What We Carry

Posted on September 8, 2026 by John Biscello

Memories

as ghosts of cinema,

seeking host-bodies to inhabit,

equal measures possession and vacancy,

they are the ghosts of ghosts,

pulsing in chords of repetition

and bottomless hunger

to freight.

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Searchlight

Posted on September 8, 2026 by John Biscello

You are being crafted and curated

right now, as you speak.

Scraps of filmreel flickering and bringing to life

shadows of a life lived,

echoes of fiction bygone.

Memory as the green-screen slate

upon which cinema is perpetrated.

Behind the scenes, there are more scenes.

Behind the ghosts, further ghosts.

Knowing this, isn’t it better to drift?

To become a drifter

in magnetic tow to the graffiti

and seance of stars,

a captive in fasting thrall

to time regained in fleeting doses

of swoon and ache.

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Foreplay

Posted on September 7, 2026 by John Biscello

i

liked her best

wrapped in gloaming

and told her so

she smiled and said

i needed better metaphors

or lesser ones

if i hoped to undress her

where silence mattered most.

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Say What

Posted on September 7, 2026 by John Biscello

Every sentence

alleges an ending,

or feigns the solace of completion,

yet the wholly unsaid

caved under the tongues of lovers

becomes sacral content,

running on

and on

to no known climax,

only hunger

lingually revised.

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Room for Two or More

Posted on September 7, 2026 by John Biscello

Touch

as the residing magnetic

compass

and Braille for lovers

in a dark eyeless room,

or, the scale value

of myopic intimacy

through fucks graciously given.

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Lush Life

Posted on September 7, 2026 by John Biscello

Conundrum

to my common ache

and feted fevers,

place me under your tongue’s

secrets for safekeeping,

and the cherished prospect

of going down

like hard candy

in a throat closing

to darken the rent

of rapture from lush.

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Domain

Posted on September 7, 2026 by John Biscello

Her body,

a puzzling slate

and feral dominion

suspended erringly between

there and not,

and I,

tonal witness

to the intimacy

of her absence,

function by rounded turns

at a loss for words–

Silence,

the lasting grammar

of ruins

and longing.

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Unsaid

Posted on September 6, 2026 by John Biscello

Waxing blankly,

to soothe and mollify,

her hand (nails polished electric blue)

gagged my mouth (O-shaped in ache)

with a hint of phrase,

rouge to the touch,

and blatantly sheer in its

umentionables.

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Mystique

Posted on September 6, 2026 by John Biscello

There’s something

blankly paranthetical

about the ghosts of memory

which become us

in breaths taken

to host

and devour.

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Classified Section

Posted on September 6, 2026 by John Biscello

In this season of longing,

the pluralized itch

and wraith

of you and I,

coursing parallel tracks

to cross imaginary lines

where distance mounts

the spreading horizon.

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