I like seeing lasers, deep, slow, tropical lasers.
Just imagine arrows of light that burn, really evaporate.
It takes too much to hold a gun for this hour.
I'm likening, I'm enchanted by the sway of beams.
Atari's colors are too hot in the darkness.
The graphics are like bolts of calico-fur in a shining garage.
TVs seem to be wrapped with our reflections.
It's an intelligent vision for a blind worker like me.
Of course, Atari machines have the powers we strive for.
A flash of electricity is like a naked curtain that's closed for supreme quality.
Gazes at manuals help me find what numbers to tie in a game.
So it's a bonus for a life, an extra life to a bonus.
A machine can be so ramped up, it can become the odyssey of a jaguar.
Of course, gamers like me become wild cats when madness consumes our minds.
If I may trigger a playful event, I might leave in macro-satisfactory.
So, what's out of the looking glass besides the army cut?
Just tilt pix against groovy stars and see the Tron of rainbows.
A box has plenty of buttons for my smile again.
Colors protect our eyes, that's why we see them.
If anything, Atari is like a mountain that can't hide.
If we're invading space, there's plenty of rest.
So, hit that toggle and let me sleep!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem