Milton

Lately I'm very dissapointed with content of my spam-folder. There is nothing happening, revolution is gone. All that was left are stereotypically repeated messages of penis enlargement voodoo (and there are only three or four variations) and some gambling nonsense. Yes, I may think of buying a cheap pills that will make me a true unicorn, but hey -- I'm definitely not willing to invest my money into some geocities based casino. Rest of my spam-folder is in chineese. I made a very deep search to find out if there is something going on and was able to found this... poem. As usually it consists of various lines put together by some randomizer. I took a liberty in doing some research and found some other people who found this collage interesting. So the first few lines leads to some variations of this one. And I still wonder why the subject of the email was "Milton". Perhaps the randomizer is begining to think of itself as of a real artist? :)

from: Numbers Carlisle
to: recipients
date: Jun 5, 2007 10:30 AM
subject: Milton

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Right, and appears from here to be overcome
And off the white smoke swims
Are gliding toward me on the ice into
on their own little seat cushions, wearing soft caps
Dreaming time has reversed—and you,
Billows the fog, cloaks
A rabbit carcass in its stiffened fur.
there's a pulpy orange-y smell from juice factories....
A rabbit carcass in its stiffened fur.
Nor, indeed, the bit of paint itself can know of.
Out of the picture of life, as it were, out
I bring down a bit of its light
Snow haze gleams like sand.
Two of us, Docteur and Madame Machin, who stand
Sits at the limit of a kind of world
Like theirs ends? From what distant point of vision
Bronze the sky, with no
there's a pulpy orange-y smell from juice factories....
And trumpet at his lips; nor does he cast