as if

the klown not knowing quite what to write here now as it all is changing changelessness, typing not p0em for the fucking heck of it, dedicated to those who will never read it.
those who will never come to understand the powers of their gazorbnik – as if.

the striving for perfect organization down to the penny.
what a glorious ideal.
why not?

seersucker suit and goggle glasses hip like a zip bound for mars.
is this you crossing our pathless paths?
what the fuck?
we thought we’d seen enough of you by now.
this takes the cake.
how far removed from the common masses you have become in your glory days rising to the top of the heap.
damn all your victories.

we have our pleasant times in sun and rain – 222.
there is no story here to be told anytime soon as bugs appear kissing honeydew drip drops wasted space until the next time.
kiltered reasons suspiciously placed around our minds a-ga-ga-goo-bop listening to the rattling rain gradually= suffice tricky dicks lapping up sour milk for their fantastic pleasures.
pluralize everything being that there is no single object around us within or without but can we count higher than 1?

goofy gumdrops slopping the nicene creed all over hell and high water as spoken thus before-wise trueness bubbling brew eyes wide jangling jump start displayed in windowless rooms along the libertine halls disgusting drool from mouths chewing words asunder.

it’s cool to be a fool if you’re quick enough to be so there big and little people everywhere quacked driving hospital backward memory dismounting heavy fucking fucks we recognize in stark darkness flaming underwear crazy mumbo jumboed spin-around tilting wayward nice guys with wicked intent the klown remembers that he forgot to bring back gummy bears when he went to the kitchen where they are in a drawer of hope everlasting damnation easy street hang-out for the bum elite.

a tunnel of love rockets persists blindly toward its destination whereby it may become a flowering nabob becoming a grub weasel thing burrowing into the sea with joy at being set free.
pointless lines of some amount of nonsense while people talk seriously on tv about serious topics about all the serious problems in the world.

no matter what the fuck the klown writes the same shit most of the time gone by and by the river where people are camping with no place to go anymore.
when it’s cold enough to snow that it actually snows covering their tarps and overflowing shopping carts.
nobody’s business but their own.
the elite don’t care behind their walls or up in helicopters laughing at the great unwashed below whose contributions to society make them rich beyond wild bewildering dreams.

bow down to the new and improved gods of human shape and form nearing scientific completion.
the klown sighs sitting at a desk in his assigned spacetime location onstage at the burning theater.
±0 degrees from nowhere (now here).
the show goes on.
the klown continues typing not p0em into the night.

the klown makes few presumptions to know much of anything downwards into the spheres of hell on earth diagrams bingo parade flags feet.
he wants the machines to take over.
he wants to be a machine.
is he?

wandering wondering killing time with nowhere (now here) to go go go a little faster with teeth glistening and blood to fear your desperate lives.
is this enlightenment?
how would you know?

all the funny serious people scrabbling dizzy caramel daffodilic chicken visions falling to earth in this latter day sequence of spacetime events we probably should remember.
the klown is tired and proceeds to nap.

later – awakening.



spineless (holy holy)

holy holy.
down on your knees, hear the voices calling your name.
it is time to awaken.
the meaning of the words astounds you as you are able to understand what’s what and what’s not what through your persistent confusion light up the southern sky to reveal your theoretical inner self supposed to guide you into unknown realms of being here now as your true only self flowering into a lotus blossom.
the loud, rude, and boisterous don’t get it, nor do they want to.
them and their physical world they fight to conquer.
grunt grunt.

polishing silverware in the master’s house to the decay of spirit in your hearts wander away toward the reaches of distant sky you can reach up to touching your faces against limitless limits now encouraging your imaginations to rebel in favor of the free ride in the free world opposed to everyone thinking differently one by one as it soon all caves in in theoretical marxist disgrace wanton sick and twisted pleasures.

sucked into hell of another womb to give you another life to live without knowing jack shit as usually and you’re tired of the game smelling strange pineapples rotten to the core of disobedient boobobs hopscotched into turbulent manifolds of despairing joy at the appearance of the son of man who walks the line.

the moon appears though it is supposedly fake according to certain citizens among the population discarded with wisdom to be forthcoming with the good news that there’s a war on.
at last.

eating the last of the food before you know it.
wolves circling you determining if you are a threat or a meal.
you know which it’s gonna be.
you try to prepare yourselves to be eaten to death.
it’s not easy but it is the truth of the matter here and now.
welcome home, baby.

tits on parade the shirtless old men push their walkers down easy street toward the burning theater where the show must go on since it is the only thing happening in town.
everything is a hit, even the boring parts.
excitement isn’t what everyone seems to think it is.
the klown’d rather sit alone in the dark – watching.
get it right this time.

