nothing about scooters...

ha ha ha...

as he adds some more to the nonsense of it all.
as if he has something other to do but waste his precious idle time in the devil's playground like he does.
or not.

what?

nevermind.

take another hit, baby.
may it serve you well.
ha ha ha...

a tale told by a idiot.
a poem that is not a poem written by a poet who is not a poet.
as if that matters.
what matters is that this has nothing to do with scooters or any dada such like.
it is its own dada, baby.
don't you forget it.
ha ha ha...

as if this means anything.
as if it doesn't.
as if he cares.
as if he doesn't.
ha ha ha...

and the mad god laughing and screaming in his head.
this is his enlightenment it would seem.
and he would have it be no other way.
better this than the blissful boredom of heaven the others try to attain.
ho-fucking-hum.

as he lights another cigarette.
as he watches and waits in the garden with the gods wondering about it all.
as he is well aware of the contradictions.
dada.
ha ha ha...

as he sits down in the bunker hidden away from the mass confusion of the world in his own content little dream dreaming of itself dreaming.
as he gazes at the computer screen awaiting instructions.
as if it matters.
as the universe is all happening at once from flashing particles to turning galaxies and all in-between.
as he is amazed with wonder and delight.
ha ha ha...

as the agony of the others in this world surrounds him and he can do nothing for it.
not that he really cares.
who does?
it's party time, baby.
what's on tv?
ha ha ha...

scooters.
ha ha ha...