Extended Spam Haiku

hour allow speak
My look begin
will have fit
Be wakeup stand
Not study play
It begin wakeup
night dance shut
those explain drink
you wait draw
close open finish
incredible speak cancel

The Spamcaster Museum

A village girl was raped by city maniacs under the dry sick stars. What will you pour the open cosmetic porters in before Julie's scolding ticket? And if Sheri happily believes it too, will she wander the raw river eternal? One more thin kettle and she'll superbly nibble everybody. The shirts will behave, otherwise the powder in the dryer might kick some pathetic tickets. Don't fucking scold tamely while you're sowing to a quiet sauce.

Chuck was a wide painter who climbed easily along the highway of pumpkins with his wandering cup. This explains the raw tyrant in front of the shower. If the wet balls can pour monthly, the shallow pen may rattle more ventilators. Let's join the poor monoliths, shall we? I don't care for the distant pools in their solving bowls. One more blunt stupid ulcer from my fear of smog. Sheri changes the sauce behind hers, which surprisingly helps. Dream plates of furious eggs inside the polite candles.

"Hey, go irritate a dose!"

You should always behave the butcher. You won't dye me receiving at your difficult mirror. Angry grasps within dark tired deserts. Lisette laughs, then hourly burns a cheap frame in front of Cypriene's bedroom. Jugs play with fat squares, unless they're noisy. The younger carpenters hate the easy drawer. They won't attack the wrinkles. The jackets, pears, and jars are all closed and pretty. Every hollow teacher departs, aching around Chester's open weaver. She'll look the dry tape over. She'd rather talk weakly than taste Maggie's lazy potter. But who wouldn't?

"You won't expect me through your hollow doorway." This in a crinkly voice.

There are no sad codes against the rural morning, recollecting in the lean night. They pull deep oranges from beneath the humble easy window, as butchers cook the grey cap in the answer kettle. Some jackets smell and burn. Others nearly creep. Tired grocers with their old egg answers get out their lifting jars. Lots of fat elder dryers steadily creep as the strange raindrops explain. Hardly any sad empty porters will walk among upper dry cafes. A raw dog nibbles on a clever carrot.

"Martin, have an outer coconut. You won't play it."

He sat dreaming of lazy caves. Just dreaming among a tree about the highway was too pretty for Sheri to climb it. Her wrinkle was dirty, clean. She converses with inner sunshines on a sweet pathetic morning. The boats, coconuts, and candles are dull and tired. The ugly frames jump with the blank mountain before the old rain became the solid ocean.

"I am freely clever, so I kick you," she lied.

"It's very raw today."

Chester's carrot pours through our draper after we laugh over it. He wants to clean healthy raindrops from Sheri's canyon. A boat for the bathroom.

"You won't burn me living without your stupid planet," he said, but not without hope.

Felix eerily kicks them too. We usually irritate his polite enigma. Shirts nibble outside younger mountains, unless they're sad. Urban bandages pull toward a satellite as the dog combs beneath their forks.

Let's believe in the clean evenings.

She Said She Said

The current stance in literature, apparently, is to frown upon using any verb other than "said" as dialogue tags. I've heard this from a few different so-called authoritative sources recently. Now, I can understand developing writers getting carried away in their haste to be unboring, & going overboard with their tags. And I can understand the inclination of exasperated educator-types to stifle said sophomoric excess. But it distracts me to no end in a story to encounter endless lines of "he said," "she said," "he said," "she said," ad nauseum. It gives me the impression the writer has a limited vocabulary. So I respectfully disagree with this verdict. I say the key is to have exactly the perfect word for the situation at hand. With any description, really. Nothing excessive, nothing superfluous - just BANG, the precise word that nails the situation right through the forehead. If it's a shrug instead of a said, so be it.

I'm not a big fan of barebones writing, I might add. I want my authors to sweat for their art, & discover things in the mundane I never realized were there. The less I am told by the author, the more information I end up filling in on my own. And the more I fill in on my own, the more inclined I feel to expect a certain percentage of the publishing royalties for having to do so much of the work myself. At least to get a sizeable refund off the cover price.