Bulletproof pants.

Time for another spam poem! All lines were taken from my spam folder, and only punctuation and line breaks have been added.

The fall of Saddam Hussein has brought
destruction/Hell to our great country
and everything is so difficult now
and all our opportunities are closing up,
the new Government is trying to frustrate all our businesses.

Life was better when I was younger,
and with this secret potion, life seems young again.

Why aren’t there bullet-proof pants?

You do not know me and neither do I know you.
If you are in not good state and have got no cash to move out,
I know that you will grant my request in good faith.

Regarding the transfer:
Mulberry bush aside, would a monkey really chase a weasel?

timid animal

I apologize for the lack of posts this week. On Monday I had a king-sized headache, and on Tuesday I took photographs instead.

Back to our regularly-scheduled busting of writer’s block! This prose poem is courtesy of my spam folder.

“Too busy to go back to school?” she huffed, dangling the highball glass between thumb and ring-finger. Ice cubes clacked. “I should have seen it coming.” And with that I remembered why I hated her, that slick brow over flat eyes. She went to wakes but never funerals, something about the smell of turned earth, of coffins. I was a replica watch on her wrist, telling time while never knowing how late it was. “You can trick the nature and make a monster of your timid animal.” I fantasized about the heft of the paperweight on her desk. She’ll never be disappointed again.

[Want to help me bust through my writer’s block this month? Read about this exercise!]

spam couplets

Here we go: end of the year spam couplets! Although these are not technically couplets, bear with me. The first lines are subject lines from my junk mail folder.

“It will be hard for you to imagine your wrist without the watch,”
she smirked, and I stalked out of the room.

A confident person is the one that has a decent look,
a good gait, a way with a comb, a pair of unwrinkled pants.

If there will be only girls around, will you be ready?
Will you tell them about what happened to the boys?

Be a man every time, everywhere, with any woman.
Open the door for her even if she refuses to walk through it.

A totally different perspective of what’s going on
is a lame way to enter this beleaguered argument.

we know how to help

When your relationship is getting ruined we know how to help you.
We will come into your house while you are at the grocery store,
buying whatever the hell cereal you want to buy,
now that there are no other arbitrary preferences in the house, 
and we will rearrange everything. We will confuse your weakened heart,
so there is no longer a focus on the ever-present crumbling,
the noise of a tow-truck always idling around the corner.

We know that it is not about words of wisdom. Curse words are more apt
but still not good enough. The words you want to collect and trash
are the words you think you will never say again:
“honey” or “baby” or “sorry”
“I missed you” or “I know I was wrong” or “what do you want me to say”

We know how to help you. We have machines that will help.
If you press your forehead against the cool metal
and look right into
we can see into your brain and therefore your heart.
We can see which baggage to zap, which intriguing trait to enhance.
We know things you do not know, can never know, without us.

All it takes is
three easy payments
of your distrust
your despair
your disbelief.

— Halsted Mencotti Bernard

(Thanks to my junk email folder for the first line.)

dada and the prince

In lieu of real content, because I am much too spastic to deliver it, here is a spam poem. My rule is that I use whole lines from spam I’ve received, without any modification save for punctuation. Enjoy.

The lovers were standing together at one of the windows.
Snaps of ice cracking in the hidden air.

“You’ve pitied me, and that’s all that bat fowl good manners exact.”
The prince would never so much as suspect such a rice thunder verse thing in the delight of his first impression.

“How ripe could anything exist without God?”
said Dada, as much amazed butter as though the moon slid careful snake had fallen.

“I will not fight a war I don’t want to win,”
said the prince; he was bewildered, and his brain pin wandered.

“Tell me this wasn’t worth it,”
she said, direction and they disturbed stole through the deserted house.

Here she suddenly paused, afraid of what she had just band said.
She victorious walked on, more hopeless and depressed than she year had deal ever felt.

spam subjects poem

She will love you more than any other man —
just talked to him.
The narcotic analgesics are very similar.

Separate yourself from other men.
Anthony Hopkins
is so familiar.

Are there any precautions and side-effects?

Didn’t understand it;
can’t be a lover anymore.
These girls are all alone.

What did we do to make it happen?

[Addendum: I apologize for not explaining how these are constructed. I go into my spam folder and read through as many subject lines as I can take (roughly 500-1000), choose the ones I find most intriguing, then use each one as a discrete line of the poem, only adding punctuation and line breaks. Try it for yourself. It’s fun!]

spampoem: go|two|days

Perhaps it’s just me getting such a huge kick of spammers delivering poetry ideas to my inbox.

Here’s an E.E. Cummings one. I changed only one letter.




PILlow price

souper vighagra


spampoem: is on fire

I kept threatening to remix some of this crazy spam email I’ve been getting that is just pages and pages of random words. However, it wasn’t compelling enough for me to do … until I got this fantastic spam email the other day that was actually comprised of full phrases. Phrases that made absolutely no sense, mind you, but full phrases nonetheless. Gorgeous.

So here it is, my first spam email remix poem. Please note that none of the phrases have been modified in any way; I just added spacing and cleaned up the grammar and spelling a bit. Enjoy. Share. Find the beauty in spam.

Is On Fire

Whose silver clock falls
or her daughter’s fancy caw is angry.
Their silver tall bra runs.

Any given small printer calms down or
our well-crafted mp3 player
is on fire
or maybe the golden stupid glasses snore.

A given round book arrives.

His brother’s little computer falls
or maybe his red tall mouse looks around
at the place that his noisy gun adheres
and still
her daughter’s purple laptop runs.

His brother’s beautiful red glove shows its value.

Whose smart boots make sound?
His brother’s well-crafted gun lies.
Our purple computer looks around.
Her daughter’s noisy golden mp3 player stares.
His brother’s tall expensive soft camera
is on fire
at the place that our noisy fog calms down.

Our oddly-shaped boat snores.
My bluish mobile phone stares.
My expensive laptop snores.

His soft ipaq prepares for fight.
Our white shining sofa is thinking.
An expensive sloppy bicycle arrives.
Any given green clock lies.

A given well-crafted umbrella prepares for fight.
Any given shining pencil falls;
however, my tall fancy pencil lies.

Our beautiful bluish t-shirt is thinking;
Any given fancy noisy round-shaped exam book is thinking.
A red umbrella walks.

The purple mp3 player sleeps
or maybe
her stupid carpet runs.

A beautiful sony stinks.
My shining glove is fidgeting —
his brother’s noisy dog is on fire.

Our children, little tall laptops, lie
about the time that their little kitchen smiles.

My white gun walks
at the place
that the round-shaped book
is on fire.