There was
pillowtalk in her eyes,
underscored
by her mouth’s
bated languour;
Sundays
curled in her lap
with feline ease,
slow jazz
dreams
on holiday,
whiskered
softly
between her thighs
and pinkest belly;
she wanted
nothing to do
with volume
or time,
shooed it away
with rolled-up bouquets
of prose and verses;
leave me
silently
stretched supine
in my quivering barest,
my bangingest squelch,
and come
to agonize
over me
in the bluest hours,
when light
hits the bruises
just so,
guiding your sunder
and crush,
as above,
so below.
She cried, guttural,
the slit
in her
pillowcase
harboring
years
of unheld yesses
and scented missives;
find me
here,
destitute,
sunproofed,
the girl
of bare knees
and forgotten dreams.
I like them
damaged,
closer to real,
the marrow in the blue void
that seals hymns
airtight,
narrow
interior
dancing
the hips
and thighs
to the gospel
according to arson,
the smolder
and bake
of flame-twisted
wicks,
I like
where the locks
meet the hinges,
and long to binge
on the aches,
to pick out
every piece
of glass
buried
in the annals of skin,
as if the mirror
that shattered
contained both
my history
and theirs,
I trace their annulments
with my fingers
and mouth
and pine
for what’s not there,
I
sign myself
to the ghosts
who swear
by their lives,
a medium’s
happy fetish
for haunting
where strangers
fear to tread.
Perfection,
this life’s greatest untruth
and maligner,
see how ice cream
summer-melts
and runs like
happy magma
down the ridged wonders
of a waffle cone
clutched by a child
like an edible prayer
destined to disappear,
one
bite
at a time,
the unbearable
lightness
of ice cream,
every tongue
feathering
its own heaven
to the sweet sweet
gospel
of perish.
Posted in Poetry, Uncategorized
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Tagged child, dream, gospel, Heaven, ice cream, ice cream you scream, John Biscello, love, melt, sensual
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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
|
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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