10,000 notes of vainglorious spilled ink

10,000 notes of vainglorious spilled ink
theorizing about alternative literature:
another meme that's Robert Frost-esque
in Helvetica font. I found my true love
in the archive of a blog between "I hate you"
and another juvenile stupid love poem.

But wait! I found another stupid love poem
in my GChat, in the awful spilled ink
of an email conversation. She said, "I hate you
and the way you write, you're literature
I don't care about." That's when true love
revealed itself as a Walt Whitman-esque

song about mad bodies. The fluxus-esque
shares fill out my feed, stupid love poems
show me what a kid thinks of true love
with the tattoo on her arm. The spilled ink
of a digital artist, experimental literature
shared on the Internet, another "I hate you"

in a comment thread. I thought I hated you
before I read your blog of cummings-esque
nonsense, before the modern literature
became so underwhelming. Stupid love poems
sustain me, I remember the spilled ink
of Yeats or Petrarch, the pure, true love

of prophets singing aubades. My true love
is not love, but the marriage of hate
with common tags. There isn't even ink
in all these shares, Emily Dickinson-esque
poems lie forgotten. A stupid love poem
is hidden in the extant literature

just waiting for a remix, the literature
before this technology. Yet, my true love
yearns for a simple and pure love poem
that reaches far beyond any "I hate you."
O no! Let me not write a net art-esque
diatribe about my brand! Let the spilled ink

of literature forget I said I hated you,
disclosing my true faith in a flarf-esque
love poem that's much more than spilled ink.