Thaumaturge's Entropion.Sonnet X

The Apotheosis of the Ineffable Junk

Now comes the end of the signifier’s reign,A cacophony of calcified intent;The king is a ghost on a grammatical plane,A fragment of a sentence that was never meant.The world is a heap of lexical detritus,A midden of metaphors, cold and defunct;Not even the gods of the gnomic can right us,In this graveyard of wisdom, brutally junked.The sonnet itself, a rigid, fourteen-line cage,Dissolves into ink-blots and scanner-dark noise;The final act on this philological stageIs the silence that absolute knowledge enjoys.The page is now blank, but for one tiny speck:A comma, surviving the universal wreck.