Thistle Whistle

Reading of a very fresh poem from Sean while listening to the golden age of Jazz and painting sea lions. It would be better to be frantic than to be relieved.Lying my head on a single rope.Listening to the occasional deep gurgle of this river, which comes on its own. Trying not to look at these girls in pink bikinisLike Kaka in the park Suddenly surrounded by a gaggle of ladiesShutting his eyes tight like a childThey were enjoyingThe Persian abuses he was hurlingWhich they thought was singing So he had to go runningBlindlyNot wanting to look at his own natureEyes flutteringAlmost time to returnTo the dirty linensWhich have been machine driedEverything alignsJust rightTo pay attention toEverything you've been trying to avoidThe hardest job in the Universe Would be to make love forever You wouldn't last 15 minutes in his position Reaching tentacles into every particle in existenceReceptionist gives you rock faceWaiting for you to produce solid credentials I am more like a snare hitOr a cymbal crashNot long enough to have much meaning Mainly responding to everything elseBut reeking of myselfI bring these fresh bags To the backdoor unlockedLooks like there's a hot babe moving in nextdoorWith a bald boyfriend Her rented dodge ram moving van blocks the entrance Responsibility presides my hungerOxen eating mossHard working but difficult to moveSometimes stampeding Through your citiesTrash collection I've lost the point3 minutes too lateSinging unconsciously Dove cooOr chicken coupLike a tomatoe riotRippling bulges of treesTime-bombDoesn't wait for anything Eternal eruptionLike the SunOr the black box you seeWhen you take your eyes away from the screenAnd close your eyesA Baria of birthdaysLast night or now we're backRaised eyebrowCascade of dominoes Love licks itselfLike toast and dead tunaAnd another peom somewhere elseThat is more important than thisThistle therapy whistle call