On Writing Ultralong Novels

Is it fair to readers to amalgamate
Five "normal" novels
Into one mammoth tract?
Such a bloat seems to me to be
Exercise only,
To prove authorial mettle,
A vanity, a feat of strength,
Or more likely, stamina,
Building metaphors along the way,
Temple-tier-towering toward ever more
Himalayan aspirations,
Hoisting the blocks and holding them
(Like a circus strongman)
Tautly, imprudently, in midair,
A trembling, blunt guillotine
Of siderite; a test for (and testament to)
Not only the writer, but consumers, too.
What's the advantage?
O sure, there's a slight
Volume (in one sense) discount
When reducing volumes (in another sense),
But if not purchased, how many times
Must one borrow this book, until--
By virtue of personal soilage and smutch--
It becomes one's own?
How conveniently the hyperloquacionist
Pits one clump of characters against another,
Ties their fates (and hands) together, though--
Before this midrangy stretch of the story--
The odds of commingling were slim indeed.
And look at these kelpy strands of objects,
Meant to set a scene or evoke an era,
Packed in haste, a hydra-hair jumble,
All knotted and kinked and disorderly,
A flea market of the imagination
That spews down the page, runs into the gutter,
And spills across the reader's lap.
No time right now for further burbling--
I must finish this thing before it's due.