Category Archives: photography

Honeymoon Killer

Posted on November 15, 2024 by John Biscello

Ralph Kramden sweats and sweats, eyeballs bulging in their sockets. Plagued by the accursed notion that he has become a whale, no, a rhinoceros, no, an inoculated hippo that shows up to birthday parties uninvited. This visual grotesquerie, reflected back … Continue reading →

Posted in photography, Poetry, Prose | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

The Sorceress

Posted on November 11, 2024 by John Biscello

To be a mother, and to double as a dark sorceress, a cleaver of dried bones, could not have been easy. Especially in the 1950s. They burned witches then, as well as reds and blacks and faggots, and other things … Continue reading →

Posted in photography, Poetry | Tagged , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

How Tomorrow Moves

Posted on November 11, 2024 by John Biscello

   It was a matter of helium-speak, and tomorrow-talk, and bright ribbons of noise amounting to nothing.    We, hanging out on the street-corner, conducting ping-pong volleys and raps, ferocity and verve, building ourselves up—who we were and were not, … Continue reading →

Posted in photography, Poetry, Prose | Tagged , , , , , , | Leave a comment

John Fante

Posted on November 8, 2024 by John Biscello

John Fante splashed vinegar into the eyes of the world. The vinegar was house-made, from his mama’s trusty cupboard. Mama’s cupboard contained a lot, an old-world apothecary glutted with cloves of garlic, deceit, shame, bones, crucifixes, oregano, thyme, rosary beads, … Continue reading →

Posted in photography, Poetry, Prose | Tagged , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

Jean Rhys

Posted on November 8, 2024 by John Biscello

Jean Rhys was a bedraggled feline. She’d slink through cobbled alleys, lap up Parisian rainwater. High sky glance the glittering harem of stars, and long. Cats are the masters of longing. Spiders are patient, but when it comes to longing, … Continue reading →

Posted in photography, Poetry, Prose | Tagged , , , , , | Leave a comment

Kerouac

Posted on November 8, 2024 by John Biscello

Kerouac whizzed and hummed. He lived with smoldering zest a crumbling highway within. He took to this unlighted highway, equal parts tour guide and lost little lamb, nuzzling a candle, believing that even the littlest light would make him brave, … Continue reading →

Posted in photography, Poetry, Prose | Tagged , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Marguerite Duras

Posted on November 8, 2024 by John Biscello

Marguerite Duras crowed about nothing. And nothingness. Lyrics like so much silky water threaded in the raptures of an eddy. Whirling, heady, intoxicating, a dizzying effect that spoke sheerest volumes about the secret history of love. Love for M.D. was … Continue reading →

Posted in photography, Poetry, Prose | Tagged , , , , | Leave a comment

Beckett

Posted on November 8, 2024 by John Biscello

Samuel Beckett plunged his head so far up his ass, daylight became a dream and conundrum. He saw the world through shit-filtered glasses, the bluest of roses manure-caked, anal cavity functioning as the base of inspiration, as the grimy pulpit … Continue reading →

Posted in photography, Poetry, Prose | Tagged , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Welcome to the Monkey House

Posted on October 24, 2024 by John Biscello

A man rattling the bars inside his cage that is the monkey house of writing and publishing, or, the holy seethe sounded in diminished chords and vinegar.

Posted in Audio, Cinema, photography, Poetry, Prose, Video | Tagged , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Red Wedding Day

Posted on October 20, 2024 by John Biscello

Hey, little sister, what is it you wish? A nice day for a red wedding A nice day to start again.

Posted in Artwork, Audio, Cinema, photography, Poetry, Press, Prose, Theater, Video | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment