Abandoned Forum

[Mysti]

has anyone got any of these? basically i'm now getting spam with poems in them, with this image at the top:

and then underneath it, something like this (this is one i got a couple of hours ago):

In the evening she would sit for hours outside her caravan writing in a ledger,
A sour Scotswoman called Hooch,
With her one picture puzzle piece.
Dragged by a kid into the street
Believed in the right, let none push her back.
Children sold away from her, her husband sold, too.
The Modern Man she sang.
Many the burials, many the days and nights,
Passing away,
Of Life immense in passion, pulse, and power,
then from competing teams,
On the coat of the woman.

sent from: [Mrguedairamantoshkapnbi@yahoo.gr]

i'm not sure if this is just me or not, as lately most of my spam is very perculiar, with a big amount written in broken english like:

"acadia some eli or mary try candidacy it's incompetent not bolo or ecology or allude or adenosine it create in helsinki see callus ! gerundive or keyes be console may colorado in featherbed be inception some seller , catbird it calf in churchgo be cling it's aperture , threshold it's bedstraw try cavitate and porch may pinkish in dogberry see pique some bayesian try detention be dorchester"

[Astarte]

That's amazing!

I only have one spammer and she goes straight to junk. But I try to only give out my email to secure sites.

[Math_nerd]

Ha HA! This is random word spam. The reson it has poetry or random words in it is because those tymes of messages can usualy get past spam filters.

[Pixyboo]

what a crazy world we live in

[Bomadeno]

I get a lot of spam. About 300 per week (and no, i'm not joking)

Luckily gmail filters it all out very well. The worst span has got to be 'phishing'. If I get one anytime soon, I'll put it up as an example. Basically scamming for money. Blah.

[Pixyboo]

i get ones trying to sell me VXXXXX

[Bomadeno]

I'll do an analysis on my spam on... hmm... saturday evening. I'll get back to you all with my findings!

[Mysti]

got another poem btw.

Children, I came back today
Remember my tears, heavy with sorrow --
My life has been left in the hall.
Yet at times I pleased, to annoy you, hate you
Watching my raincoat there in the overstuffed chair.
Layed down upon my spirits,
Luminescent without having form or light..
Lower, sullen and fast, athwart and down with the sky,
Hath been—like the most familiar bird—.
Dares keep you down, the children of the broken mother.
Yet I had nothing to fear, back there in the night.

[Astarte]

I don't think I've ever heard of anyone being spammed by drug-selling poets. Or are these poets being sponsored by drug companies????

It's sort of.......... complementary in way. If the poem gives you a headache you could buy a pill.

And it's also complimentary, you are obviously seen as a great litery intellectual appreciating both poems and headache powders.

[Pixyboo]

The Guttersnipe and his Pavement
Uneven and grey, bordered with moss,
Boot scraper shining, lacquered in gloss.
Doorstop round stones from places away,
And brass polished gnomes that shone in the day,
and winked with the gas lamps at night.

Render and paint was the norm and the order
Canterbury Spar for the fortunate few
A brass council tap for the pouring of water
Curtains of deep pile brocade
Pointing the right way for sure.

Dare not the patter fade,
Or be at the tallyman's door.
Each day was
so different for me
A guttersnipe sprog
such as I.

On Monday we raided the baker
For a crust of his quality pies,
But we had to be quick for the man with the stick
Would give us a painful surprise.

Tuesday was
wood for the fire,
From the shop
with the yard at the rear.
We called him a creeper for he stole Railway Sleepers
And then tried to charge us NO FEAR!

Wednesday was a sour occasion
When the coffers were painfully stretched,
Out came the bags and the best linen rags
From the scrappy a sixpence they'd fetch.

Thank heavens for Happy Thursday,
And that small brown packet of joy.
A pint for a bob and a thank you to God
And a sweet for the Guttersnipe Boy.

Friday was pure entertainment,
As the traders each furnished their wares
The butcher, the baker, the hobnail boot maker,
How sharp are you scissors, who cares?

Again we have been delivered,
Our street worthy status in tack.
Tonight we shall eat with the dog at our feet
And the cat seeking scraps from our laps.

Round again round again Monday
The weekend a memory now lost
So the guttersnipe boy will pretend it's a joy
His pavement, still bordered in moss.
Pill Poems

Jan Preece waxes lyrical about his boyhood days on the mossy pavements of Pill.

[Mysti]

thought i'd share these ones that i got in the inbox just now as i was tidying it all up. they seem to have changed from poems to short stories. or extracts of stories at the very least.

