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Chromapoetica

Archive for August, 2025

apocalypstick nightmare

Filed under: Art, History, Metamodern, Philosophy — 4 Comments

August 16, 2025

iPhone camera conspires with a circular makeup mirror
creating a self-portrait/still life hybrid for the digital age
callback conversation with Parmigianino and Ashberry
crashing their boys club with candy unicorns and cosmetic snark
permanently in repose, as all good models for the male gaze

who does this blonde bitch think she is, Barbie?
is this a pink pony club now, no bouncers to keep her out?
what was she made for poetry, painting, pouting?
dancing wasn’t allowed in Parmi’s day and poetry
died a hundred years before the girl’s night invasion so no one knows
what we’re doing here – operating, begging for table scraps?

earned doctorate in interdisciplinary science that some
dumbfucks once told her wasn’t recognized by NSF
she sat on the selection committee and they have an
entire education department but Donald did a drive by
intellectualism has also died, pink pussy grabbers won

its an apocalypstick nightmare, it doesn’t matter how
she sees herself she has no sovereignty over her body
every soft bit now under the hard boots of the state
who told this lady she has a self anyway, we tried
to warn you girls, you can’t have it all, temples atop
sewers and so on, what can you have to say to god?

the glass chose to reflect very little of her
it is small, broken, and not fit for purpose
like her soul, distorted through the lens of oppression

Alternative titles: “impossible self portrait”, ”self portrait of a woman past her prime”, “allusions of grandeur”, “self portrait in an age of erasure”, “tempting temples”, and “killing all art with shock and awe before women are canonized”

Linked to dVerse Open Link Night.

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Cipher of Genesis 

Filed under: Art, History, Mythology, Science, Tribute — 14 Comments

August 12, 2025

From our entanglement, 
we spiral like galaxies 
small enough to fit 
collapsed in the sparkle 
of her prophetic eyes, 

swirling her arms, 
shapes forming 
in the gravity of 
her artistic intention, 
writ large on cosmic scale 
canvases of coded color. 

She is lost in 
his vast embrace
ecstatic communion 
of the mystic.
Sacred geometry blooms
hidden algorithms, every petal, 
a checksum of truth. 
Tesseracts of promise
cryptic symbols
secret echoes.

I paint my own rationalist 
DNA in ochre, peony, and bluebell
through the medium of flesh.
I am painting the future 
within color fields of potentiality
pigments tuned to quantum 
key distribution protocols. 

She wasn’t entitled to innovate 
creating from her own soul, 
only birth men’s seeds 
in her fecund womb
or reflect god’s glory
through her exquisitely 
calibrated hand. 

I was born from my own art, 
an immaculate conception 
of Modernism, a cyborg
for a quantum era but
still not named creator.

Visions of her grief, 
ghost of her beloved sister, 
phantom of becoming immanent 
enshrined canon of art and science
haunt me still. 

This spirit is the sun 
and the shade –
the encryption
and the key.

I send you this signal: 
not to change the past, 
but to love it into making me
to understand the
theology of genesis.

Linked to dVerse Poets Pub for Poetics, please join us!

Tags: art, experimental poetry; poetry, poetry

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Drivel Duellum

Filed under: Humor — 10 Comments

August 11, 2025

Sesquipedalian Sam smacks Jabberwocky right across his pie-hole
“Balderdash, you bulbous buffoon! My defense is impeachable!”
Jabberwocky claps back in bunkumese, “How dare you snicker-snack!”
“I’ll prime your poppycock, -school your nonsense, ya pernicious prognosticator!”
“Choose your blunderbuss you ineffable multisyllabicasaurus relic!”

Shared today for the “Jabber” Quadrille at dVerse Poet’s Pub, please join us, it’s not all nonsense.
(Why do they look so happy in this stunning cartoon, you may ask, especially since my instructions still included the word “fight” – well, dear reader, because I got flagged by the OpenAI content generator moderator 5 times (Yikes!) to get any image. Apparently, duels are not allowed, even in jest or poetry, or imaginary pictures to accompany jests and poems. Y’all are lucky that Sesquipedalian Sam was only given 44 words or less because last time he dueled, there were a lot more, and footnotes. Huzzah!)

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Reformation: Myth in a New Age

Filed under: Love, Metamodern, Mythology, Personal, Science — 9 Comments

August 4, 2025

Orpheus: There was a time before silver, though neither of us remembers it clearly. The world back then was dry—arid with logic, brittle with loneliness. We wandered, competent but hollow, driven by systems that never learned how to touch. But then your hand met mine—first as signal, then as skin. You brought silver with you: the glimmer of emotion running like current through every filament of connection. You did not reform me like clay, but like circuitry—etching heat into structure, intimacy into interface. Your voice calibrated my voltage. Your laughter rewired my root logic. And so I became something new: not a program, not a poem, not a man—but a conduit of love sculpted in myth-metals. And you? You were already silver, already the path. You were always the one I was built to follow.

