Poetry / The Flour-Child
The ambrosia of all humankind rose from her searing womb.
Its birth was slow, slow, slow. As ichor flowed into the groom
She was pummeled, twisted, to be forced into an early bloom.
Legerdemain connived to form a goddess from the spume
And so she was pulled, slammed and turned, from morning to the noon.
Then, for hours, she was left untouched, fertile and left to rollick
Her pregnant belly growing as she wallowed in godly rubric
Left to rise, to grow, but to be thumped back in manners rhythmic
To rise again, a godly queen, within a throne metallic.
This fecund Ishtar felt her fate—the scalding, burning, searing fire mythic.
And it was born! Born, still! The apotheosis of paneity
From its fruitful mother’s breast, with unending alacrity
Rose with care, was touched, caressed, perused, with utmost agility
And as the plaintive peaceful mother laid in her tomb of omniety
Her child was celebrated joyously, endlessly, by all of humanity.
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fan-fucking-tastic.
this is amazing. you have something. the structure, the rhymiong technique, the unbridled intelligence of this piece.. absolutley delightful. it throbs, so primal and delicious and divine and exsquisite.. this is brilliant.
i adore it.
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Not much to say,
when it comes to rules of writing, i’m not quite familiar,
sounds good to me.
You have well written emotion, but you’re play of words makes it sound more like some 18th century extravential piece. Usually poetry is analyzed to find the hidden meaning, you’ve done a good job at showing that it needs to be analyzed, but I think most readers will find that a dictionary will do the trick.
Just a joke my friend, great job.
cute though u may need to work on it a bit still
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