On Cacology

— n
a bad choice of words; faulty speech

The poetry, such as it is, splattered like so much collateral damage across the serene white page as if limbs in a market place, is not an attempt at dialogue with the reader. Cacology admits no purpose or reason. It is neither art for art sake nor bad art, refusing its status as a poetic or aesthetic product. It is not poetry and nor is it monologue. It is the transmission of impossible messages; it is a pathology of encryption. A failure to say something important.


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