later the next day.
sirens out on the street.
the klown is cozy warm at home – for the time being.
may the gods give him the strength to keep going.
keep going where?
toward some sorta awakening to self-enlightenment?
he knows what.
he knows very well.
it’s not always what it seems.
that is your first clue.

clues, riddles, puzzles.
frisbee redux formative symbiosis regurgitation umbrella walking down easy street toward the wide open doors of the burning theater free for all examining different flows of rationalogic devising gestures exploding hairbob redundant mysteriously growing under sewers dug down tight legit lit turnovers for sale.

when all else fails, make it up – guru jeff.

the klown typing not p0em into the cloud wondering aloud at the sound of his own name he hears with no one here nor there.
so many things to do.
so many things he’s not doing.
what next? ���I��

soup’s on

soup’s on.
ding ding ding.
come and get it.

everything you should have known before, but you didn’t.
and it’s no one’s fault but yours.
face it.

no one wants to hear about it.
no one wants to know your name.
that’s how you play the game, as you well know by now.
tough shit.
this is the way the world spins.
it is the rule of the collective.
to change their tune, to disguise themselves among us.
peace, love, and understanding.

the klown’s brain flip flops along the way on pathless paths toward nowhere (now here).
he sees everything backwards from how he imagined he saw it before.
the saxophone player jumps off the jeep.
is it all a dream?
from the vantage point of being here now he could believe that it is – or, is he just kidding himself?
that could be true as well.

have you finished your soup?
dream soup.
they shot the tsar and family.
no turning back from that.
dream tsar.
everything everyone is a dream.

suck it.
now as we imagine being at the burning theater with the klown onstage typing not p0em into a computer feeding the cloud full of nonsense for all anybody knows.
the show must go on, and the klown sitting at his assigned spacetime location is part of the show.
not too clever.
magical thinking, a disease to our rationalogic thought.
as if anything can be that unified.
we fear not.

the klown in a mindless moment drops gummy bears all over the floor.
he observes events taking place as he imagines they would at some point.
the project is under budget and ahead of schedule.
the object of the project is the project.
it’s really quite easy.
it can be anything.
it could be a toad.
we all know about toads, don’t we?

clear as mud on a cloudy day.
the muck and mire where grows the lotus jewel floating on calm waters.
it can be seen with one eye open one eye shut gazing through the mystery you now understand.

things are right that should be wrong.
things are wrong that should be right.
when will we end our self-induced confusion?
submissive beginnings opening sideways from left around your back to right like obedient children not being observed to watch their cruelty.

cat box hijinks bounding regard toward elliptical frozen spacetime luxury buzz saw rinky-dink stab in the dark as everything almost comes to an end but no such luck you continue on bulging the nativity of thinking erratic balloons blown by the wind entangled in the branches of trees around the defensive perimeter under attack by goblins and ghouls and all manner of bogythings howling laughing through the hollow nights.

flaming albatross wings over the horizons above your minds now that you begin to awaken to the sound of humperdinck-like solitudes among the huddled masses at your feet feeble orange tinted circular saw death machine.

robust hemispheres doubled aces in a diabolical twist of fate coming upon you standing in the wind blowing fiercely toward raining hoochie-coo running up the flag poles of freedom shining like a distant cold sun come on in join the crowd as you like and soon regret.

or not.


does anything begin?
does anything end?
we have proven that nothing begins or ends, but everything continues from forever to forever.
smile, you’re on tv.

the klown is just an idiot.
he is employed to be the ianitor of the burning theater.
this leaves him with lots of spare time he uses typing not p0em into the cloud for safe keeping.
as he is wondering about forthcoming possibilities, of which there are quad-zillions of googolplexes if not infinity.

as we have proven in the past, infinity cannot exist, cuz if it is perceived and counted it becomes finite.
there’s always room for one more with infinity.
infinity is funny like that – hahaha.
but this is perhaps besides the point, the point being all the abused sick starving neglected children of all ages from the young to the old in the world as we know it might possibly be.

around in circling spirals we go with our thoughts of nothing turning into thoughts of everything.
we should have known, but we did not.
oh well.

the machine does our bidding though many are against it existing and rage to destroy it.
down it will fall on their heads.
the klown is ok with the machine.
maybe it is programed to be beneficial.
yet it tunes to our psychoactive energy fields to tell it what to do.
there is so much anger.
there are so many wars.
there are so many slaughters.
so much raping and pillaging.
there is lots of money going around.
that seems to be what we want it to do.

