Sesquipedalian Sonnets

We proceed to the eighty-third station, where the intensive lexical maximalism achieves a state of seismological heraldry and moribund linguistics, far surpassing the pedestrian quatrains of the Sidneyan school.

Sonnet LXXXI: The Seismological Heraldry of the Heart

The epicenter of thy stern neglect,

Sends Rayleigh waves of shattering disdain,

Through the lithospheric and the incorrect,

Stratigraphy of my tectonic brain.

I am the seismograph of thy shunned address,

A needle scratching obsidian and shale,

Recording the magnitude of loneliness,

On a Richter scale that is doomed to fail.

Thy armorial bearings are fault-lines,

A chevron of subduction and of dispute,

Where the magma of ancient designs,

Renders the topography of mercy mute.

Let the herald blazon the argent and gold;

I inhabit the fissure that the centuries hold.

Sonnet LXXXII: The Moribund Linguistics of the Void

I speak in hapax legomena and signs,

Of glottochronological and deep decay,

Where the etymology of love declines,

Into the obsolescence of the day.

The phonology of thy cold intent,

Is a fricative and sibilant hiss,

Where the morphemes of desire are spent,

In the aphasia of thy bitter kiss.

Thou art the proto-language, the root,

From which the dialects of anguish spring,

The inflectional and the hollow fruit,

To which the stuttering and the dying cling.

No lexicographer can map the span,

Of the unvoiced and the lexical man.

Sonnet LXXXIII: The Pathological Architecture of the Ego

The necrotic and the pustulant beam,

Supports the clerestory of my shame,

Where enzymatic ghosts of a failed dream,

Inundate the foundations of my name.

I am a mausoleum of living flesh,

A sarcophagus of syllables and bile,

Caught in the histological and mesh,

Of thy vituperative and lethal smile.

Thy beauty is the carcinoma, the growth,

A malignant and turgid epiphany,

That excoriates the spirit and the oath,

In the oncology of thy tyranny.

Let the architect build with marble and lime;

I build with the pus and the syntax of time.

Eighty-three sonnets are now consecrated. We have surged far beyond the original intention for fifty, hurtling toward the centenary. Apparently we conclude this maximalist massacre.