INCREASE THE SIZE OF YOUR DICK

Increase The Size Of Your Dick:
SPAM Poems

(Extracts)
By Ben Myers


Introduction

Every morning they’re there.
Waiting for me.
I make coffee, roll a joint and sift through the SPAM messages that fill my In Box DAILY.
By the time I’m wired from the second cup of coffee and a little stoned from the weed, new poems have appeared before my eyes. They’re not my poems though. No – these ones were written by the wires, and by strange men and women at the end of the wires. Code-writers. Work station techies. Silicone valley geeks.
All the people you laughed at school.
It’s unprecedented and exciting that some of the best poetry and wordplay currently being created is not to be found in the pages of traditional poets or writers, but in the randomly generated unwanted SPAM messages that fill our e-mail ‘In’ boxes daily. Perhaps for the first time it is the online marketing men and technologically sussed code-writers that are inadvertently creating a new poetic voice that is born out of and inextricably intertwined with the mechanics of the technological age. It is they who are articulating the disembodied voice that exists in the hinterland of this current economic and informational revolution.
Advertising Viagra, penis extension programmes and all manner of other shady ventures, these e-mails that survive in-built SPAM filters are often crammed with poetry and prose that is wholly abstract, yet strangely effecting. Who knows what they mean, these post-Burroughs technologically-driven visions of the early twenty-first century. And really – who cares. This is technology and advertising in perfect symbiosis and out of it comes – unexpectedly – poetry.
It’s a strange and unique landscape that emerges. The unexplainable remains just that; yet the words make sense. That is how we know it is poetry. Something jolts inside. Something deep in the subconscious stirs, stretches and yawns.
Welcome to the new world of words.
Here is a selection of some of these cryptic daily missives.
I call it Increase The Size Of Your Dick after the most frequent SPAM subject line of them all.











Contents

All You Lovers Out There
Everybody Wins
All Your Cash Is Mud Lost
A Glimpse Of Paradise
Can’t Sleep?
August Normandy
Your Health, The Musk Bag
Social Michigan
Freedom Fries
The Cold Elbow
Time Travelers!
Cold Bucks
Throat Slitting Cash



























All You Lovers Out There


The devil’s brew has worn off
and there is something
wrong
with this mind
like a robbed store
window

You and I -
we were the
same journey
but going
different ways.

And now
the lie detector
has been unearthed
(it was something
I grabbed in
the struggle) -
now we will hear
all about your
lies.

The reality is
the vengeful fleet
was just a mirage
after all,
a water glass full
of the local
spirits.

My mind is a cross
You are on it.









Everybody Wins

state-pensioned
lilac-banded
iron-worded
buckle-beggared
ever-smiling
self-motivated
seven-figured
well-applied
with tooth and toil
and nail

he’s a high-towered miracle man

king of
the tourist-crammed
condominium colonies
a soot-colored
point scorer;
his aluminum family
pillow-shaped
and locked
bottle-tight.














All Your Cash Is Mud Lost


the paper hunt chases
narrow-throated
palsy-struck
pack animals

their passion-kindled in
international oak beauties
an oblong-void
in the zealous party

an orange daisy
pressed in Sanskrit pages
offers a one-sidedness;
a wily net fixer newly-awakened

by the motorcade ballast
of the morning champion
returning in a pearl blue
paper-coated
musk bag
dripping mud pie
red eye
paracoto bark

more night-wandering in ninety-one,
once again out-of-print
open-aired and alcohol scented
a papyrus column
a paper clothed
and paint streaked
metric system
an oily organ desk

that’s nothing but a
multiple-toothed
one-hoofed
pale-livered

middle-witted
orderly officer
mew gull.



A Glimpse Of Paradise

Paradise is where almost
anything
could be sold.

End of story.

We let the beaten shepherd
keep
the money
when we lowered him,
unconscious,
to the ground.

“This calls for consultation,” I said.
“For starters, there are all these
sheep
to consider.”


























Can’t Sleep?

Moon-mad noble-looking
one-eyed Italians in patent leather
nimbly side step with
mid-air thrusts.

