Good luck Henry plenty of juice, gassed, feeling warm inside.
Sunday afternoon, laying in a bed, room dusted with white energy.
Blind with clear vision, junked up, in the gut of the volcano.
Rattling the bones of collective soul, upward and out, going to Mars.
Mars silent, still and empty for a million years. A nice place to go.
Astral projecting, hitching a ride on an angels back, Sitting cross legged like Geronimo on red Martian hill.
Looking to the sky, star objects imploding and exploding simultaneously, kaleidoscopic.
Henry transported, moved, powerless, orgon energy, getting off on Mars.
Looking down from far above, the Earth a fools paradise.