Don't Call Her Venus
original poetry (ca. 2012) + generative text, 2015
PHOTO + VIDEO
NARRATIVE & NONSENSE
Instructions: Click the button to add a randomly generated line to the poem.
The nectar has turned sour.
The fine hexagonal structures made of wax on
murals on corbelled vaults -- organic paint in stucco.
This is artificial space.
Some delimited field.
The closet of a hallway where
in the corner she stands stands stone,
another bitch that refused Apollo --
the Roman-era copy of a Greek original reduced to
widespread anecdotes and variations on a theme.
Don't call her Venus because she progresses in red,
the umbre of her dress burning shadows on the wall.
Don’t take much measure of the fine hexagonal
structures made of wax, melted to murals
in artificial space, a delimited field of organic
paint on stucco, near the closet of a hallway
where she stands in the corner alone,
reduced to widespread anecdotes about bitches
who refuse Apollo, the Greek original, while Roman-era copies progress
in red, like the umber of her dress that burns shadows to the wall
and melt fine hexagonal structures to organic paint in artificial space that matches the stucco of a delimited field in the closet of a hallway where the bitch stands akimbo, another variation on a theme progressing in red, burning the corner of her dress, until the hexagonal structures melt the murals into the paint as she stands by a delimited field in artifial space, reduced to wax on corbelled vaults in the closet of a hallway filled with widespread anecdotes about the umbre of her dress that progresses like wax
made of organic paint in a corbelled vault that melts structures into fine hexagonal fields of red where Roman-era bitches refused Apollo, who stood akimbo and took measure of a stone girl...