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Meta
Bewitchment
She exceled
through the spread
of rumpled longing,
her eyes,
vimming
crushed flecks
and chocolate sprinkles
of sorcery,
she bewitched,
darling
to the pretty mouth
that spoke sudden violets,
stilled in
wilding fire
and perish.
Runoff, or, Here There Be Tigers
My desire,
running the length
of corridors, unwitnessed,
untouched, smoldering
in resident ancient bake–
Here there be tigers,
clawing at the sun’s
scorching midriff,
gutting the fame
from light,
until there is
no longer
any difference
between molten blood
and golden dust,
here there be angels,
purpling
and interlocked
in God’s double image
of cherish,
engendered by words
running wildly off.
Posted in Poetry, Uncategorized
Tagged angelplay, here there be tigers, John Biscello, poem, romancing the cone, sunstruck, wax on wax off
7 Comments
Un-Cover-Girl
It was
the length of her longing,
the startling pinkness
and volume of
its expenditure,
that lent the moon
its covetous curves
and fringes,
to be uncovered.
Posted in Poetry, Uncategorized
Tagged cover-up and down, erotease, John Biscello, love, moonstuff, poem, re-covering, uncover girl
7 Comments
Dreamlife for the Living
It is really
just one long dream
interrupted
in thorny intervals
by fictions that we mistake
for realities,
the single white feather
floating like a tangible
sliver of breath
on the river’s cyclical surface
tells you all you need to know,
not an arrogant, fact-totem
brand of knowing,
but the soul’s
unflagging gospel
and history,
crafted in a warm whisper
stretched across Time’s
enigmatic, half-smiling
lips,
initiating amen
endlessly.
Haikuless
Moondrip down her thighs–
No haikus can cover this
mystical turn-on.
Posted in Poetry, Uncategorized
Tagged celestial XXX, cosmic turn-on, girl: uncovered, haiku, haikuless, John Biscello, moondrip, poem, thighs on the prize
1 Comment
Such Sweet: A Savage’s Manual
To break the company
of skin,
with new
conscienceless
teeth,
the animal
and the moon
drip hot evenly
in parting unison.
Posted in Poetry, Uncategorized
Tagged animalism 101, excellent company: skin, fear and lusting in los luna, John Biscello, moondrip, poem, savage
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Mmmm
There is need
beyond words
for which my tongue,
engaged
to the
slow-burning
loll
and bib
of cherry
wet,
demands
immediate
exact placement
of her body
as an open-flowered
storm
of scent
and rapture,
a fragrant tumble,
unlettered,
ribbed silence
and screams,
the liminal, brute
language of
fuck
yes
and
please.
Posted in Poetry, Uncategorized
Tagged Desire, erotique, fuck yes, fuck yes again and again, holy wholly, John Biscello, poem, sloppy wet bib
2 Comments
Stones, Passing
At the carnival
I was most intrigued
by the stone-swallower.
A waifish bronze-skinned
lady with dark hair,
plaited, and slender
fingers.
I was rapt,
watching the way
she carefully arranged
the stones to form
a sort of pyramid
at her bare feet.
It was a dry
hot day, the crowd
around her
was not large.
Her act
did not provide
the shock
or over-the-top
sensationalism
that some of the
others did.
The crowds
surrounding
the fire-twirler,
sword-swallower,
and snake-charmer,
were much larger
and louder.
I preferred the quiet
solemn dignity with which this woman
conducted her ritual.
She held up a
slate-gray stone,
the size of a small fist,
and slowly rotated it
like the magician telling us,
nothing up my sleeve,
and placed it in
her mouth.
She tilted her head
back and you could see
the stone
setting her throat
in relief
as she swallowed.
I thought of a snake
swallowing a rodent.
She repeated this
sixteen times,
sixteen stones swallowed,
and when she was done,
her pyramid of stones
disappeared, she
kneeled down
in the dirt
and kissed the ground
three times.
When she raised
her head
I saw that
her cheeks
were faintly clouded
with dust,
and light as it was,
I could tell
she was crying
because the wet
cut a clear trail
through the dust
on her cheeks.
She nodded, to us,
the audience, and left,
disappearing behind
the flap-doors of a
faded yellow tent
about fifty yards away.
The crowd around me
dispersed,
and I had a sense
that many of them
felt let down by what
they had witnessed.
The fire-twirler,
the sword-swallower,
the snake-charmer,
maybe one of those
would do the trick
for them.
I went to the spot
where the stone-swallower
had been, and kneeling down
saw the vague imprint
of lips
where she had kissed
the dirt.
I thought about
kissing the lips
she had left behind,
but didn’t.
I stared at
the dirt
for a while,
then had my trance
broken
when I
heard roaring
and applause
in the distance.
I looked up
and saw the fire-twirler
triumphantly holding
about a half-dozen
torches, his face both
animated and blurred
behind a screen
of heat and
smoke.
Posted in Poetry, Uncategorized
Tagged carnival, dreamlike, dust to dust, John Biscello, mystery girl, mysticism, open wide, poem, stone-honoring, stones, woman
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