Category Archives: Poetry

Marvel Universe

Posted on November 27, 2018 by John Biscello

There is a level of insistence, a shivering drumbeat, that comes with being who you are, exactly, upon this earth, fractures and all. It is the very bones of existential jazz, its jonesing and felicity, and the greatest most supple … Continue reading →

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The Gospel According to Skin

Posted on November 27, 2018 by John Biscello

Today I woke to the pulsing ribbed memory of that night you wore nothing except a knotted bodice of white flags, and my mouth, prey to your body’s religion, submitted gospel as a savage flagrant reform to amen.

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Every Breath You Take, the Remix

Posted on November 26, 2018 by John Biscello

By revolving gradations of blue I have loved you, have sunken to airless depths trying to breathe you in, every dammed bubble sealing the green of memory in a small forever place where cherish is softened by reams of fading … Continue reading →

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Alms

Posted on November 26, 2018 by John Biscello

There is something about the holiest seethe that keeps us golden-green migrant beggars, bartering stigmata for leavened alms to persist, this side of dreaming.  

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Lip Reading

Posted on November 26, 2018 by John Biscello

Kissing, where the vibrato slug of tongue plugs in to electrical temporal heaven for a singed sprint through molten puddles.

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Instructions on How to Use a Blade

Posted on November 26, 2018 by John Biscello

To ask how deep is not the right question of the blade, but rather, how much moon, if any, is reflected in the silver of your teeth when piercing skin to venerate pink?

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Flow Chart

Posted on November 26, 2018 by John Biscello

There’s something about filing a mortal grievance with angels that’s reassuring. As if, there you are, casually adrift on a slow-moving first-class glassy blue glacier, going out to sea, and you cheerfully wave goodbye to yourself, entrusting the course of … Continue reading →

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In the Belly Of

Posted on November 25, 2018 by John Biscello

In the softest pit of my belly, the masticating angel, the glowing renegade with milkbone teeth, eats me alive, and spits me back out into the world, half-light, half-silence, the happy miscarriage of identity winnowing the essential me from I.

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Lure

Posted on November 25, 2018 by John Biscello

He had traveled many crooked side-streets and shadow-scripted back-alleys to arrive at this point. The white-hot lure and bait of the angel, who had played hard to get, beckoned, with an ineffable wink.

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Destiny

Posted on November 25, 2018 by John Biscello

One of those windows ws about to change his life forever. Now it was simply a matter of ascent, and guessing right.

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