Inspired by Spambot – an international anonymous creative word collective that exists purely to comment and speculate on the futility of futility. Spambot also stands for Some Poets Are Merely Buffoons On Trial.
This poem had to undergo considerable editing to sift through the raw questioning, informal phrasing and convoluted word imagery that Spambot often throws up. I have boiled it right down to its bare essence to make stock for tomorrow’s soup.
You’ve captivated your words and you run your judgments
And gum them onto everything
If it don’t in accordance with to what you were born into,
Then you take french leave the other way
You allege, “at once what’s your mode and who do you prick up one’s ears to?” who cares?
Affectionately that rat race ladder-climbing fake-face beam’s got nothing on me
I’m not sure what “French leave” is – perhaps it has something to do with taking the whole month off in August (which I’m very attracted to). I think this is an angry ‘bot diatribe on pompous webmasters. So, I have named it Pompous Webmasters. I like this poem — it’s fresh, it’s raw, it has feeling. I’ve left it completely unedited so that you can enjoy its urgency.