Much of the poetry that I know I think is klutzy mush. And that which is not klutzy mush I think is mushy klutz. Shelley's 'Lines To An Indian Air' Is a good example now. He said it was Champak-scented. Well, I do not know. All I can smell are diesel fumes And fresh buffalo dung. Klutzy mush and mushy klutz, Ada dada da! 'fI recite 'She Walks In Beauty' I'm eighteenth century. Babe magnets wear rapstar bling And do not sing of love. L.G.B.T. B.D.S.M. 'S All they prattle of. Mushy klutz and klutzy mush, Ada dada da! 'fI speak of 'Lord Ullin's Daughter' Or Wordsworth's Highland lass, They'll want to know her Orkut profile, Gtalk status message, Who writes on her Facebook wall, And what's her latest Tweet? Klutzy mush and mushy klutz, Ada dada da! I narrate Haiawatha's wooing Of fair Minnehaha. But the arty-tarty lot Appear at unease. They ask for darker shades of grey And whether he has angst. Mushy klutz and klutzy mush, A...
The message is supreme;
Born in the heart,
and lilting itself
from tongue to tongue,
throwing its scent
over wind and wave;
travelling on dots
or fingers
when blindness
or silence bar its way.
It hews itself into stone
or burns itself onto magnetic discs;
it is the message that lives
and I exist
solely to pass it on.