John Biscello

Dateline

Posted on August 20, 2017 by John Biscello

Perishable pink,

sound of music in flowers–

Grace, noted, dates well.

Posted in Poetry, Uncategorized | Tagged audrey hepburn, calendar girls, flowers, grace, haiku, John Biscello, natalie portman, pink, poem | Leave a comment

Reboot

Posted on August 20, 2017 by John Biscello

Another Red Dawn

or Day of the Living Dead?

Shit, old scripts die hard.

Posted in Artwork, Poetry, Uncategorized | Tagged anxiety, Cinema, edvard munch, haiku, John Biscello, Literary, poem, Poetry, reboot | Leave a comment

Fur

Posted on August 20, 2017 by John Biscello

Runaway model

on Heaven’s 7th catwalk–

Go to tell, PETA.

Posted in Artwork, Poetry, Uncategorized | Tagged anne siems, fairy tale, gothic, Heaven, hell, John Biscello, PETA, poem, Poetry, wolf, wolf girl | Leave a comment

Little Red

Posted on August 20, 2017 by John Biscello

To clearly separate fiction from fact:

Little Red ran,

not in terror, but to grab an ax

from the back of her well-stocked shed–

the Wolf, as you can plainly see,

never stood a chance

against Little Red’s

darker twin, Wrath,

who hell hath claims

as the mother of invention.

Posted in Artwork, Poetry, Uncategorized | Tagged anne siems, big bad wolf, fairy tale, gothic, John Biscello, little red riding hood, myth, poem, Poetry | Leave a comment

Anne Sexton

Posted on August 20, 2017 by John Biscello

AnneSexton

In a ballroom gown,

the suicide was delayed–

Beauty, will you stay?

Posted in Poetry, Uncategorized | Tagged anne sexton, ballroom gown, Beauty, haiku, John Biscello, poem, poet, Poetry, tragedy | Leave a comment

Entry

Posted on August 20, 2017 by John Biscello

You cannot have her,

many women in one cloak–

split down the middle?

Posted in Poetry, Uncategorized | Tagged anais nin, cloak, diary, entry, haiku, John Biscello, photo, poem, Poetry | Leave a comment

Anais’s Verizon Plan

Posted on August 20, 2017 by John Biscello

anais and henry

With a diarist’s intimacy and candor,

Anais composed her dawnrise text to Henry

and then hit SEND,

grateful for the fast-flying

expedient breath

of a cellular technology

that had yet to be invented.

Posted in Poetry, Uncategorized | Tagged anais nin, cellular, diary, henry miller, John Biscello, love, poem, Poetry, text, verizon | Leave a comment

Adah Isaacs Menken, 1835-1868

Posted on August 20, 2017 by John Biscello

She, the Menken,

Byronic in flame

and force, mastered

the art of social media

long before technology caught up,

selling the illusion

of a man/

woman

bound naked to a horse;

she, the salacious Mazeppa,

incited a modern storm,

long before the 20th century caught up.

Posted in Poetry, Uncategorized | Tagged 19th century, adah isaacs menken, John Biscello, mazeppa, poem, Poetry, the menken | Leave a comment

Yellow

Posted on August 20, 2017 by John Biscello

Yellow encroaches

upon Jesus in grease-paint–

a solar eclipse.

Posted in Artwork, Poetry, Uncategorized | Tagged absinthe, clown, haiku, jesus, John Biscello, pierrot, poem, Poetry, solar eclipse | Leave a comment

Moliere Dreams of Noir

Posted on August 18, 2017 by John Biscello

It was a blue Monday

when she walked into my office,

flaming red and smoking green–

Drink this,

she said,

it will make you bigger–

it was then that I realized,

the gun in my pocket,

the stubs in the ashtray,

the debilitating hangover,

and the dream inside the head

wearing the fedora

didn’t belong to me,

the worst alarm buzzkill

being

a reality check-in

for an imaginary invalid.

Posted in Poetry, Uncategorized | Tagged absinthe, dreams, green fairy, invalid, John Biscello, la fee verte, moliere, noir, poem, Poetry, poster | Leave a comment

Perishable pink,

sound of music in flowers–

Grace, noted, dates well.

Another Red Dawn

or Day of the Living Dead?

Shit, old scripts die hard.

Runaway model

on Heaven’s 7th catwalk–

Go to tell, PETA.

To clearly separate fiction from fact:

Little Red ran,

not in terror, but to grab an ax

from the back of her well-stocked shed–

the Wolf, as you can plainly see,

never stood a chance

against Little Red’s

darker twin, Wrath,

who hell hath claims

as the mother of invention.

In a ballroom gown,

the suicide was delayed–

Beauty, will you stay?

You cannot have her,

many women in one cloak–

split down the middle?

With a diarist’s intimacy and candor,

Anais composed her dawnrise text to Henry

and then hit SEND,

grateful for the fast-flying

expedient breath

of a cellular technology

that had yet to be invented.

She, the Menken,

Byronic in flame

and force, mastered

the art of social media

long before technology caught up,

selling the illusion

of a man/

woman

bound naked to a horse;

she, the salacious Mazeppa,

incited a modern storm,

long before the 20th century caught up.

Yellow encroaches

upon Jesus in grease-paint–

a solar eclipse.

It was a blue Monday

when she walked into my office,

flaming red and smoking green–

Drink this,

she said,

it will make you bigger–

it was then that I realized,

the gun in my pocket,

the stubs in the ashtray,

the debilitating hangover,

and the dream inside the head

wearing the fedora

didn’t belong to me,

the worst alarm buzzkill

being

a reality check-in

for an imaginary invalid.

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