A Conversation.

abstract art black background blur

I’m asking about
the inconsistency and incongruity
within your timeline of events.
(these things matter)

you should have made this
an accidental affair,
but now you forced me
to cover your ass.

you irredeemable twit,
now I have to-
get the acid,
bleach the blood,
and pay up Richard,
for the drums.
(you owe me, motherfucker)

© Nancy Botta, 2018



selective focus photograph of black crow

It was a god awful omen,
but clever crows spoke to me
in windswept auguries
so I had to seek out the old one
to pry the truth from their beaks
and the mystery from their wings.

Chicken bones jangle out of a bag,
tea leaves caught in my throat-
“your destiny is here”
scratched into the dirt,
while ancient bones
root around like scheming devils
breaking all the eggs.

None of it made any sense,
but the gnawing chaos
wrapped itself around my neck
and pulled me like a witching rod
to that stinking, swirling pot
of feathers and false hope,
lies and smashed eggs.

Dead-eyed and weary,
wondering how this gambit prevails
with furtive hands grasping
for reverence and pleading for gold-
there isn’t strength in this ruse,
just my mortal weakness
to trust
that the flapping of wings
means something, anything
to the half cocked soothsayer
fumbling for a metaphor.

© Nancy Botta, 2018




black and brown building

Lips curled;
there’s a painful point
of contention between you,
and a heart full of expectations.

Head down;
I say I can try harder,
but your eyes roll sideways
and I find myself
slipping underfoot.

Open sneer;
you have sharp teeth
and a judgmental tongue,
but I labor under your intensity
and bear the weight of pursed lips.

Wilted frown;
this inadequacy is innate-
I can’t give more
than a mumbled apology
from a sad, sloping mouth.

© Nancy Botta, 2018


Better Living Through Chemistry.

dark purple black medicine

No one knows
what the answer is-
we feed the gaps of emotion
with chlorhydrate chemistry,
and cry for nameless things.

Ineratic dread
bleeds out the eyes,
and pools at our feet.

What a mess we say,
(chaotic shame)
a drip drop of greasy guilt
coats our tongues
and paints our teeth grey.

We can hear our bones cracking
under the weight of shadowy,
imperceptible grief.

No one wants to know
what the answer is-
survival is extending our arms
and chemically smothering
all those nameless things.

© Nancy Botta, 2018



cave near body of water at sunset

On the shore of a cave
I had thrown myself in
I smashed up stalagmites
growing from my skin
and sawed off stalactites
dripping off my chin.
/ /
New flesh, pink and sweet
like pearls and starfish
scattered at my feet.

© Nancy Botta, 2018