Well, the porn mail keeps coming thick and fast (oo-err missus), but with an added twist.
In a failed attempt to get past my spam sensors the spammers (I like to imagine them as Russian for some reason) have started to include little snippets of real text in the body of the message, some of which are actually quite alluring. So for the past few weeks I’ve been garnering these little gems of word play together and now I’ve worked them up into something (in my humble opinion) quite beautiful.
Now I confess, I have included the odd word of my own here and there to improve the flow and help it make sense, but the vast majority of the sentences are complete as sent to me by my porn obsessed compadres overseas. I hope you like it. It’s called…
Dancing the Lonely Road
The unnatural sparkle of the opium-eater,
falsely deeming that his peace of mind had fled,
brought forth the order we see; the light, the day,
the truth of identity, especially at the end of the book.
Hope is an illusion of the future,
it springs from a deep instinctive faith.
The Divine dispensations, the sound of sirens,
seemed to rise palpably before him.
Amusements were over, or neglected,
summer’s delights were not.
There are clouds on the horizon, but they are illuminated,
by a golden thread which binds together all books.
The pages presented an image of Emily’s heart.
Many of these were marked, “everything, eventually, is done.”
Now he dance tango, sure putted, without restraint;
a puppet of the public, convincing God of his intense human truth.