Monthly Archives: May 2018

Outlet

Posted on May 15, 2018 by John Biscello

Kiss my shame, she said, the moistened outlet to my sealed-in history, run your tongue, but gentle now, gentle, over my heart-shaped booboo, make it sing, as if the moon, a secret maestro, was drawing the most beautiful notes from … Continue reading →

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Communion

Posted on May 14, 2018 by John Biscello

She knows who she is, the one who placed a piece of the moon under my tongue when I wasn’t looking, now, when I speak of night, light follows, to gild my bated communion.

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Sate

Posted on May 14, 2018 by John Biscello

It was there, right there, between the sated tensions of sensual crumple and pulp, that the softest paring left desire’s wending veins exposed.

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Veil

Posted on May 14, 2018 by John Biscello

So this is the mouth which has given lather and freight to scabbed pearls, this, the passage, where screaming daisies have weeded out spells of violence to sunder Beauty’s veil.  

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Mend

Posted on May 14, 2018 by John Biscello

To possess, in eyes leveling a raised smolder, here, there are no rules or fences, only a blatant running of stitches to the sun’s sheerest mend.

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In Bated Response to Oxygen for A Sort of Love Song

Posted on May 13, 2018 by John Biscello

How wonderful it is to have your breath, seized and arrested, to have your barest bloom subjected to the solvency of cherish.

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Oxygen for a Sort of Love Song

Posted on May 13, 2018 by John Biscello

Love, as a true bloom and pulsing grist, and not just mutiny, opiate in its seize and grip, should, at day’s end, allow you to breathe easier, lungs rooming with heart, space, carved out of ceaseless flow, respiring toward growth, … Continue reading →

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Note to Self

Posted on May 13, 2018 by John Biscello

Words, the right ones, ripe and engorged, outgrow the necessary dark inside you and, abiding the laws of catch and release, demand light, air, voice. Beware atrophy, the root killer, and do not leave language, ingrown, unattended.

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Gravity

Posted on May 13, 2018 by John Biscello

The only voice of hers I know is in my head, frozen to an untouched form, lying, bedwarmed, in gravity’s stead.

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Waltz

Posted on May 12, 2018 by John Biscello

On the night God went topless, and the nephilim performed a burlesque of Carmen, or perhaps it was the Wizard of Oz, the girl with the frosted tulips in her hair, and love song in her head, turned off the … Continue reading →

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