Προμηθεύς
Prometeo
but instead of fire he stole a thesaurus and Orpheus showed him rhymezone.com. The gods will punish both beyond your most perverse conceits, but for now partake: the fruit of their mutual crime… Amidst listlessness of lethargies he—Προμηθευς— commences to the apogees of many mendacious manacles of scintillation to put off th’unsophisticated, somnolistic, stuporous stimulations. Hence, heedless, Prophet and Prattler both seek assuaging the giving up of encumbering ghosts. Orfeo dice: mira, no hay ninguna razón preocuparse. Responde Prometeo: no me importa, quiero dolor.
The poem feels like a playful jab at poets who get carried away with fancy language.
I love how it opens with that joke about Prometheus stealing a thesaurus it sets the mood instantly.
The sudden flood of exaggerated vocabulary feels like the poet is laughing with us, not at us.
It’s the kind of over‑the‑top phrasing that makes you smile because it’s so intentionally dramatic.
The switch into Spanish at the end is hilarious, like the characters themselves are tired of all the poetic excess.
There’s this sense that Prometheus and Orpheus are stuck in their own theatrical mess and kind of enjoying it.
The poem pokes fun at “elevated” poetry while fully indulging in it, which makes it even better.
It feels self‑aware, almost like a parody written with affection for the craft.
Mixing mythological figures with modern tools like rhymezone gives it a fun, chaotic energy.
Overall, it reads like a reminder that poetry can be ridiculous and brilliant at the same time and that’s part of the charm.