More Poetry of Spam

EDRIC Messersmith has created Holiday postcard for you at irritant.com:

Hello! I am tired this evening. I am nice girl that would like to chat with you. Email me at (censored_e-mail_adress.oog) only, because I am writing not from my personal email. To see some pictures of me.


The spam has increased and congealed of late in my Inbox and while it's not causing my computer any "Irritable Bowel Syndrome" (they sponsored a day-part on the Radio the other day...which part I wonder?), it makes me think that the so-called "Spam King" is doing some extra work to pay off his lawyer's bills. So, in honor of the occassion, we're going to blow out our system with some more "Poetry of Spam."

Beyond ice floe and berg and ice-bound sea,
giddy as good kids playing hookey.
Is the moon to grow
As if your human shape were what the storm,
Thinking of your abiding spirit brings.

Now, Where, as I discover as I go through
To pick up even the quickening of wind
From there. Toward . . .Not daring to oppose
Left and right, and far ahead in the dusk.

Or by the loud hand of painting, always puts
Silent patch of ultimate paint. You are
Homeward into the howling woods, although
they sit with their wives all day in the sun.

The flakes which have stolen onto the flagstones
Trampled snow is the only rose.
Your gloved hands covering your lips' good-bye
In the sound of the snow.

With my foot the supple ball, for perhaps
As it sits there like an eventual
Event, the end of the painted road ends up
Silence, are in his hand—birds in a snare;

Only whirled snow heaped up by whirled snow,
No name, no meaning. Oh my friends,
Covering the land—In the woods, close by,
whose soft bristles graze the top-racks.

It's snowing, it's returning to a town
Like some poor wounded wretch—long left for dead
Sculpting each tree to fit your ghostly form.
Hoarfrost is in his bones and on his head,
Seized from creation by nonentity,
And trumpet at his lips; nor does he cast
That desire has ever built, have approached
The road, but not far enough ahead.

I've drifted somewhat from the distant heart
That desire has ever built, have approached
Looms in the air, deliberate and slow,
Is dumb; he is the mute white stony shape
The high whites spread over the buried earth.

Through the back of the picture at the patch of white
Allowing me to let your picture form and wake
They tear apart the mist, it is as though,
Even if they are staring
At the end of the road.

Yes. The obvious
Coextensive with everything? How could they know?
Away from their profundity of surface.
Sphinx of questioning substance, or a sort
grow hot in the parking lot, though they're
Merely a mockery of spring

The purest form is always the one
the old men burnish stories of Yaz and the Babe
Set on that tomb in the eternal night;


"Spam Haiku?" "No, no, this is "Spam Poetry." You want "Spam Haiku," you go here.

I have a friend who suddenly was being flooded with spam from China. He read that to solve the problem, you report it to the affected source (of course), but you reply with this:

Subject line: Thanks for the donation

Dear Fellow Compatriot,

Thank you for your request to join our Democracy Club. Your donation is appreciated and we always welcome financial contributions. If you have any further information about wrongful incarcerations of protestors in China that you want forwarded to the American Press, please feel free to send it. What you have sent so far is very appreciated and will be published. And we certainly understand how upset you are that you cannot legally join a Falon Gong group in China. I am glad that you understand that violent protest by the people is sometimes the only way to create a democracy.

Best Wishes,


Democracy for China, Users Worldwide

To which I can only add: Sic Semper Tyrannis!