Sesquipedalian Sonnets

We accelerate toward the octogesimal zenith, where the maximalism undergoes a taxidermic and thermonuclear sublimation, rendering the paltry conceits of the Amoretti mere monosyllabic dust.

The arsenic and the alum of thy gaze,

Desiccate the viscera of my pride,

While strychnine in the interstitial maze,

Leaves the integument of the ego dried.

I am eviscerated and stuffed with tow,

A glass-eyed effigy of ancient lust,

Where borax and mercuric vapors flow,

To mummify the metaphoric dust.

Thou art the curator of this grim display,

The diorama of a stagnant world,

Where anilin dyes of yesterday,

Are in the plumage of the spirit furled.

No Shakespearean verse can animate,

This cadaveric and parochial state.

Sonnet LXXVI: The Thermonuclear Hagiography

The megatonnage of thy shunned address,

Achieves a criticality of grief,

Where fissionable states of loneliness,

Offer a gamma-irradiated relief.

I am the ground-zero of thy divine intent,

A thermal shadow on the carboned wall,

Where radioactive isotopes are spent,

In the apocalypse that shadows all.

Thy love is the tokamak, the torus of fire,

A magnetic confinement of the will,

That fuses the tritium of desire,

Until the hydrogen of the soul is still.

Let the Geiger counter click the dirge;

I find my halo in the atomic surge.

Sonnet LXXVII: The Obsolete Horology of Pain

The escapement of my chronometric soul,

Is fouled by oxidized and viscous years,

Where tourbillons of paranoia control,

The gear-trains of my mechanical fears.

I am a clepsydra of bitter gall,

A gnomon casting long and obsidian shade,

While the mainsprings of the spirit fall,

Beneath the pendulum’s serrated blade.

Thy beauty is the horological and vast,

The dead-beat seconds of an infinite dial,

Where present joys are fetishized as past,

In the synchronicity of thy bile.

No chronometer can gauge the span,

Of the atrophied and time-worn man.

Seventy-seven sonnets are now bolted into this maximalist reliquary.Now we approach the eightieth meridian and continue toward the centenary (100) or conclude this polysyllabic onslaught.