a poem about allan
I offer here for your edification some free verse created from subject lines in my spam folder, like a sculptor making art from driftwood.
on speak be discipline bronzes if aromaOr perhaps Jackson Pollock selling his dropcloth.
found a better solution overly by cycloids
a learn it wattage is allan leaving him
as accept he wanting excessively to diffident
at speak he tribunal alter legible at agglomeration
he run on spar cleaner i worry it maypole
he allow at stateside i look of propitiate hoarfrost
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12 comments:
You get spam that has words like "diffident" and "agglomeration" in the subject lines?
We must hang out in different 'net circles. Mine generally have words like "enlargement" and "free iPod" in them.
She who finds different driftwood makes different found art.
David Bowie used to write lyrics by cutting up phrases on paper and shuffling them around. That's why they all make so much sense :)
That's a philosophy from Dadaism, I think, something surrealist, called "cut-ups." It was featured in an expansion for the CCG On the Edge.
Once I found out that Paul Simon wrote songs by writing down a line or two at a time and then combining them later, I couldn't listen to his songs anymore.
Once I found out that Paul Simon wrote songs by writing down a line or two at a time and then combining them later, I couldn't listen to his songs anymore.
really? that makes me want to listen to more of his songs and think about which lines were individual ideas...
it must be a slow writing technique, though, waiting for a bunch of good ideas, rather than having one good one and surrounding it with a bunch of crap.
You've discovered Vogon poetry.
Groop, I implore thee, my foonting turlingdromes
And hooptiously drangle me
with crinkly bindlewurdles,
Or I will rend thee in the gobberwarts with my blurglecruncheon
See if I don't.
For those of you who have no idea of what I speak, please consult the Wikkipedia. Or the HHGTTG.
This is the weather the cuckoo likes, armored division submissive to vernacular the world into a gambling birdhouse velocity.
I restart the game.
"Cut-ups" -- that's it! Your boy has it down. The above comment reads like a Bowie song.
Here's his Sweet Thing from the 70s:
It's safe in the city to love in a doorway, to wrangle some screens from the door. And isn't it me, putting pain in a stranger?
Like a portrait in flesh, who trails on a leash, will you see that I'm scared and I'm lonely? So I'll break up my room, and yawn and I run to the centre of things where the knowing one says:
Boys, boys, its a sweet thing. If you want it, boys, get it here thing.
Sounds a bit like Lewis Carroll's Jabberwocky. Nicely done.
His boy was a Cut-Ups player. :P
And I would have had a second world championship too, if I had bothered to stock some ransoms. Who knew the only way to stop the Mrs. Brinker Pull Machine was Kidnapping?
But it was a Sommerite deck that won that year, just like the one I was GOING to bring, except mine was better. Stupid Pharaohs.
That damned Mrs. Brinker and her tasty cookies.
Yeah, I should have run the Pharaoh deck like I had the previous year, that deck was way more powerful. But, ah well. One championship is enough, I guess.
Though nothing beats my Sealed Deck pull from that tournament, Karla and Deadly Inspiration. Riding banned cards to the win. :)
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