I recently ran an old crappy poem through the n+7 generator.  For further exploration, I took one of the results and plugged it in as “the original” to see how much farther I could get from the original text.  Here’s a cleaned up version, and I’m not claiming it’s even a good poem.  I’m just sort of marveling at the vast new territory this process can bring.  By “cleaning up” I changed some of the words and smoothed down the language only a little.

It’s civil to see you serve the Serpent, but September
brought lifespans in black sunshades, combing through everything,
like that visage of you eating venison when you claimed
to be a vessel, or the storeroom organizations dumped before they
steadily declined. The masquerade crashed. Impropriety
wears a hooded sweatshirt and a trim codpiece, while in shrubbery
for strippers. Tammy has tabulated the titbits you visited
at Hank’s Huff of Horniness. They have pies for you.
Wear your shiny trucker’s sunglasses, a brown paratrooper bandage
under your armpit. Recoup before the Excavators Competitor
shows his DVD  She-Mangler of The Amazon and The Bewitched.
Exploration shows trawlers from TV shows like People’s Court
and Hardball with Chris Mathews, where you wagged
fishery and said What is it to you? Sir, what is it to you?
They’re yelling for you to sell balaclava and astaunch organ-grinder.
This is your fall from grace, Sir. The world knows. It’s on C-SPAN2.


this is a good or great poem, or anything.