Monday, February 20, 2006

Found Poetry: "Wrinkles Often Dream"



I've received some lovely SPAM recently, of the sort that seems to pick up stray snatches of e-conversation, and I quote below, pretty much verbatim, from one particularly extaordinary letter:

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...Rob lives in clever, rude oceans.

She should answer once, play cruelly,
Then attempt for a bowl near the mountain.
Get your firmly cleaning lentil towards my night.
It will loudly nibble towards stupid, angry rains.

...The wrinkles often dream for the dull twigs.
The floors, disks, and coffees are all smart and lean.
Never jump the shirts undoubtably,
Move them badly.

I was solving games to rural Lawrence,
Who's rejecting the ball's fog,
I familiarly irrigate before Ben
When the fresh buttons order about
The handsome signal.

As dully as Joaquim judges,
You can hear the fig much more strangely.
Don't even try to talk easily
While you're grasping against an ugly cat.

We happily kick raw and excuse
Our new, new shoes on a hill.

...We call them,
Then we rigidly believe
David and Norma's filthy dog.
I smell locally, unless Andy tastes potters behind Greg's dust.

The walnuts, porters, and desks are all
Noisy and long.
Tell Linda it's wide
Recommending to a raindrop.

Who lifts wickedly,
When Harvey cooks the smart coconut near the bathroom?
If the active carpenters can care hourly,
The elder ointment may depart more markets.

To be pretty or easy
Will pull solid forks
To deeply recommend.

She will stupidly excuse against Thomas
When the proud boats burn around the bitter field.
They are cooking over old,
Beneath humble,
Among outer bowls.

Will you scold outside the stable,
If Greg eerily expects the grocer?
He may wander light kettles;
Do you dine them?

They attempt once, sow simply,
Then promise for the button between the office.
Every short, cold plate annually receives
As the wet hats love.

Almost no bad twigs depart Varla,
And they wistfully change Robette, too.

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Not one to stop driving a stake until it's beaten well into the ground, I constructed a sort of screenplay for a movie, with intertitles and dialogue (which is which, you decide) extracted from earlier portions of this same poetic monument to our banal ecstasies, and the implements which surround them. You will find it here.