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: 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.