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Author Archives: John Biscello
Melodrama
Let’s start with this photo, the comic melodrama in which you, perfectly staged, are wearing a blue pinafore dress, your dark hair gagged in pigtails, mouth heavily lipsticked, cheeks cherubically rouged, your eyes two flashing ovals of abyss-pooling licorice, sweat … Continue reading
Posted in Poetry, Prose
Tagged incarnations, life and death, locomotive, love story, lyrics to go, melodrama, mourning, novel in progress, photo, Prose, silent film, story, tragedy, villain
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Blue
I knew this. Even before I met her, I knew this. But she, as an explicit confirmation, as a caretaker and symbiotic mouthpiece to my unsaid secrets, said, and so concisely—Dreams come out of the blue, returning to the blue. … Continue reading
Play
I have to imagine her death from every conceivable angle. She has assured me she will disappear, said that dying is a trick of the light, and everyone was enamored of the mirage, convinced, in on it, the gag. When … Continue reading
Posted in Poetry, Prose
Tagged betweenworlds, death, dreamscape, life, Light, love story, mirage, persona, playtime, Prose, show, story, Theater
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Stand-Up
This is not a not a novel. This is a rhapsody. I rhapsodize, I bubble, I ferment, I fount. The amassing of word-shaped sounds have become rhapsodies, digressions, solos within spheres and platforms of soul-sounding species and choruses, the every … Continue reading
Posted in Poetry, Prose
Tagged black comedy, book, fiction, lenny bruce, lord buckley, mae west, nightclub, not novel, novel, Poetry, stand-up, story, storytelling, this lyrical life, voice, words
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Recorded Live
In the cinema, hypnotized. I died a drugged and stupefied death again and again, crucified by the diminished returns of flickering images. I die, tranquilized, a sweetly solemn refugee from reality. This is the escapist way, its creed. Why pretend … Continue reading
Posted in Poetry, Prose
Tagged between worlds, birthing process, Cinema, deathing process, dreams, imagination, novel in progress, recording, story, syndication, waiting, wordpray, words, writing life, wuz here
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In the Dark
If cinema is a tomb, then let us die watching. The angel over my shoulder is hunched, opaque, morphing. None of us ever leave behind the dark of the theater. We are here, always. Sanctuary, haven, enclave, respite, sitting tight … Continue reading
Gilead After Dark
Time dreamed, and I was there. The persistently nagging sense of simultaneously being there and not being there. A fusion and mediation of allegedly separate entities, such as timelines, distances (intimacy, you see, belong to the immeasurable). The mantling of … Continue reading
Posted in Poetry, Prose
Tagged balm in gilead, children, echoes, excerpt, musing, myth, novel in progress, out of the dark, sketch, story, vision, voices, wonder
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Pandora
I won’t call this a book because no one reads books anymore, no one gives two shits and a dime about books. I’ll call this an exalted and long overdue mania, a catalytic inversion, a freebase purge. Whatever, whatever. Voyeurs … Continue reading
Posted in Poetry, Prose
Tagged apocalyptic bop, black comedy, book, fiction, groove is in the heart, invention, musing, new mythology, not a book, novel in progress, novel inprogress, pandora, Poetry, Prose, solitude
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Station
Historyless is where I come from, the sun-crotched navel, the part of me not yet born, the part of me dead to the world on its way to being born into the potholes and foothills of unimagined fictions. That, plus … Continue reading
Posted in Poetry, Prose
Tagged betweenworlds, born waiting, cosmos, dreamscape, I, interval, midwifery, musing, Poetry, Prose, station, we, worldscape
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Andrea Doria
Itchy navels, persecutions, manias, projections, snot-rimmed abysses, it’s been a mixed bag of plenty and none, and here I sit with the day’s teeth growing long and chomping down with razor-edged intensity … the stringent air of day after days … Continue reading
Posted in Poetry, Prose
Tagged andrea doria, excerpt, lusitania, musing, ocean, passengers, Poetry, Prose, ship of fools, titanic, togetherness, voyage, we
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John Biscello 