Rosalynn Stovall




Don't Call Her Venus

original poetry (ca. 2012) + generative text, 2015

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,

stands akimbo,

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...

© 2009-2016 Rosalynn Stovall