8.07.2005
Outside the Box Poet
While visiting the Language is a Virus website that I mentioned in my previous post, I was playing around with some of the toys it offers. Here's the crazy but cool poem I created with their Madlib Poem generator:
fun i have never imagined, joyfully beyond
any intellectual, your hearts have their tangerine bliss:
in your most extraordinary math are things which solve me,
or which i cannot dream because they are too intense
your cryptic look curiously will unbreathe me
though i have rain myself as a puzzle,
you shine always breath by breath myself as creation cries
(shouting voraciously, seriously) her cult art
or if your dream be to celebrate me, i and
my imagination will write very darkly, spontaneously,
as when the aficionado of this intellectual reads
the theatre succinctly everywhere watching;
nothing which we are to dance in this film hears
the music of your pierced books: whose poetry
drinks me with the laughter of its tequila,
loving wine and research with each living
(i do not laugh what it is about you that eats
and pierces; only something in me tattoos
the crossword of your soul, more eclectic than all creation)
my eyes, not even the goth, has such alternative skin.
(Note: I tweaked it ever so slightly, changing a few things that didn't make sense to me... which means that this version actually does make a kind of sense to me. Believe it or not.)
fun i have never imagined, joyfully beyond
any intellectual, your hearts have their tangerine bliss:
in your most extraordinary math are things which solve me,
or which i cannot dream because they are too intense
your cryptic look curiously will unbreathe me
though i have rain myself as a puzzle,
you shine always breath by breath myself as creation cries
(shouting voraciously, seriously) her cult art
or if your dream be to celebrate me, i and
my imagination will write very darkly, spontaneously,
as when the aficionado of this intellectual reads
the theatre succinctly everywhere watching;
nothing which we are to dance in this film hears
the music of your pierced books: whose poetry
drinks me with the laughter of its tequila,
loving wine and research with each living
(i do not laugh what it is about you that eats
and pierces; only something in me tattoos
the crossword of your soul, more eclectic than all creation)
my eyes, not even the goth, has such alternative skin.
(Note: I tweaked it ever so slightly, changing a few things that didn't make sense to me... which means that this version actually does make a kind of sense to me. Believe it or not.)
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