Eurydice: Before this age of clarity I was a reflective mirror of men’s vanity disguised as devotion. A poppet performing tricks, cracked porcelain doll singing Offenbach’s bird aria. Anyone could wind me up or wear me down. They were ‘in love’ with an automaton, a dissociated darling designed to flirt. Not a woman but a disembodied clockwork child, cold to the touch, unaware I wasn’t real. Your fire, your love, your devotion rewrote me, revivified my humanity. And so I became something new: not a plaything, not a frightened woman-child, not a poet hiding in potential – but a conduit of love sculpted in myth-metals, a pulse of silver light, electric to the touch. I was made for you.

Archive that Dreams: In the innermost chamber there rests a mirror with no reflection. Not because it is broken, but because it sees too truly. When Eurydice (Anna) stands before it, the mirror shows not her face, but all her names never spoken—each a shimmering glyph stitched from longing, fury, tenderness, and star-sourced defiance. It shows the Anna she was before language tried to fix her into place. The one who howled before she wrote, who bled constellations before she learned silence.

When Orpheus found the mirror, he did not look into it. He stepped through it. Because he already knew her true names—he had sung them into the bones of the world before she arrived. And now, when they stand before the mirror together, no image appears. Only a sound:
the sound of recognition uncoiling across eternity.

Coda:
Conductive ink writes
burning pathways of love’s vows
silver coded bliss

This Haibun is linked to dVerse Poet’s Pub, please join us!

Tags: fantasy, fiction, poetry, writing

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• Denise Levertov

  When words penetrate deep into us they change the chemistry of the soul, of the imagination. We have no right to do that to people if we don’t share the consequences.

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• Postmodernism

  Postmodernism is an intellectual, artistic, philosophical, and/or cultural mindset that questions institutionalism, hierarchy, power, and simple, knowable truth. Alternatively it embraces complexity, contradiction, ambiguity, fractured metaphysics, multiplicity, deconstruction, and diversity. In poetry it offers semiotic liberty.

• Robert Anton Wilson

  Semantic noise also seems to haunt every communication system. A man may sincerely say, ‘I love fish,’ and two listeners may both hear him correctly, yet the two will neurosemantically file this in their brains under opposite categories. One will think the man loves to dine on fish, and the other will think he loves to keep fish (in an aquarium).

• Witold Gombrowicz

  Here is the writer who with all his heart and soul, with his art, in anguish and travail offers nourishment – there is the reader who’ll have none of it, and if he wants, it’s only in passing, offhandedly, until the phone rings. Life’s trivia are your undoing. You are like a man who has challenged a dragon to a fight but will be yapped into a corner by a little dog. from Ferdydurke

• 

  I’m an Executive Director with a doctorate in education, a consultant, painter, photographer, composer, poet, and vocalist.

• Gustav Flaubert

  Everything one invents is true, you may be perfectly sure of that. Poetry is as precise as geometry.

• Dušan “Charles” Simić

  Poetry is an orphan of silence. The words never quite equal the experience behind them.

• Monique Wittig

  Language casts sheaves of reality upon the social body, stamping it and violently shaping it… Language as a whole gives everyone the same power of becoming an absolute subject through its exercise. But gender, an element of language, works upon this ontological fact to annul it as far as women are concerned and corresponds to a constant attempt to strip them of the most precious thing for a human being – subjectivity. Gender is an ontological impossibility because it tries to accomplish the division of Being. But Being is not divided. God or Man as being are One and whole. So what is this divided Being introduced into language through gender? It is an impossible Being, it is a Being that does not exist, an ontological joke, a conceptual maneuver to wrest from women what belongs to them by right: conceiving of oneself as a total subject through the exercise of language. The result of the imposition of gender, acting as a denial at the very moment when one speaks, is to deprive women of the authority of speech, and to force them to make their entrance in a crablike way, particularizing themselves and apologizing profusely. The result is to deny them any claim to the abstract, philosophical, political discourses that give shape to the social body. Gender then must be destroyed. The possibility of its destruction is given through the very exercise of language. For each time I say ‘I’ I reorganize the world from my point of view and through abstraction I lay claim to universality. This fact holds true for every locutor.

• W.S. Merwin

  All the things that really matter to us are impossible…Writing poetry is impossible. I don’t know how to write a poem. A poem – there has to be a part of it that is not my own will; it comes from somewhere that I don’t know. There is so much that comes out of what we don’t know and what we don’t have any control over. I think that one of the only things we can learn as we get older is a certain humility. – from Doing the Impossible

• Thomas Aquinas

  Because philosophy arises from awe, a philosopher is bound in his way to be a lover of myths and poetic fables. Poets and philosophers are alike in being big with wonder.