Oboe Jones

It’s not so easy to look before you jump with the cow on the wall. We’re watching those who are easily mobile. Change the shoes before the alarm is sound, run through paint until the privilege withheld. Russell wears the crown in California, anticipation when the sun don’t shine. The idea is to seduce, the job is to manipulate- we wait until the innuendos are made too serious. You want to feel the steel, eliminate the crap and weeds. The trees pull up the lawn, Oscar cries and Frank stares at the tits. Passively visible under the yellow and green, the lawyer is desperate for your removal. Witches on TV and corrupt nominees, Canada sounds damn good. We man this a new cartoon, jokes to jive with and smokes to have on the porch at night. Told to look somewhere whispy, you see the sunset with your dick sucked dry. Canada sounds pretty damn good, and the transitions are shit. Intermittently dissatisfied, restless and beyond a statement of adoring demands. Here’s to the sunniest guy I know, we as you consume. You as me, participate in something disastrous just to be in the throws of something only real. With the tongue out, you opt out- the norm too eccentric.

A shadow, a mirror- two hours and it’s clear, there is salvation on the island in the midst of nothing and premature sustainability. The small world bridges the gap- those who are void of everything have something planted in the first world. A profile and an arch established with the freshly caught persona. Something of a search party, left out to dry with nothing left to apply. We’ve been ready for days, with the goat set free and the dog tied up our business is open for nothing. Oboe Jones.