Interventionists ambitions

Nineteen nine

of twenty twenty two,

Those that know,

are only a few.


The world not flat,

the worlds not round,

Its bumpy and lumpy,

just look at the ground.


Mandelbrot sets,

with brownian motion,

hope and dreams,

that be waking us up again.


Words are real,

they convey meaning,

but those without manners,

lack all their feeling.


There are limited words,

and even less ones pronounced,

but the name of our father,

would be silently denounced.


Its not my fault,

I’m being ipulated.

from making up words,

that spell out my paraded.


You see the paradox,

drawing a parallel,

ironies king,

entertainments inevitable.


Poetry might suck,

as we skip over it,

whereas music rings true,

where our heart meet our gut.


I’ll ramble and rave,

rant and russel,

It’s end of season,

of all the baby brussel.


Now winds and rain,

ice and snow,

hail and floods,

its heating up too.


When slipping outside,

walking the grass,

blame the new shoes,

they were discounted at last.


Now we come to the tragic bit,

since there was no way of stopping it.

Only when we can all agree,

can we hope to change and sip our tea.






Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *