Shelling,
till hips grafted
a wild rush of air,
bone rubbing
against
empty,
this flint,
improvising a dare.
Stars,
numinous beads
and cursive drag
of ghostlight outerwear,
how God models
etheric bling,
and jazz,
to catch the breath
and flammable fancy
of lovers,
innocent by turns,
falling,
softly, softly,
in twining
burning pairs.
Posted in Poetry, Uncategorized
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Tagged cosmos, dream, God, John Biscello, lovers, night, passion, poem, sky, Stars
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Where words fail,
empty husks
grifting air to blush,
my tongue
found the clefted hollow
between her neck
and shoulder,
warm run of shivers,
novel to the slip
and touch.
Adore,
how a crush
closes in on
savored pink,
to split flames,
and corset
ribbed longing.
There was pulsing, and founting,
the sea caked around her ankles
like silky ribbons of froth.
It was just a dream,
but still I found her,
throbbing
through dawn.
Unbridled,
the holy seethe,
touching upon lips,
to reinvent the kiss
as barest gospel.
It was the way
she danced with words
when no one was looking,
the slant and tease,
fastening my burn
to the summer dress
spelling out her form
to my fingers,
their covet
to brand and possess,
breezing lightly
the thinnest air
between skin
and cloth.
To follow your bliss
you must kiss
your demons squarely
on their mouths
lancing their sealed lips
with a flaming tongue
perpetrating tango
between worlds
where love consumes
every
last
thorny
bit.
The warring, within,
ended. No one won.
White flags, adorning the masts of souls,
became the rage
and pacific vogue.
Ghosts kissed demons,
demons kissed children,
children blew kisses
into the air, christening echoes.
I woke up,
sudden to my existence,
how it fit too tight,
and cried through the back of my skull.
It was a beginning.
Writing,
some kind of lisp,
and stutter,
to chance God’s breath,
as your own,
to cherish.
