I don’t normally read my spam, but one had the name of someone I knew, and I just thought I would double check it before deleting.
It said:
Sits at the limit of a kind of world
Sits at the limit of a kind of world
Will sound, then the Lord’s face will luminesce
marked with a dark stroke from the left, encroached
The winged winds, captives of that age-old foe
Of observation lying on the ground
Dreaming time has reversed and you,
The purest form is always the one
With sun’s warmth wasted on a stone,
Deep in the fog that quenches every ray,
But what I am looking at is hardened snow,
Right, and appears from here to be overcome
To reach out into its own vanishing
To run, as in the time of the bee, seeking
Oh you builders,
and chaste, lovely as lakes to the retired men
At these masses the snow hides from me.
They tear apart the mist, it is as though,
Escapees from the cold work of living,
Comments for this entry (during its previous life on Blogigo):
1. Spam poet wrote at Apr 29, 2007 at 12:42: Got a similar poem myself today, and ran a search for one of the sentences and ended up here:
at balls hit again and again toward her offspring.
By trees – or might see as the masonry
With sun’s warmth wasted on a stone,
Silence. Your way of being. Your way of seeing
He terrifies the Vast, he seems so wild;
Amid the gloom, there, on the pole, stands black
And I would like
High on this surface, guarding the edge of Père
To mark that square, perhaps: were Mère and Père
Between the vertex that the far-lit gray
Sculpting each tree to fit your ghostly form
What can we know of whatever picture-plane
Against this sky no longer of our world.
And piled up at the base of the columns
And half-starved foxes shake and paw
Across the heavens’ gray.
With its lament, it often sounds, instead,
So you can watch me watch uplifted snow
Before those virile women!
The sentences seem to come from this collection of poems:
http://www.press.uchicago.edu/News/winterpoems.html
2. Diddums wrote at May 3, 2007 at 21:22: Hi, I was wondering about that – seemed the lines did come from somewhere but all mashed up together, randomly. Seem to be more than a few of these spam poems floating around – floating down on the world like fake snow.
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