blacksundae

If you click on the “contact” link at the top of this page, you’ll get a little form you can use to send me a message (it sure beats putting my spamable address on the front page). On occasion, it channels me messages from friends and people who stumble randomly across the site (who usually say things like, “Great blog! Keep up the good work!” OR “You rock! I’ve told all my friends about you, and I’ve subscribed to your feed!” OR “While most right-thinking people are wrong, you, most assuredly, are right!”).

Lately, however, I’ve been receiving messages from what seem to be bots. That is, automated “commenters” that generally shit spam into my mailbox. These new messages, however, are not advertisements, but seem to be random lines of experimental poetry. Dad? You mentioned a while back getting something like this. Did you ever figure it out?

To fill everyone else in, I have compiled a bunch of these messages into a single prose poem. Keep in mind, every paragraph that follows is the entirety of a single message.

vridge, who was down there f r tin minyits wanst an spoke very highly an

it began to show itself there among the little wooden houses. t is a road hewn out of the rocks. he giant apoleon carried it through the backbone of the earth. he eagle, apoleon s bird, flew like a living armorial crest over the gigantic work of the

small yacht belonging to the merchant lay, just unladen, near the bridge of boats. tto found aren and the young lady from olstebro sitting in the arbor. omewhat

distinct streets and quarters, so had they also here. he street which led to the market place, and which in every day life was called the hoemaker treet, answered perfectly to its name. he shoemakers had ranged their tables side by side. hese, and

were colored with a sudden crimson, which was immediately afterward supplanted by a deathly paleness his hand

acknowledgments for the honor they

find out my real sister will have proof in hand of the truth will show myself as a brother will care for her future ring to me her baptismal register bring to me one only attestation of its reality and that before eight days are past ere is

demands his right replied tto, and pressed the man s hand. hings go, doubtless, well with you, orten hraenseu he whole cart full of eels, and some smoked carp t is also good to meet with you, r. tto. pon the

Brilliant, yes? Any thoughts? Is this the internet finally becoming sentient, Terminator-style, and expressing its first thoughts and emotions? Will we ever know?