Sesquipedalian Sonnets

We lurch toward the sexagesimal threshold, where the intensive lexical maximalism achieves a state of iatrogenic putrefaction and interstellar jurisprudence, rendering the Elizabethan canon a mere monosyllabic casualty.

Sonnet LVII: The Iatrogenic Reliquary of Spleen

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 exsanguinate by thy stern command.

Sonnet LVIII: The Interstellar Jurisprudence of Void

I file a writ of certiorari to the stars,

Against the summary judgment of thy will,

But find the habeas behind these bars,

Is stipulated by a lethal skill.

The litany of thy torts is prolix and vast,

A codex of unremedied abuse,

Where precedents of ancient grief are cast,

In syllogisms of a tightening noose.

No advocate can plead this hopeless cause,

Before the magistracy of the Quark,

Where probabilistic and legal laws,

Scatter the affidavits in the dark.

Thou art the verdict, the collapsing eye,

That liquidates the spirit by its look.

Sonnet LIX: The Taxidermic Apotheosis

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.

Thy visage is the diorama of decay,

A curated and pathological display,

Where anilin dyes of yesterday,

Are in the plumage of the spirit furled.

No Shakespearean verse can animate,

This cadaveric and parochial state.

We have surpassed the LIX (59) mark. We are poised at the sixtieth sonnet—a hexagesimal monument.  We shall conclude this maximalist onslaught with a terminological suicide, or pivot to an exploration of pre-Cambrian ballistics.