ThursdaySpamPoem: The words are theirs, the spacing is mine.
- web. I shut my eyes. I went numb and
- the only thing I heard was the web
- affords a new perspective on the nature
- of ours and ourselves;
- it even has
- hasn’t been overgrown with bramble yet.
- Forty yards. Where was he counting
- meaning of flight beyond a way of travel
- to get a breadcrumb from a table.
- And they have returned!
- And that… that can’t happen!
- Fletcher’s was in a hiding place,
- and the hiding place was guarded
- by mean men. . . .
It’s been a while since the since spammers (an oxymoron, I know) have sent me poetry. I had begun to think they didn’t love me any more. Then this little gem appeared embedded in an offer for a R*lex watch.
The words are theirs, the spacing is mine.