Print these words and wave them in the air,
Write them down and shake them, I don't care...
Poetry in motion is what it will be
And a strange devotion is what will be seen.
My words will be static, devoid of worth, unemphatic.
But I'm bored, sleepless and stuck in my attic.
Stuck with superglue to this chair...
I'd try to move, but I'm wearing no pants and fear that the Mayor of Ouchtown
will give me the freedom of the city.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem