To Leave Behind Something Precious (The Sesquipedalian Loquaciousness Poem)

There are neo-nouveau novelas nestled, nesting nebulous in the northmost wall injected posthumously by precocious, presbyopic poster tacks promptly pressed

hard and catching comley into curiously clay-red paint caked consummate plaster

and buried barely baleful and beauteous behind the prolific plethoric passe posters

Every burgeoning, bulging bookcase is bursting lock stock and bawdy barrel but

terribly sans serried books or any sort of tepid typography and can yet tell twice the supple number of sylvan stories set to several soundtracks of sanative songs

The mantel meant as dusty decoration is dripping the bottled auxetic anthologies of a uniquely unfortunately errant antiquary

Every flat surface is packed with pyrrhic memoir poems in the shape of two decades worth of tchotchkes: trinkets, trumpery, trifels,

baubles, bijouterie, bibelots, bagatelle, objets,

bric-a-brac, gewgaws, gimcracks, vertu, etc

Here lies the dismal davenport deprived of domestic decoration as his swain is sent south to muse over all manner of menial mania