Beneath the cauterized furies,
and unspent silences,
amounting to greater deficit,
there is,
and always has been,
at heart’s nimbus base,
a soft, wistful melancholy,
not unlike the adagio threads of rain
silvering the opened palms
of a small child,
or the moonbound clown,
smiling sadly
at the girl on the tightrope,
who, from a distance,
he secretly longs for
and hopes to see fall
into his waiting arms–
forever the child,
cherishing lost Sundays,
premature nostalgia,
and lazy aimless walks,
know myself,
bare to the touch
and claim,
between the gorgeous bask
of slowtorch dreams
and solitary haunt.

About John Biscello

Originally from Brooklyn, NY, writer, poet, spoken word performer, and playwright, John Biscello now lives in Taos, New Mexico. He is the author of three novels: Broken Land, a Brooklyn Tale, Raking the Dust, and Nocturne Variations, and a collection of stories, Freeze Tag. His fiction and poetry has appeared in: Art Times, nthposition, The Wanderlust Review, Ophelia Street, Caper, Polyphony, Dilate, Militant Roger, Chokecherries, Farmhouse, BENT, The 555 Collective, Instigator, Brass Sopaipilla, The Iconoclast, Adobe Walls, Kansas City Voices, and the Tishman Review. His blog--Notes of an Urban Stray--can be read at Broken Land, a Brooklyn Tale was named Underground Book Reviews 2014 Book of the Year.
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2 Responses to Slowtorch

  1. Beautiful, the melancholy, the wistfulness, the fall and especially “unlike the adagio threads of rain silvering the opened palms”


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