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A harsh, suffering voice rang out: 'Name?' 'Mine? ' enquired the prisoner hurriedly, his whole being expressing readiness to answer sensibly and to forestall any further anger. The Procurator said quietly : 'I know my own name. Don't pretend to be stupider than you are. Your name.' 'Yeshua,' replied the prisoner hastily. 'Surname?' 'Ha-Notsri.' 'Where are you from? ' 'From the town of Gamala,' replied the prisoner, nodding his head to show that far over there to his right, in the north, was the town of Gamala. 'Who are you by birth? ' 'I don't know exactly,' promptly answered the prisoner, ' I don't remember my parents. I was told that my father was a Syrian. . . .' 'Where is your fixed abode? ' 'I have no home,' said the prisoner shamefacedly, ' I move from town to town.' 'There is a shorter way of saying that--in a word you are a vagrant,' said the Procurator and asked: ' Have you any relations?' 'No, none. Not one in the world.' 'Can you read and write? ' ' Yes.'

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By the time Scarlett had undressed and blown out the candle, her
plan for tomorrow had worked itself out in every detail. It was a simple plan, for, with Gerald's single mindedness of purpose, her eyes were centered on the goal and she thought only of the most direct steps by which to reach it. Scarlett obeyed, bracing herself and catching firm hold of one of the bedposts. Mammy pulled and jerked vigorously and, as the tiny circumference of whalebone girdled waist grew smaller, a proud, fond look came into her eyes There was no one to tell Scarlett that her own personality, frighteningly vital though it was, was more attractive than any masquerade she might adopt. Had she been told, she would have been pleased but unbelieving. And the civilization of which she was a part would have been unbelieving too, for at no time, before or since, had so low a premium been placed on feminine naturalness. As they neared the intersecting road that came down the thickly wooded hill from Mimosa and Fairhill, the sound of hooves and carriage wheels became plainer and clamorous feminine voices raised in pleasant dispute sounded from behind the screen of trees. Gerald, riding ahead, pulled up his horse and signed
to Toby to stop the carriage where the two roads met.

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Are you there, Grunya? ' No reply. Nikanor Ivanovich then took a folding ruler out of his pocket, used it to prise the seal from the study door and strode in. At least he began by striding in, but stopped in the doorway with a start of amazement. Behind Berlioz's desk sat a tall, thin stranger in a check jacket, jockey cap and pince-nez. . . . 'And who might you be, citizen? ' asked Nikanor Ivanovich. 'Nikanor Ivanovich! ' cried the mysterious stranger in a quavering tenor. He leaped up and greeted the chairman with an unexpectedly powerful handshake which Nikanor Ivanovich found extremely painful. 'Pardon me,' he said suspiciously, ' but who are you? Are you somebody official? ' 'Ah, Nikanor Ivanovich! ' said the stranger in a man-to-man voice. ' Who is official and who is unofficial these days? It all depends on your point of view. It's all so vague and changeable, Nikanor Ivanovich. Today I'm unofficial, tomorrow, hey presto! I'm official! Or maybe vice-versa--who knows? ' None of this satisfied the chairman.

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Mother was cooking rabbit stew in the big black pot over the chimney fire. She didn't even look up when the door fell in. The wizard stood there for a minute, and I sneaked a little closer so I could see better. He was frowning, and I got the impression he wasn't used to being ignored. Mother kept stirring.
Mother finally turned around. I took one look at her face and backed up a couple of steps. She looked at the wizard for a minute and started to smile. Nothing, Antorell? Are you sure?
I was out by the remains of our door, trying to fix it. I didn't think my chances were very good. I picked up the hammer, and as I looked around for nails I saw Mother walk out of the Enchanted Forest.
I was so surprised I dropped the hammer and nearly smashed my foot.
Mother never went into the Enchanted Forest. Never. Then I saw the sword she was carrying. Even from a distance, I could tell it wasn't an ordinary sword. It was about the same size and shape as the one I practiced with, but it shone too brightly and looked too sharp to be ordinary.

[Bomadeno]

I got the one about scarlett the other day!

There must be a 'spamming source' where people get their spam writing from. I wonder where it could be.

As for my analysis on spam, One week has passed since i stoppped emptying my spam box, and my grand total is... 473 messages!

These comprise of:
Medicines, including a lot of 'V', morgage deals, software deals, offers of millions of pounds (in return for my personal details), lots of spam poetry and stories, and lots of misspelled words (to avoid spam filters?), and many many more offering me a range of things from rubber ducks to small countries.

Deleting my spam freed up 47MB on my mail account. woo.