Spam Of The Week V
After all this talk of on-again-off-again Germanic infamy, I'm going to relax it all down a bit, with another Spam Of The Week™.
Following a few interesting BoingBoing posts about the phenomenon of 'Flarf' (spam/net inspired absurdist poetry), I decided to compose a flarf poem entirely out of a spam mail that I really recieved in my inbox.
I've entitled this little ditty "Re: [17]" (I'm sure you know why)
He never forgot these things
these words, these names.
in 1862 into account
She was glowing with excitementAnd there was not just one piling but two;
the pain was the pilings
and part of him knew
for a long time before
most of his mind had knowledge of knowing
that the shattered pilings were his own shattered legs
But oh, Mr Rancho Grande!
"At least, not if I have just a little luck"
She looked at him with no anger or suspicion
only faint curiosity
Did that mean he was making progress?
Paul crawled over to his bed
pulling himself on his elbows
and got hold of the coverletThat night I changed your medication
for something a little stronger
and when I was sure
you weren't going to wake up
even if someone exploded
a grenade under your bed
I got my little tool-kit
from the cellar shelf
and I took the keyplate off that door
in 1975...
Not bad, not bad. Reads quite well, and it even sounds like it's making sense about halfway through, but I assure you, dear readers, it really, really isn't.
4.21-en
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