Story

Posted on May 27, 2026 by John Biscello

Within

the alchemy of gist

and wonder

resides the evergreening

lush dark

center

of stories

through which the self

rivets its fluid course.

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Habitat

Posted on May 27, 2026 by John Biscello

Behind the ghosts

further ghosts

calling.

Possession

by layered turns

and takes

evincing quantum roles

through which we inhabit.  

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Enclosure

Posted on May 27, 2026 by John Biscello

In the longaching aria

and grain of Memory,

its mortuary and refrain,

the gauzy calling of ghosts—

Follow our bodiless drift

and want,

they monotone in lo-fi chorus—

Enclosure, by softly rounded turns,

resetting your edited

                        self

to sync and revive.

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Residual

Posted on May 27, 2026 by John Biscello

Memory

aligning spectral residue

and gauzy embers,

slow-drifting motes

and emissaries of Time’s passage,

moving from nowhere

to nowhere,

and swallowing whole worlds

in the process.

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Archival

Posted on May 27, 2026 by John Biscello

Memory

as night-blooming

arias,

diffuse

and fasting

on distances

proliferating inwardly

to sepia

and mute.

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Pangs

Posted on May 26, 2026 by John Biscello

Memory

as night-blooming

carrion—

its resolve

and intrigue

leavening the supply

of demand

to feed.

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Polyphony

Posted on May 26, 2026 by John Biscello

In

the Shiva-limbed

solitude of invention

rabbitual copulation

begets

the wildfire spreading

of hymns

lusting for voices

to subsume and consecrate.

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After

Posted on May 26, 2026 by John Biscello

Bodiless,

adrift,

blankly navigating

the séance of cinema

where you, minus a role,

are reassigned

as a nimbus scab

on the patina of Time

                        no more I

                        of which to speak

                        or pirate.

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Little Light of Ours

Posted on May 26, 2026 by John Biscello

In pools

of practiced moving distances

words labor by light’s

traveling standards

to take flight

and submerge

in due riveted course.

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Cask

Posted on May 25, 2026 by John Biscello

In the clotted rectum

of Memory,

a roving cadre of masked strangers,

who, in their Bacchanalian cosplay

and pursuits, cause you to reconsider

the darkening press of Time, and intimacy,

within the hoary cask of solitude.

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