This tickled me. Some spam managed to get through my filters like a salmon escaping the net and, underneath a huge advert for discount software and the opportunity to catch a virus (which is a cute way of saying my computer would be held down by a team of grizzled, hairy-armed men and violated), was the following poem:

Of too much truth to do much more than lie

Choces, Mère and Père, undreaming even of fields

Choces, Mère and Père, undreaming even of fields

Appendices

Snaps of ice cracking in the hidden air.

As it sits there like an eventual

IX. After the Great Northern Expedition

at balls hit again and again toward her offspring.

And piled up at the base of the columns

He is harsh, dismal, ice—that is, exiled;

shortcake, waffles, berries and cream

—Now that you notice it—have just moved past

What can we know of whatever picture-plane

The purest form is always the one

No name, no meaning. Oh my friends,

Standing in the way of the truth. A white

Sculpting each tree to fit your ghostly form.

Pallid waste where no radiant fathomers,

And the worlds—skiffs rudderless, rolling on—

It’s hauntingly beautiful. Or haunting beauty as described by a crazy robot. “He is harsh, dismal, ICEthat is, exiled; shortcake, waffles, berries and cream.” Funny.