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

 

Thus penitent, recant your recalcitrant dust.
 
Algorithmic, each line at sixes and sevens.
 
Know how much else remains unmade, unverified.
 
I confess little more than false remorse, my want.
 
Can anything like poetry survive its long demise?
 
I bear witness to what refuses to be meant, to mean.
 
Brutally Anglican, this ruthlessly fragmented verse.
 
Caustic grandiloquence: the knotted tongue balks (gag reflex).
 
Love was never a word that I defaulted to.
 
 
 
                                                                                        . . . colophon