It is impossible
to live up to the lyrical,
its angelmarked
bendings of antenna,
and sonic proofs,
to nestle
in the hollows
of pitch,
half-bird, half-wraith,
attempting the almighty bait
and switch,
to con the heavens
into granting you
a seraph’s amnesty,
to sing down the stars
with a parched, mortal throat,
ambitiously widening
to swallow the sea,
or at least gag
happy
on the sea’s coral-racked
dreams
and wrecks
(how beautiful
a death
if one could taste
Atlantis
before fading
to black)
Lyricism’s
double standards,
and inordinate demands
on day to day
living,
might be best
left
to pages,
talismanic rants,
and undersea dreamverses,
where direct commands
from queenly blue stars
leave enough time
and space
to do
the goddamned
dishes.
History,
written by the wingless,
selling secondhand
feathers
to falsify flight’s
truest course;
turn a sharp eye
to the sun,
Birds of Paradise,
arc,
plein air,
to claim
in transit
the legends
of west wind.
There is the snake
and there is the amen
and perhaps
there’s not really
much difference
between the two.
Like you,
and the moon,
and how my longing
bleeds
a fugitive overlap,
i.e,
where exactly
does the queenly orb
of distant gold
end
and the girl
garlanded in blue roses
begin?
The whole thing
reeks of impossible,
of inscrutable pitch,
which forces me to sing,
to mate scars to music,
as if life had become
the raw means
for an ongoing mixtape
made on a pirated radio
for that girl
you want to crush
and pound
into moistened milkflakes
of powder
and inhale
between 3am
and yesterday.
Give me time
and space
and I will show you
beyond doubt’s shadow
where the snake
coils covertly
in the shattered
heart of amen,
where the girl,
mending fractures,
blends inviolately
with the moon
that becomes her
nightly.
Posted in Poetry, Uncategorized
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Tagged amen, fracture, girl, gospel, John Biscello, love, moon, mystery, poem, prayer, romance
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We are the mythmakers
and shapeshifters,
the water threads
unraveling
foam
under the bridge
that knows
its lofty tether
to sky
as part of ancestral bind
and the dead honed
to be risen;
we, the Drummer’s
flat, furied palms
seeding thunder
to braised skin,
mount Love
like a steed
running backwards
to catch the tailend
of lightning
in its most current
rate of siege,
we, brothers to Ophelia,
and sisters to Orpheus,
sire words
and music as deeds,
and heedless soulplay,
to give Romanticism
its tectonic makeover
and new breed
of livewire dreamers;
we are as ancient
as we are unborn,
and between peals
of silence
you will find us
tuning up
to sound
the dawn.
Remember me
to the
ease of light,
its pause
and passage,
we
are not long
for this earth,
which swallows
us,
and our lovetagged
bones,
as a matter
of natural course
and radical recomposition,
all the gifts,
and hopes unwound
like a carnival of kites
in a ghostfaced sky,
must be returned,
it is part of the deal,
the equalizer
that rivets
the wonder wheel
to its own cyclical surge
and motion,
and I, bearing the privilege
of passenger,
for what amounts
to a split second
between
God’s inhale
and exhale,
cannot help
but air
my epitaph,
with the utmost
gratitude
and reverence,
for every dream
that held me bated
and green,
for every sweetness
and sorrow
that carved my interior
into a well-lighted cathedral,
where basking became
my truest art
and devotion.
Posted in Poetry, Uncategorized
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Tagged epitaph, God, gratitude, John Biscello, Light, poem, remember, reverence, soul, spirit
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Excepting the lines,
a sated merger, bonding
human to divine.
(Constantin Brancusi’s “Kiss”)
Posted in Poetry, Uncategorized
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Tagged Brancusi, embrace, haiku, John Biscello, kiss, love, man and woman, passion, poem, sculpture
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slow
beating
ache
keeping
time
to breaking
lore
and softcore
myth
rising
to tease
and strip
heaven’s knee
of its skin
my god
yes
spit
and blood
and light
and yes
remixed
to teach
you
and me
what angels
be like
when fucking.
Above all else,
(she told me,
her smile a glowing sickle)
dignity and grace,
for each and every soul
on this planet,
no one above,
no one below,
and everything
I mean everything
you truly need to know
you’ve already learned
a thousand times over
in the lighted prehistory
of your starstuff origins,
I’m talking slowbaked pat-a-cake
wisdom
in the throes
of eternal kindergarten,
so remember, kid,
when get things complicated,
muddy, kinked, or strained,
remember that
dignity and grace,
above all else,
are Love’s sacrosanct
twin flames,
and their union
the divine proof
and memory
of who we are
beyond mortal register
and forgotten claims.
Posted in Poetry, Uncategorized
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Tagged dignity, eternal, grace, John Biscello, love, poem, soul, spirit, wisdom, wise woman
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It’s strange
how you can miss someone
you’ve never met
as if the ache
bears a secret history
exclusive
to its own sense
of mystery
and rivet.
While the beauty
and magmic intensity
of Vesuvius
is something to behold
it pales
in comparison
to Pele’s
fire-lipped
swallowing
of entire islands
leaving a blanket
of hot ash
on a roiling sea
where men
sacrifice bleeding hearts
to the worship
and violent spread
of her legend
uncensored.
Posted in Poetry, Uncategorized
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Tagged fire, John Biscello, lava, love, nature, passion, pele, poem, romance, vesuvius
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John Biscello 