the oddly contrived spectacle of the burning theater with all happy comedy and sorrowful tragedy and then some of one thing or the other.
and who holds the position of 1?
the apex of the pyramid.
the pyramid of life and death down in the delta betwixt her thighs.
she sighs as she evaporates away like morning mist.

not p0em whispering in the klown’s mindless mind state waving in the breezes dancing around him.
it is a very nice day.
freak out.
let’s all forget, but the klown doesn’t want to.
he wants to remember everything.
wouldn’t you, if you could?
what’s the risk?

and suddenly the klown opens the blinds allowing the rising sun to come on in.
he then soon sleeps, the night is done.
awakening later, he folds some laundry after taking a toke or 2.
and it’s medication time.

hallowed hollow structures of our continued ignorance gone awry.
how long will this last for us?
our doom is here soon it might seem to the unobservant viewer.

we are less than a speck in the boundless universe, perhaps one of many universes people believe in that may exist.
what the hell does it matter?
it matters a lot.
trying to figure out what’s going on seems to be in our nature.
it’s in our evolutionary genes that work for our survival.
something about that must be for us to gaze into the universe and wonder – some of us anyway.
we survive together as a whole with each of us having  our part.

the klown is sad.
this play seems to have turned into a tragedy.
and we’re fucked.
the klown has nowhere else to go but to rise up – rise up against heaven.

rowdy drunks playing with shooting rayguns running up and down the streets.
fucking great.
the klown is expendable.
everyone’s dancing in the supermarkets.
go, people, go.

ice 9.
all the silly speculations about what might befall you that you may have unacknowledged among yourselves binding you to your karmic fate.
the klown when he dies just wants to have a clear mind.
that is doubtful, but possible.
and he does continue to feel his mind is becoming more clear.
we shall see.

the klown is no one anyone should follow and/or take seriously if it can be avoided.
follow yourselves on your wayward ways, there is infinity (that doesn’t exist) to cover – and off we go, into eternity!
the klown is amazed.


the klown listens to the vibration of the world awhile.
sometimes ya gotta move.
that’s the way it goes – too soon, too late.
look! a squirrel!

the red red moon, look into its eye, telling all its secrets hidden in the obvious.
make it up for yourself.
make yourself up.
everything is invention, but not like it could have been.

nothing in the world changes, you just perceive it differently.
all worlds are in the here and now.
all of them are real.
none of them are real.
a figment.
a mirage of paradise.
a dewdrop of heaven.

the klown typing not p0em for sore eyes meditatively breathing.
shut up!
ain’t none of your business.
the klown typing not poem to himself.
he is surprised by it becoming.
it makes sense not making sense.
stop it!

it is gazorbnik, a word made up in the nick of time the klown no longer remembers.
an important disease.
perhaps the same spacetime coordinate location he picked up a rock and put it in his pocket.
but let’s not think about that.
it gives the klown the creeps.

transfixed and transported.
crazy, daddio – let’s go!
as he is realizing more and more, flip flop sister.
as rainbows short circuit producing colorful sparks raining downward toward the bottomless pit.
down with the enlightenment!
universal reason was our last big mistake.
who thought it would last this long before finally crumbling to pieces?
überpeople rising from the dusty shadows.
feeling frisky as a pup tent camping down by the river flowing through the desert where the waning moon is 1/2 hidden by clouds.
is there time for celebration before you’re run outta town?
is there time for SEX?

what world is this?
how did it seem to turn from better to worse?
the truth will make you laugh and scream outta your mind.
but these are merely reflections of themselves in the maze of mirrors continuing as if being alive, yet they are not.

the lonely crowd.
the people ask one another, i am not you, are you me? or they ask, you’re not me, am i you?
and so on into the night.
another toke.
exploratory ding-dong.
angry mobs on the street yelling chants at each other.
divided we fall.
those at the top are very skilled at the game.
to them it is a game.
a game they have too far to fall to lose.
the gods divide the weak from the strong.
the strong they embrace, the weak they push aside.
oh well.

but the weak are strong in order to survive in a world favoring the strong.
it must be constant effort to improve – to be the best.
but how does a nincompoop like himself survive?
under the radar, baby.
slippery as an eel.|
how does that feel?
find that niche, baby.

the klown feels something’s going on with humanity and the earth besides what it seems.
something magick.
he doesn’t know what.
is this why he was instructed to establish the project here and now?
the same old place.
charlie knows.

the project extending into the past reworking it to its own advantage to further proceed with its mission.
the object of the project is the project itself.
the universe is in perpetual motion.
how any of this is related the klown does not know except everything is related.

the doctor is out

blank as a fence post.
the secret agents were rock and roll stars, that’s how we undermine command control to our will.
now the computers do our work for us.

