Poems by Tim Botta in Shampoo Issue 29

Who was going to say science
mouth, when you lick ambrosia from

your fingertips, and feline tongue
the ambrotype clean.

Or else, sigh séance moth
shudder, and rub rubies

against me, electrical quiz
for lovers at the carnival.

Paranymph

We idle in blue dusk. You let
each ringtone go, and I’ve

(three times we’ve said goodbye, kissed
goodbye that many times)

a smoky look for the spherical
punk and his paranymph

in the parking deck, violations of
your windshield.

Channel

Near the guillotine crew, the wax
aristocrat, thumbscrews, and gull

of spikes, my voice in
this channel, yours in the other.

Through a sordid hallway, the mouth of
a wooden pig, piled

with wergild, I’ll stroke
your stories.