Monthly Archives: July 2018

Cursively Yours

Posted on July 25, 2018 by John Biscello

I would like to get to the place where I am no longer writing poems about you but rather printing them in rabid cursive directly onto your skin with the sharpest most inviolate part of my tongue, tender sketches wordless … Continue reading →

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Consecrate

Posted on July 24, 2018 by John Biscello

I kneel before her and begin to wash her feet slowly in the silver blood of crushed pearls and upon my cheeks can feel the delicate papery drizzle of peony petals which she sheds as if garden to the moon’s … Continue reading →

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Hunger Strike

Posted on July 24, 2018 by John Biscello

She wrote as if webbed viscous bits of her soul got stuck to the words and so you got to feel the raw organic matter of her dreamlife and lush panting inner delicately charred the sort of hunger that cannot … Continue reading →

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Pink Stucco

Posted on July 24, 2018 by John Biscello

I tell her we need three days, alone, uninterrupted, in a pink stucco motel. She giggles. Why pink stucco? I don’t know, pink stucco is what I see. It’s you and me and the motel with the pink stucco exterior … Continue reading →

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Orchids and Algae

Posted on July 23, 2018 by John Biscello

Meet me in that rarest orchid crawlspace, that parting cloister, where we could fuck the fiction out of one another, and leave behind a glissando of puddles in real-time.

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Darwin Didn’t Do This

Posted on July 23, 2018 by John Biscello

In the name of indigenous graphing, I, delegating tongue for the task at hand, would like to explore, catalog and classify every species of scent and taste flavoring her body, not overlooking a single derelict fraction, or remote hint blushing … Continue reading →

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Bewitchment

Posted on July 23, 2018 by John Biscello

She exceled through the spread of rumpled longing, her eyes, vimming crushed flecks and chocolate sprinkles of sorcery, she bewitched, darling to the pretty mouth that spoke sudden violets, stilled in wilding fire and perish.  

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Runoff, or, Here There Be Tigers

Posted on July 22, 2018 by John Biscello

My desire, running the length of corridors, unwitnessed, untouched, smoldering in resident ancient bake– Here there be tigers, clawing at the sun’s scorching midriff, gutting the fame from light, until there is no longer any difference between molten blood and … Continue reading →

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Un-Cover-Girl

Posted on July 22, 2018 by John Biscello

It was the length of her longing, the startling pinkness and volume of its expenditure, that lent the moon its covetous curves and fringes, to be uncovered.  

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