aquanatomix 🧪

Word poems.

Wait, what? Word poems?

A not-so-secret laboratory of linguistic chaos exists within my aching skull. Misheard fragments of language get mixed and remixed until new 'frankenwords' are created. I call them word poems, and their brief verbiage is a challenging tangle of shifting consonants, vowels, and ambiguous word stresses.

Enjoy the compression and decompression of meaning in these word knots that always leave me tongue-tied and mindfried.

Things might just get a little 'awkword' in here.

Let's play! Or, rather, let’s dance with words…

#1. aquanatomix

aqua + anatomy + atomic + to mix

  • water forms as a cloud, suspended in the air, pulled between rising up to a calling star or a charismatic black hole, or pulled down by the tons of water waiting to fall into gravity’s arms, the earth is a thirsty mouth

  • this international body of water can fly around the world as a cloud, gathering itself to itself or to others or to vanish into thin air as though it never existed

  • as indivisible particles, atoms make up everything, and if they somehow result in a radioactive mushroom cloud, we must know the power of the smallest units of written language too—although their intention is not harm the reader

  • to mix the basic components of language into new limbs and organs, to form a completely new body, a new word is created, something wonderful—even in it’s incomprehensibility


→ a cloud wanders free and then wonders at its own existence, made up of a combination of hydrogen and oxygen atoms, its body changes as it mixes with the particles that make up the air to explode onto the page of the sky, white or grey on blue

→ i am a word, hear my syllables (even the silent ones), marvel at the architecture of my letters, the subtext of space, the literal and the figurative, the ambiguity of a stew or a sauce where the visible ingredients make language reveal itself to be both toy and tool, dancing between the semic and the asemic: meaning shifts and lies in the beholder