Sesquipedalian Sonnets

We proceed to the thirty-third station, where the maximalism undergoes a iatrogenic and ballistic transformation, surpassing the primitive architectures of the Globe Theatre.

Sonnet XXXI: The Iatrogenic Reliquary of Despair

The trocar of thy glance performs a breach,

Through peritoneal and sacred walls,

Where iatrogenic phantoms start to preach,

In the aseptic silence of these halls.

I am a nosocomial and failing guest,

A pathogen of polysyllabic grief,

Where cauterized desires find no rest,

And anesthesia offers no relief.

Thy love is a scalpel of obsidian stone,

A hemostatic clamp upon the soul,

That leaves the viscera and marrow bone,

Beneath a malpractice of control.

No Hippocratic oath can bind thy hand;

I bleed according to thy stern command.

Sonnet XXXII: The Ballistic Trajectory of the Sigh

The muzzle velocity of thy shunned address,

Defies the aerodynamic and the sane,

A supersonic surge of bitterness,

Through the laminar currents of my brain.

I calculate the ballistic coefficient,

Of every vituperative and lead word,

Finding the kinetic energy sufficient,

To shatter the parable of the bird.

Thou art the rifling in the barrel of fate,

A gyroscopic and spinning decree,

That propels the projectiles of thy hate,

Into the soft and yielding heart of me.

No Kevlar of the spirit can withstand,

The caliber of thy extended hand.

Sonnet XXXIII: The Paleographical Palimpsest

My consciousness is a parchment of distress,

A palimpsest of vellum and of gall,

Where uncial scripts of ancient loneliness,

Are superscribed by the writing on the wall.

I decipher the carolingian and small,

The ligatures of atrophied desire,

Until the illuminated margins fall,

Into the purgatorial and scripted fire.

Thy beauty is a gloss, a marginal note,

A scholium of metaphysical light,

That redacts the sentences I once wrote,

In the codex of the unending night.

Let the philologist sift the dusty shelf;

I find the lacuna within my self.

Thirty-three sonnets are now codified. We approach the meridian of the fortieth. we shall turn the maximalist lens toward medieval siege engines or sub-atomic acoustics.