day to sneak oneself beneath the radar

and disappear through the doors of perception.

 

Fortified by pain relief and LSD

in the pleasure dome he floats on the waves.

There's no heaven or hell, only eternity,

yet perhaps there is an entity that saves?

 

Not Jesus or Mohammed, Krishna, Buddha,

not these nightmares and assassinations,

not these templed schemes for a perfect future

but this emptiness enhanced by medication.....