There was
pillowtalk in her eyes,
by her mouth’s
bated languour;
curled in her lap
with feline ease,
slow jazz
on holiday,
between her thighs
and pinkest belly;
she wanted
nothing to do
with volume
or time,
shooed it away
with rolled-up bouquets
of prose and verses;
leave me
stretched supine
in my quivering barest,
my bangingest squelch,
and come
to agonize
over me
in the bluest hours,
when light
hits the bruises
just so,
guiding your sunder
and crush,
as above,
so below.


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 Crush

  1. A favorite, full of desire. The bangingest


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