Foreplay

Posted on September 7, 2026 by John Biscello

i

liked her best

wrapped in gloaming

and told her so

she smiled and said

i needed better metaphors

or lesser ones

if i hoped to undress her

where silence mattered most.

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Say What

Posted on September 7, 2026 by John Biscello

Every sentence

alleges an ending,

or feigns the solace of completion,

yet the wholly unsaid

caved under the tongues of lovers

becomes sacral content,

running on

and on

to no known climax,

only hunger

lingually revised.

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Room for Two or More

Posted on September 7, 2026 by John Biscello

Touch

as the residing magnetic

compass

and Braille for lovers

in a dark eyeless room,

or, the scale value

of myopic intimacy

through fucks graciously given.

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Lush Life

Posted on September 7, 2026 by John Biscello

Conundrum

to my common ache

and feted fevers,

place me under your tongue’s

secrets for safekeeping,

and the cherished prospect

of going down

like hard candy

in a throat closing

to darken the rent

of rapture from lush.

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Domain

Posted on September 7, 2026 by John Biscello

Her body,

a puzzling slate

and feral dominion

suspended erringly between

there and not,

and I,

tonal witness

to the intimacy

of her absence,

function by rounded turns

at a loss for words–

Silence,

the lasting grammar

of ruins

and longing.

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Unsaid

Posted on September 6, 2026 by John Biscello

Waxing blankly,

to soothe and mollify,

her hand (nails polished electric blue)

gagged my mouth (O-shaped in ache)

with a hint of phrase,

rouge to the touch,

and blatantly sheer in its

umentionables.

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Mystique

Posted on September 6, 2026 by John Biscello

There’s something

blankly paranthetical

about the ghosts of memory

which become us

in breaths taken

to host

and devour.

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Classified Section

Posted on September 6, 2026 by John Biscello

In this season of longing,

the pluralized itch

and wraith

of you and I,

coursing parallel tracks

to cross imaginary lines

where distance mounts

the spreading horizon.

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Neo-Folk

Posted on September 3, 2026 by John Biscello

Everything always going on. People worry about everything not going on but what they’re really saying beneath the waves what they’re subliminally saying and worrying about is them not going on. Everything going on and them not. How to reconcile I not continuing I said and gone. If it feels like the world is ending it is because you are ending. Individual endings magnified to worlds ending. Autumn is a sonata. A soft lisping grave for lost hours. Fall falling is the sense you have when mortality grow magnificently yellow inside you a wistful flare and you ending becomes all ending everything ending. Every generation spells doom differently yet the same. One of the older meanings of apocalypse was revelation. We waiting to be revealed to ourselves as apocalypses unto ourselves. In the dust of lost blue hours we grow silent. As if practicing to be dead. Then we talk and come back to life and the cycle renews with us wondering about everything always going on and everything ending and what is there to do except cherish and bless.

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Plight Trajectory

Posted on September 3, 2026 by John Biscello

Youth passes in fleeting doses, and doesn’t die a single death, youth as concept and cheat code disassembles into ghosts, into many ghosts which proliferate and spread, in pursuit of seances and possession. Youth, in its death, moves in many directions at once, it becomes a horde of hungry wanderers, a cadre of bottomless-feeding ghosts, youth, in its dying, screams for mirrors of any and all kinds to substantiate unverified crises, to metamorphosize them.

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