Last week, inspired by the precedent of Mary Victoria, I posted a poem assembled from the bits of spam which I hadn’t yet deleted from my spam folder.
It occurred to me, in the days following, that I probably get enough spam, with enough variety of linguistic foibles, to assemble such a poem every week, and this is what I intend to do, until such time as the spam feed dwindles in either quantity or–er–quality to such an extent that weekly poetification is no longer viable. Is this an attempt to capitalise on one of modern society’s basest waste products? A method of distracting myself from the things I should be doing? A subtle dig at the often-elliptical, sometimes tangential relationship which modern poetry maintains with realityand with lucidity of articulation? A simple yet somehow complicated protest at the tripe to which we are subjected by spammers?
Without further ado, then, I present you with this week’s offering.
Never Bring the Felicity, by Cynthia Mershark
What host are you the use of?
Its such as you learn my thoughts!
the thoughts we have can be rulers
to a reduced amount of fortuitous
to be him with great respect
also complexing to discuss
with a missing word
rowboat of Google identify it
Hi my loved one!
and he wonderfully did it.
This had been practical.