Category Archives: Poetry

Irregular Haiku for Presidential Timbre (Or, Damn It Feels Good to be a Tone Deaf Gangsta)

Posted on October 8, 2016 by John Biscello

His foot in his mouth, hand speaking in Pig Latin- Rab’em gay bitee ussy-pay.

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Feral

Posted on October 7, 2016 by John Biscello

Seized, I am in the ripe feral grip of the new language she is speaking. Her voice fronting a glassy, ciphered edge, a grifting menace. Every calculated utterance bears double and triple meaning, with common intent to baffle, disarm, intrigue, … Continue reading →

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Plaything

Posted on October 4, 2016 by John Biscello

Wafting from afar, the intimate rumor of a divine toy, a cryptic plaything, implications in tow. A tonic and pacifier of blank rages; buoy and anti-freeze to sudden plunges into sub-zero climate. These conditions cannot be bested, but they can … Continue reading →

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Corset

Posted on October 3, 2016 by John Biscello

In a vain attempt, she corseted herself in green wind and cellophane, votive to a thin whip of air. As she lay there, colors emptying to gray, before the round voices and fast hands came, she fell in and saw … Continue reading →

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Bellwether

Posted on September 29, 2016 by John Biscello

Lidless, the fluent graze of dispersive light, Braille for the heart by which to envision, or, how a river of eyes, vim and bellwethered, cite Forgiveness to tow the pending divide.

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Fret

Posted on September 28, 2016 by John Biscello

Incite, the heraldic crash of the ocean’s champagne fete, or, how the waves, lattice and white-maned, sire the sea’s cadent fret.

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Spoor

Posted on September 28, 2016 by John Biscello

Hazarding a cede, to spoor feral shoots, or, Inspiration, a ward’s vigilant yield toward a mysterious charge.

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Sow

Posted on September 27, 2016 by John Biscello

Inviolate, the shallow impress of bird’s feet in snow, or, how love, in chronic yield, metes time to sow.

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Toll

Posted on September 27, 2016 by John Biscello

Winter, tolling the climes of Grief’s wraith, or, how the feathers of first snow, falling, chasten the dead in lasting refrain.

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Climes

Posted on September 27, 2016 by John Biscello

Grief, engendering the climes of Winter’s wraith, or, how the sound of white fire, falling, in reverse, encloses the dead in penitent refrain.

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