zafusy

They carry canisters of accelerant
past the chartreuse favor spikes,

and sessile. “No offense, but I don’t need to change
my sponge.” Panel streaks, why do you cup

his collage beak? He took your hygiene wrapper
to smoke up. Farouche, does he tell

the Flirtini women about his
dirgey little drainage?

Tim Botta

View all poems by Tim Botta