Sonnet Xix: Poem Analysis

Mister Per Factum is the living synonym of precision. That is not mine or anyone else’s claim, but his own proclamation. One may mistake it as another eccentricity of another once a century genius (again, all the claims are of Mr. Factum himself). No, it is more than a mere eccentricity, and it is more than a simple OCD. What it is is the ego of an artist. We mortals would never understand that his competition is with the dreaded Irishman who mocked and conquered his enemy with their own language. If the Irishman took ten years to complete his masterpiece then it took him the same period to finish three chapters of his magnum opus. And he is in no hurry. After all he just turned forty; he would easily live another four decades (thanks

In his free time (which he has no dearth of) he dabbles in verse, limited length narrative which can be read in one sitting (aka short story), dramatics, essays, etc., etc. Just last year he finally completed his sonnet: Sonnet XIX (just an arbitrary number), which made the skeleton of a bard buried in Stratford, weep four centuries of tear that Warwickshire almost flooded; and made the skull disown all the one fifty four sonnets he wrote when the skeleton was covered with flesh and skin and most importantly a functioning brain. However, not one major literary paper would publish ‘The Poem of the Century’. Not even the local magazine in his

Do you want to be cursed by billions for eternity? So now if you’ll excuse me I must take some rest. : What? Oh my god! No, don’t you cover your head with that dirty blanket of yours. When are you ever going to throw it out of this house? For it is beyond cleaning. : Mother, not a word more about my precious. : Why won’t I say a word? I’ll say a hundred words if I want. And you’ll listen to all of it. He made a muffled groan from under the blanket. : More than ten years in your so called yooniversity. And with all that degrees and all you do nothing but lie there covered with that dirty blanket of yours. If not sleeping you are always staring at that laptok of yours (she has no clue about the dank memes and the fun of trolling plebs in the forums). If I say anything you say you are doing research. Research, research, what research I don’t know. In these many years you must have researched the cure for cancer or found out what’s it called the magic stone to make things gold. : Philosopher’s gold, besides alchemy is pseudo-science, not science. : What? Pretentious snoring sound came from under the blanket. : If not for poor papas pension god knows where we would be; maybe begging in the