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.

Hymnal

Posted on October 6, 2022 by John Biscello

On a molecular level, we are fucked. Perpetually, repeatedly, renewably. Fucked. The world is an unceasing orgy, everything touches everything, nonstop fondling and hymnal friction between pulsing meshes. Your very breath is a shore leave sailor and kissing cousin, a … Continue reading →

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Not in So Many Words

Posted on October 6, 2022 by John Biscello

On a molecular level, we are fucked. Perpetually, repeatedly, renewably. Fucked. The world is an unceasing orgy. Everything touches everything, nonstop fondling and incestuous friction between particles, the pulsing frisson of meshes. We are nets that hold nothing and touch … Continue reading →

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Splish Splash

Posted on October 5, 2022 by John Biscello

Our destinies are molecular an infinitely charged clusterfuck of singing particles wedded to a liminal bubblebath in which god drops the soap and slips under to retrieve it when she reemerges face caked in a frothy foam beard you laugh … Continue reading →

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Pulse

Posted on October 2, 2022 by John Biscello

Pulsing magnanimously, we run on, unfinished, the edges only rumors duly dispelled by the raptures of liminal motives.

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Sphinx

Posted on October 2, 2022 by John Biscello

The broken pulsing fingers of rain, cloning time, tap spates of symmetry against my window— This, both cause and effect, upon the glassy passage of hours, dwindling, singing, undeciphered.

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Succulent

Posted on September 23, 2022 by John Biscello

Moonlight is edible. If you don’t believe me watch the mouths of children at night.

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There is No Curtain

Posted on September 23, 2022 by John Biscello

Forever and ever is the asking price and promise the singer made to the song conjugal atomic bliss siring the I that right now is speaking singularly on behalf of the song and singer forever and ever.

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Born Blues

Posted on September 23, 2022 by John Biscello

I am the foster child of rampant insular lyricism. In it I was raised wild and came meekly to regard the moon as a shotgun blast from the mouth of eternity. I, setting core to task, get greedy, rabid, blood … Continue reading →

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If This

Posted on September 23, 2022 by John Biscello

Our destinies are molecular, charged. We gravitate. Toward this and that. Other things. The bond between song and singer is immaculate proof of serviceably attuned you blameless as the blue lighting of the first moment when the multiverse sought seams … Continue reading →

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Tender is the Night

Posted on September 18, 2022 by John Biscello
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