writing to know, knowing thru being, being for writing... this is me, writing about the one thing i know, which is myself... and even that is sometimes a mystery...

Sunday, May 07, 2006

some spam poetry

from Oedipus McCarver:

think. They fled further down the tunnel glad to be still alive, while
behind them outside they heard the roar and rumble of Smaugs fury. He
was breaking rocks to pieces, smashing wall and cliff with the lashings
of his huge tail, till their little lofty camping ground, the scorched
grass, the thrushs stone, the snail-covered walls, the narrow ledge,
and all disappeared in a jumble of smithereens, and an avalanche of
splintered stones fell over the cliff into the valley below. Smaug had
left his lair in silent stealth, quietly soared into the air, and then
floated heavy and slow in the dark like a monstrous crow, down the wind
towards the west of the Mountain, in the hopes of catching unawares
something or somebody there, and of spying the outlet to the passage
which the thief had used. This was the outburst of his wrath when he
could find nobody and see nothing, even where he guessed the outlet must
actually be. After he had let off his rage in this way he felt better
and he thought in his heart that he would not be troubled again from
that direction. In-the meanwhile he had further vengeance to take.


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