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

 

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.

 

Thus penitent, recant your recalcitrant dust.

 

Algorithmic, each line at sixes and sevens.

 

Know how much else remains unmade, unverified.

 

 

 

                                                                                        . . . colophon