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 worked over by a team of grizzled, hairy-armed men), 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, ICE—that is, exiled; shortcake, waffles, berries and cream.” Magnificent.
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