cramp-release grease feast

This spam poem seem to be generated from this page.

Dim, and die tonight
in the dread circle hemmed by glaciers.

Comes up with as a means to its own end
a dismal, endless plain where lamps are lit.

These, too, Escapees from the cold work of living,
By what it seems to have moved toward.
In any My soul lies cracked;
and when, in its despair, Where, as I discover as I go through
That this mud draws on the stone.

To the Pole Again
awaken from your being gone
to find.
Grow hot in the parking lot,
though they’re Toward . . .

That seems to be the whispered question.
Snow haze gleams like sand.
And then I go on until I am beneath an archway.
This third day of our January thaw,
into early blooming.

Then, the inevitable blizzard
and turn it into something cartoon-funny.