I don’t understand it, man
Like a wizard, slow-spinning colour-dreaming can-can
I red dress, you moulin rouge
You perceive from your refuge
How many coincidences can be possible?
I have no words to comment, that would merit how wonderful
The hues and seasons in your illuminated vision
I breathe it slowly, exhaling with blissful fission
I long-drink your surreal-impressionistic poet-ray
The way you wind present-moment with artistic historay
It’s phantmagorical, or more like some Ra-teal sun-ray
And I’m alive and gone
in scenius renaissance heavenway.