C L I C K B A I T, an algorithm.

 

Love was never a word that I defaulted to.

 

Brutally Anglican, this ruthlessly fragmented verse.

 

Can anything like poetry survive its long demise?

 

Know how much else remains unmade, unverified.

 

Thus penitent, recant your recalcitrant dust.

 

Caustic grandiloquence: the knotted tongue balks (gag reflex).

 

I bear witness to what refuses to be meant, to mean.

 

I confess little more than false remorse, my want.

 

Algorithmic, each line at sixes and sevens.

 

 

 

                                                                                        . . . colophon