by Nick Gisburne
Eager for a psychedelic thrill,
Searching for a funky, freaky fix,
Moon, the mad magician, bites a pill,
Ready for the crazy acid kicks.
Warm is not the word for what he feels,
Far from any woolly, hippie highs.
Clawed by cold complexities, he reels,
Floating in malicious, molten skies.
Gates of grim, gargantuan design
Spew the dust of dessicated dreams.
Somewhere, on a sacrificial shrine,
Moon, immortal, splinters at the seams.
Scrambled by the terrors of the drug,
Is it time for munchies, or a hug?
