Max Edmands

Spammers are good poets:

The pain of being born into matter.
I’ve drifted somewhat from the distant heart
Reshaping magnified, each risen flake
Is the moon to grow
With its lament, it often sounds, instead,
Escapees from the cold work of living,
What is there in the depths of these walls
One flash of eye, or blow one clarion-blast;
To run, as in the time of the bee, seeking
He terrifies the Vast, he seems so wild;
and the Splendid Splinter. For a few dreamy dollars,
Or by the loud hand of painting, always puts.
Unreadable from behind—they are well down
VII. Hudson and His Strait; Baffin and His Bay
They tear apart the mist, it is as though,
Pierced by the mist that fades away,
The face of a Quos ego),
They move against, or through, or by, or toward.
No name, no meaning. Oh my friends

My brother assumes that they use the old computer program Racter to come up with these poems.