Psychedelic Author

I’m a unique specimen, made of mescaline and ketamine. And the last living resident, of an intergalactic settlement. Burnt to the ground, by time travelling middlemen. I came with the cannon, aiming only to try and bury them. And when I aim for their president, I will not miss my friend. Now I’ve done the job, I will disappear again. Like the last living remanence, of a long forgotten culture. Disappeared too quickly, picked at by the vultures. Bones into dust, Picked up by the wind. And we never knew the story, cause we’re never taught a thing. Meet the psychedelic poet, trying to live stoic. He’s earmarked for death, and he doesn’t even know it. I’ve met alcoholic authors, with bongs in their hands. Staring out of the windows, cause they’re awfully prang. I remember nights doing pipes, but now my mind is sober. But eternally restless, seeking some final closure. The makeshift king, searching for the evidence. I am seeking refuge And my mind needs the medicine.