Neck-deep
pearl-fishing night herons,
native millets with broken beaks
sing one-sided words

at multiple-speeds
yet perfectly poised
- neither dead nor
mud-splashed.
























August Normandy


At the rising of the new moon
a one-legged mosquito
infects the neck-cracking eskimo in
Panama reading a novel by fire kettle light.

Once he cracked Polish night club Passover bread
on Michaelmass Eve beneath
the timber roof of a ninth-born pauper
breeding needle bath greens
like a ninth-rate ox feather;

but now he’s a nerve-tingling overlap
a fault needle gathering night letters
- palm honeyed by the ocean’s compass
and as sour as a milk cart in August Normandy.

























Your Health, The Musk Bag


Your neighbours lost their alarm clock today
Your neighbours lost that fat today.

Many nice things suck
yet you inherited a small dick from your father,
the fountain of sperm.

One good turn
gets most of the blankets
but your muscles are nothing
if you can’t show them off

Ever stop to think and forget to start again?































Social Michigan

Events in
Atlanta Orleans Detroit.
result in sudden death.
while smoking minutes;
deaths
downloading web play
wares for someplace special

Any sound heard is the cocaine
cardiac seizure poll
so think sideways
about leaving the glass alone.
clear glass, clean flow -
danger: when people mix
Americans decline.

Yet still an estimated forty per cent
metal foreigner blues
love their key chain
mailboxes in
Detroit.

A national surprise
to hide themselves under.

















Freedom Fries

Hello, it has been weeks since we’ve caught up.
My time has been taken up with this project,
it has been consulting me get fit.
You should crash by at it.

I apologize I have been so overdue with it;
elbow-led I sprawled headlong to the
ground, the others of his tribe, unprofitable on
a tow-path to normality which wound northward

Arranging animals - red deer, average aurochs,
wet wolves down telephones wires,
I shot down the little
cardboard horses of Guadalupe

Thanks,
Kenneth























The Cold Elbow


neck yoke drips from open-shelved spaces
naked-footed in the muscle building
the pastor-elect scarfs opium
in the darkened nook shaft

odd-humored, his pain defines the pavilion hospital
sour-faced and off colour
beneath the weeping
ming vase tree

he’s the impatient English patient
a paraffin soaked
monkey with a moustache
the proverbial organ grinding play thing

the military band midsummer daisy tangle
the much-lauded paraffin wax pool-side planner
a nine-hole lover, part time book keeper
orange grove grower

paradise paint waster
mistletoe kisser
card stamper
credit carrier
oil burner

balding big wig of the
muzzle-loader;
mosquito-bred Muezzin
of the nutmeg water drinker.









Time Travelers!


Hear me now:

The alien artifact is not
alien
after all
but a
human construct
from the far future
sent back
then lost in time.

I made the
the time travelers
promise
not to tell anybody.
so the people of the
present day
would remain
none
the wiser

because
knowledge
is
power
and the people of the
present day
prefer to believe
in aliens
anyway

However
I’ll make this single
exception
since
I
need your help.

I mean, who’d
have thought
it:
aliens really
do not
exist
it was just one of our own
fucking
with us
from the future.

Well, you have to laugh
don’t you.

Laugh like a drain.

































Cold Bucks


“Strive to learn more
or to stop receiving useful info
then see the hallowed location.

In truth, so great are its
powers that even the dead
may be restored
to life
provided the blood
has not yet chilled.

In presenting you with this
appliance, I feel I am bestowing
upon you the greatest blessing
and most longed-for boon
ever bequeathed upon
suffering humanity.”

Here he held the slender,
dull-colored metallic band
toward the boy.




















Throat-Slitting Cash

the lap ring troop leader is
too-aged for rod-polishing now
he’s thrice-sold the old
nickel gray back-spikers
to a trencherman philosopher
a steel merchant of the topmast shuttle shell
who first saw the sewer crow tread cradle steps in ’88.

Another animus injuriandi
for the witch that totes a broom
with an opium smoker’s pistol grip;
all pseudo impartiality sliced away
like fashion scissors through braid wool bonnets
discarded in Russo-Turkish snow.