translated from Latin by le wermo
48
i.
I see your bullshit, love-orb,
sinning in the forest growing
on my balls where a militia
balms its weary and injured,
rubbing them with rose petals.
I watched a video of satyrs
throat fucking. In the future,
when my arthritis has begun
to densify, I realize I’d spent
too long seated for the artist,
refusing its sexual advances.
ii.
Juventius, let me kiss all of your eyes. Both of them and the bullseye too (butthole). My crop, thicker than an ear of corn. Shall I get down on one knee, or stick my ass in the air when I ask you to marry me?
21
i.
Aurelius, let’s pitter patter
on each other's scrotums.
Do you want to kiss my
boyfriend because of your
educational status?
[Silence]
I attacked first. I accept it.
[Silence]
I’ll join you in your sick investigation,
if you allow me to frolic in the water
like a child.
ii.
No manners can dampen my furious lust. Your cock’s Cupid’s arrow and it landed in my clam-tight ass. But, like Icarus, you soften when you get too high. Frustrating. I will study the satyr inside me, suture my hurt. My destiny is to remain a boy, gobble cock, and take it up the ass again.
83
i.
Plucked flower, how many
have smelled you? Limp,
malleable as hot gold.
I would rather Midas pluck you,
turn you to gold forever to stop
your withering. Ask my servants
to find and place you safely in
some Ark of the Covenant,
where I can make love to you
while a handsome gay guy watches,
restlessly tugging his cock like a bad habit.
ii.
We’re listening to Arca. A firecracker flung thru the window. I run like a hot goof. What can I say, I’m a hemophiliac.
15
Keep basted my turkey, &
gargle modestly my boys for me.
Don't feed them the password
to my hard-drive, and keep
the thermometer up their backsides.
In a towel, in the Pentagon, in the hotbed
with smooth boys, there are those men, baffleless, who grope where they please, as if facing withdrawals.
Feminism will structure their oblivions.
Salute my morning wood, my wishbone
pure and pearlish turquoise–softening
as you modestly garnish it, not with porcelain
nor with thorn, more like an agate in a hot tub. Our grapevines on the trellis would become sentient, if we didn’t wither them to wine.
16
i.
I saunter aimlessly around the predicate.
It’s pathetic when they discuss movies,
it makes me feel like my ex is stuck inside
my ass. There isn’t a saintly molecule in
my body, because I put them all in
my poems. So don’t get all bent up
on your leprechaun hunt. Feed the possum that you
call your cunt. Roll the dice. Do you want to debase
yourself with me? We can murder each other’s asses.
ii.
I will fuck your ass, I will fuck your mind, you faggot, you dick-sucker. I will take your spine and replace it with a hard cock, and fuck you every night like pudding nonwithstanding. Where is your sense of humor? You ride me like a pony, nose bleeding like we’re in a shonen. I’ll tie a bow around your waist so you look cute as I fuck you in the ass and the mind.
99
I stuttered at our footsie game, dear Juventus–
now swing at me your sweet greasy weapon.
I don’t find it shameful:
ounce after ounce,
ounce after ounce, I remember the taste
of that sugarplum wine… or is the topic now a crypt?
I made amulets for you, weeping.
I weeviled for you like a little crumb,
dull as a tiger-tooth lost in a labyrinth-mouth.
Call me a womanizer!
Every book I write drowning in the sweet grease of your weapon, becoming the silent outcry of a suffocating mouse.
Gaius Valerius Catullus (c.84 - c.54 bce) was a poet from verona, italy who wrote in latin during the late roman republic. he was a bisexual king of gossip who wrote in the neoteric tradition during the rule of julius caesar. trevor conferred with gaius by utilizing their keen extrasensory abilities, shifting timelines to collaborate with catullus, ensuring accuracy and preserving authorial intent while enhancing and modernizing the poems.
le wermo is one of the poetic alter egos of trevor bashaw. le wermo is freaky-hot and functions as a natural orgone accumulator, often contemplating the erotic, the ecosexual, the mundane, and the apophenic. trevor bashaw (the person) is an artist, writer and educator from kansas/arkansas. but they are currently stranded in the central valley of california (help!) where they teach esl to uc davis international students and creative writing to the good children of sacramento. trevor has a dog named peppa pleek and is always walking her around. trevor has recently published work with the screen door review and the call center collective.