The Cats of Flowers - postmodern poetry. Pain. Poverty. Pollution. Paragliding.

[mac338]

Listen to this while reading:
[video=youtube;68fv01zjUu4]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=68fv01zjUu4[/video]

The cats of flowers.
The cat and the flowers, I am he. She is the universe, a trumpeter.
Can you make sure the cat won't run away again?
To the meadow you mean?
Yes, to the trumpeter.
Of the universe?
Yes, I am making sure.

Is it the music of the trumpet that makes the cat run away, or is it the meaning of her? You can never be sure if the 20's still
isn't 40. By the blowing instrument the cat found the meaning of her, and the music was catted upon the flowers. The meadow is where
it all started by an accident. As the cat crashed and it all begun. The 20's still played music. Or the children of the 40 years.

Earth, cats and flowers. Cat king. Cash bling. At the store they sell them. Both cats and trumpets, but the idea of the music and
meadows are never to be sold. Earthing windmill and blowing fur. The circle of imagination is a green blur of supper and tones.
And the children of the 20's still isn't 40 years of productive days. Though, the music that was heard was the age.

The cat could not be found. Not in the meadows, not in the imagination. Just follow the sound of the trumpets. Her. Changing thread
isn't a discussion of the meaning, but a high peak in the changing mind. She with the tones is making sure that the cat will be found.

Either by an accident or by purpose. After all it makes no sense. The 20's will never be 40.
The tones are there. All around you, and the cat could probably be found in a perfect blindness.
All the children I know are still playing in the sand. All the worries of a teenager still exists in the grown ups mind.

Senseless.