Author Archives: John Biscello

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About John Biscello

Originally from Brooklyn, NY, novelist, poet, performer, playwright and filmmaker, John Biscello, has lived in the high-desert grunge-wonderland of Taos, New Mexico since 2001. He is the author of six novels, Broken Land, a Brooklyn Tale, Raking the Dust, Nocturne Variations, No Man’s Brooklyn, The Last Furies, and No One Dreams in Color; a collection of stories, Freeze Tag, two poetry collections, Arclight and Moonglow on Mercy Street; and a fable, The Jackdaw and the Doll, illustrated by Izumi Yokoyama. He also adapted classic fables, which were paired with the vintage illustrations of artist, Paul Bransom, for the collection: Once Upon a Time, Classic Fables Reimagined. His plays have been staged and performed both nationally and internationally.

Still Life w/ Selfie

Posted on May 11, 2018 by John Biscello

  How I, my ego-fiend-self, craves and wishes and desires to take ultimate credit for the words and poems attaching themselves to their mortal host, John Biscello, thinly grafted to his signature and persona, but deep down I understand all … Continue reading →

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Votive

Posted on May 11, 2018 by John Biscello

There she is, luscious votive to my jagged script, contours engaged to flesh out missive, sealed in hot wax, lightly scented.    

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The Source

Posted on May 11, 2018 by John Biscello

Their hearts, registered as infinite beacons, have gone gently and luminously into nights not so good and pitch-black, braving flytrap folds and god-awful rows to soothe, mend and restore the bruised vitals of daughters and sons; they go, infused with … Continue reading →

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Sculpt

Posted on May 10, 2018 by John Biscello

To sculpt, with just the right amount of brandish, and restraint, how you, art to your own crumble and chasten, exact marvel, slowly, at the Muse’s favored bidding.  

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Runes

Posted on May 10, 2018 by John Biscello

Hungry ghosts, gorging, moon-bellied, rending gristle from earthly scavenge— my god, these monsters and their appetites, swallowing illusions whole, to feed empty its runes of fire.

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Dare

Posted on May 9, 2018 by John Biscello

Shelling, till hips grafted a wild rush of air, bone rubbing against empty, this flint, improvising a dare.    

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Twine

Posted on May 9, 2018 by John Biscello

Stars, numinous beads and cursive drag of ghostlight outerwear, how God models etheric bling, and jazz, to catch the breath and flammable fancy of lovers, innocent by turns, falling, softly, softly, in twining burning pairs.

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Word/Less

Posted on May 9, 2018 by John Biscello

Where words fail, empty husks grifting air to blush, my tongue found the clefted hollow between her neck and shoulder, warm run of shivers, novel to the slip and touch.  

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Desire by Any Other Name

Posted on May 9, 2018 by John Biscello

Adore, how a crush closes in on savored pink, to split flames, and corset ribbed longing.  

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Froth

Posted on May 8, 2018 by John Biscello

There was pulsing, and founting, the sea caked around her ankles like silky ribbons of froth. It was just a dream, but still I found her, throbbing through dawn.

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