Name, a novel
Name is about as close as one can get to a "novel" that was written by a machine and for a machine: it seems especially primed to attract and repel spam-blockers with its pseudo-porn opening, and yet it also tosses a distracting bone to the bots with its stream of seemingly random verbiage after its first paragraphs. But far as we can tell, Name is the exorbitant creation of a single human being who is known only by the name of "Toadex Hobogrammathon," the same person who created the Jarry-esque, day-glo colored website Dagmars Chili Pitas, the only "poetry" blog that renders even the marginal trappings of the format itself—such as the date, tables, fonts, colors, etc.—fodder for its neo-Dada somersaults.
Surprisingly, Name turns out to be a good read, perhaps more along the line of Kenny Goldsmith's barnstorming procedural projects or Peter Manson's aggregation of junk phrases, Adjunct, than anything from Toni Morrison or Alan Davies, but nonetheless something to keep the retina fused to the screen, with a furious, decidedly No Wave soundtrack to boot. This is the perfect novel to run your computer's voice emulator on in the background while you while away precious life at the office.