Pearl
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
Rust
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
Myth
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
Luminol
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
Dead Machine
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attar day rescinded.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
Accelerant
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
