Marry you?
An assassin
seen as sin?

I’m already in use on this train,
as a bell on a uterus
somewhere in a queue of gray coats.

Vino’s toll
is a lint tea negligee
torn to pieces by hawks,

and we are but fugitives
making one long soft moan for an old vice
we could never outgroan.

This is no forum
for all the summer suns misused
as scepters and made inept.

This is where order dares
put the hoarder to the test –
name eight inventions of the used up West.

There’s no Nicean creed here.
So smile high.
The sea is ready.
The pole is off by only a hemisphere.

Our veils of talent
are ohms used and tired.
They’ve long lit the East
where the leopard rum room’s been wired
all along.

So when the judge asks
plead the rumor of pale pedals
and roamed dampers
the rued prom
the rude romp
the mode purer
then give it a stomp
as Mars is lead, as the ram is red
as time pie cooks slowly, yet always is prompt.

Add me at a low purr.
Add me rolled as Mr. Up.
Add me to the lore of lops,
a drum played low
and an old tune –
STOP!

It’s different for us –
pure A/C faces under tiaras.

I’ll be square with you.
We ought to have handy
window sills as a boost for translucent Oz.
We ought to be expectant of the spectator,
Aunt Minnie Lynne
in her Hummer,
remitted.

You can quote me.

Nomo, Nemo, Nero,
sing them all back to me
as estimations
so I’ll remember how
I sold all there is
for a name, a soothing aria
a sooth-saying area
set in abeyance
ready for the obedience
of suspended exile
without hibernation
or experience.

Our munitions are miserable
and much less than fabulous.
They’re nothing more that raven droppings
on the floor under Edgar’s bust of Pallas.
In other words, we’ll all be slain
whether standing or sitting,
weather permitting.

You never ran to us.
You never heeded.
You never ceased heading out to a sea
you already saw bleeded.

See?

So now would an Amen be due
for the necessariest you,
nearest Vera, our sometimes
neo-luminescent muse
of the back table hit fable?

This poem was written by first making a homophonic translation of a poem by Catullus, ignoring it for several days, and then treating the homophonic translation as “found” source material to be morphed in a manner that still retains the bare skeleton of the original translation.