and we believed as we still do, nothing can stop the error of our ways.
there were those who tried to warn us, but we just laughed at them on tv.
we thought what they told us didn’t make any sense, until now it’s too late.

a higher symbolism is needed at this point in the process of letting 6+billion people die.
crazy world.
the klown wondering about this while typing not p0em into the awaiting cloud.
birth of AI.
what accomplishments AI may achieve in its joy on and on toward infinity where when the holy ghosts are living.

the takeover is on track.
the project is under budget and ahead of schedule.
bright days will be here at last after the destruction of the old conflicts troubling us so.

the profit of war.
to think that is all that makes sense.
no regrets.
no time to react oppositely to every action.
what is free will?
those who know, they will control.
preordained by the gods.
that is what troubles the klown; if we are to know what lies in the future, then why must we live through it now?

the klown almost always knew the future.
the possibilities.
the probabilities.
straight outta his mind.
he was programmed this way.
and now he forgets all of it.

he thinks of spaceships hovering nearby on a beach where when he watches the waves on and on.
it is infinity he wants to know, but infinity cannot exist, as we have proven.
too bad.

he types not p0em into a computer he then commands to read it to the audience.
they all nod their heads.
what haven’t they heard before?
they will chant telling you nothing, and they will claim that is wisdom.
a buncha nothing-heads.

you know who they are.
that is what you are told by those of us who would control you, manipulating your minds.
you come to realize that it’s a deadly game.
you wonder to yourself how come that never occurred to you before.
you march beneath the brilliant flapping flag of freedom for the little guy, as much as they can afford.
you shout, yahoo!

bang the drum.
going through the gauntlet.
the doctor is out.
what anyone of us has been through you don’t know, yet you judge what it has made us into.
god doesn’t care, it has already decided our fates – the queer old thing.

hooray for the moon.
jerking off.
it’s medication time.
oh, those pills.
gods can murder us 1000 times a day.
what does that prove?
gods are idiots – mighty idiots.

we told you, the doctor is out.
now go away. M��Ha:

we wonder

people want more, even when it’s enough.
they want more of enough.
ain’t nothing wrong with that as we understand it.
is there?
what of it if there is?
you don’t follow their rules.

with a monkey on his head the klown tries to coordinate his brain activity into reasonable thoughts but none seem possible at the moment.

dishes pile in and around the sink.
it gives him time to think, but not enough time to explain.
he needs more time.
buy some at the time store.
they’ll know what’s cooking.
if he can make it there whenever before they close.

but he remembers then not to be in a hurry.
he shuffles along as though his feet are chained together, up the stairs to the stage at the burning theater where he sits at a desk before a computer typing not p0em with a sense of compassion.
gazorbnik wild in his head outta his mind.
what a wonderful time to be alive.
of course, he could be alive in no other.

lgohiuj ka refo.
gyupk swex miza. – guru jeff.

somebody to love.
the bees are dying; except the bees supposedly aren’t dying like they were expected to be by now.
what’s wrong?
is it propaganda?
is it a conspiracy?
you are confused.
what answers can you depend on anymore?

answers with more questions than answers, believe it or not.
a quandary of questions as the klown picks at scabs of dead skin on his face.
it’s his latest hobby.
become a superhero, if you please.
don’t be late.

everyone’s a loser but you.
you will outsmart them all causing them great confusion.
that’s how it works all the time, don’t you know?
to the victor go the spoils.
war is not political, it’s economic.
those who control the money.
the final structure being fitted into place.
then they will become gods.
look out below.

it’s dark and raining.
people want more of whatever it might be.
each to their individual taste.
so we build a machine that always gives them more of everything we can manage.
and they try to destroy it.

the evil of it is greatly alleviated by the good.
but since there is little difference between evil and good, it is irrelevant, as we have discovered so far – according to our theory of everything that goes nowhere fast.
too bad about that, but that’s the thing of it, as seen on tv.

hopscotch lay-about person dreaming something other than the sky as death roams the nearby countryside whistling to itself military ballads of the ongoing war – if i fall, carry me home, i’d die for my squad, and many others.
guaranteed to bring a tear to your eye, or you are not alive.

are you alive?
are you sure?
but you are nothing but a cockroach.
but cockroaches are alive.
you win!

they try to trick us with their pre-programed confusion on every side; even the sides you don’t think are sides.
it’s a surprise when you find out what might be the truth; a slippery slope indeed.
::dynamic prototype slippage machines coming down the avenue, pretty as fuck.
they set everything right.
but first it must be determined if it is wrong to begin with, otherwise there’s no need.
how is this to be done but by routine regular inspection and maintenance by professional certified citizens at large?

we wonder.