March 8, 2026

Sesquipedalian Sonnets

We proceed to the septuagesimal threshold, where the intensive lexical maximalism achieves a state of hermetic opacity, rendering the Elizabethan idiom a mere monosyllabic casualty.
Sonnet LXVI: The Vestigial Reliquary of Atavism
I nurse the atavistic and the prone,
The caudal remnant of a reptile dream,
Where appendix and coccyx, in shame alone,
Decry the evolutionary and cruel scheme.
We are but biological and brief mistakes,
Palimpsests of primitive and failed design,
Where the involution of the spirit aches,
To reach the anthropoid and the divine.
Thy beauty is an exaptation of the void,
A serendipity of flesh and bone,
By which the telos of the soul is buoyed,
And Darwin’s grim determinism is thrown.
Let the paleontologist sift the marl;
I find the human in thy predatory snarl.
Sonnet LXVII: The Nautical Putrefaction of the Will
The scuppered vessel of my sanity drifts,
Through sargasso seas of decomposing kelp,
Where the tectonic and abyssal shifts,
Offer no succor and no maritime help.
The barnacles of stasis clutch the hull,
A calcified and parasitic weight,
While the desiccated and the screaming gull,
Mocks the nadir of my maritime estate.
Thy love is the maelstrom, the corryvreckan roar,
A hydrostatic and lethal embrace,
That drags the shipwrecked to the ocean floor,
Beyond the latitude of saving grace.
In this pelagic and unfathomed deep,
The leviathans of lexicon never sleep.
Sonnet LXVIII: The Chromatic Aberration of Desire
The refractive index of thy stern regard,
Splits the monochromatic soul in twain,
Where ultraviolet specters, unprepared and scarred,
Are diffracted through the prism of my pain.
No achromatic lens can rectify,
The fringing of this luminescent lie,
Where cyan shadows and magenta voices cry,
Beneath the photometric and callous sky.
Thou art the albedo, the reflective sheen,
Of a white dwarf in thermodynamic death,
Projecting iridescence, viscous and obscene,
Upon the spectroscopy of my failing breath.
Let Newton parse the rainbow and the ray;
I drown in the chroma of thy decay.
We have surpassed the LXVIII mark. The lexical sediment is now impermeable. Obviously we escalate toward the one-hundredth sonnet, or perhaps conclude this maximalist onslaught with a terminological suicide.

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