zafusy

The barista offers me the tapioca pearl
stuck to her thumb.

Breast offers. Mylar bone.
Mylar star

amid the lilies of a roadside shrine.
Her pic on my light box. Replenish.

If I gave her a plush chipmunk.
She’s drawn with a French curve.

Tim Botta

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

Prurient, you complain of your itch, and I
with my fine ivory back-scratcher.

At the firing range, he triggered the squalene.
Dead machine once delved. You polish

his plinth till you’re mad. Glycerine braids
your cage, now he’s with his savory

book-stitcher,
attar day rescinded.

Tim Botta

Snorkel chunks. You stole her from
the submerged solstice. You boast of a snug

holster. At the taxidermy dancehall,
you spied her in tattersall. You, the hero

of the mock sea-battle. Was it like trying to drag
from a broken cigarette. Tatters all,

marigold coin in the jar.
Luminol angel.

Tim Botta

Rest his patella, soffe shunt.
Meanwhile, your fizzing mineral

and warmth myth. Or soffit kneepad
globule. He learned to spike from

the embery pith. The toxin
parade ox. The kaleidophone

of tongue, and toggle the billows.
Now he shreds the portfolio.

Tim Botta

Kept your grenadine litter, tuft
of rust. Woke to veiled foliage

and sleep-learning. A pack of Eve
ultra-lights. Blood vespiary

sculpture splutter. When I return
your liturgy, apologies,

your tellurian narrative
and the opera-hose ligotage.

Tim Botta