Upon Closer Examination

Posted on July 23, 2022 by John Biscello

There is a slow burn to holy. The headwaters of holy froth and burble and fizz and speak scandalously in serpent’s alabaster tongues. Do not mistake symbols for metaphors. Do not mistake doors for exits. Your dreams need not possess the alleged notions of rhyme and reason … they possess the lore of magnetism. Lore is law. When it comes to the nature of myth, reality of metaphor, the songlife in all things moving. Lore is law.

The eyeless angels walked upon the earth once upon a time. Once upon a time is now, always. Now-always the eyeless angels gave us light, storied the code of light directly into our palms, an engraved tablature of light and all its historyless contained in the palms of our hands.

Yes, the secret to life is in the palms of your hands. Yours.

The eyeless angels are equivalent to source citation.

How to find the language that speaks beyond? That truly translates the inner, the essence? Ah, the challenges of quest. Some say the foolhardy challenges of quest. I say the foolhearty challenges of quest. Foolhearty.

It takes a certain kind of foolhearty to undertake the trials of quest, don’t you think?

Light, historyless, exists in the palms of your hands, yours…

Can’t you see? Feel? The eyeless angels rejoice and cry in unison … beneath the veneer, the liquid voices of visions, of placeless altars, the merciful meek with their rightly tuned ears … to listen, broken open to listen, broken open to see … to see what the eyeless angels … you are the eyes of the eyeless angels, can’t you see?

You have always been the eyes of the eyeless angels.

The secret to life, which is not secret all, it is hidden in plain sight, in the palms of your hands … historyless, light, in the palms of your hands … you, now-always, are the eyes of the eyeless angels, you are the force of all things moving, you the phenomenal intermediary between dust and starstuff, you…

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House of Mystery

Posted on July 23, 2022 by John Biscello

In the house of mystery, dreamers enter the fold. It is a world of myriads. Of what-ifs. Undulating layers. In the house of mystery, expect no answers. None are forthcoming. In the house of mystery, dreamers will experience cataclysmic inversions. Your world will be shaken up. Your world.

In the house of mystery, there are no mirrors. Yet, everywhere, reflections. You do not know which reflections belong to you, which belong to others. It is a sorting out process. A sifting. Remember: no answers. Still, you sort. You sift. It feels important to determine who or what is the source of these reflections.

 The house of mystery is lots of things. Its ambitions and the forms it assumes depends on the dreamer. It is a labyrinth. A sarcophagus. Deep, dark woods. Imagine going into a basement, and there, expecting that you will still be inside a house, the house which you imagined was connected to the basement, but no, you feel the cold air, you sense the night (the way the night grows multitudes of fingers that play broken rhythms on your skin, softly, softly) … you have descended into a basement only to come out in deep, dark woods.

Then you remember her eyes. They were the same deep dark green as the forest. Her eyes were the green of fables. Of fairy tales. You know she is motherless and fatherless, the nameless intermediary and fragile constitution between the moon and tides.

In the house of mystery, no answers, never answers, yet there is knowing. There are revelations. Uncoverings. You already know. You made a pact with the Sphinx centuries ago. Silence favors its motives. Ring a bell?

You have never left this place. Do not let your incarnation fool you. The illusions which prove the greatest threat to understanding are your own. Don’t fall for your own bullshit. The house of mystery requires no mirrors. Mirrors are liars. They prevaricate. It is the nature of the mirror to do so. Naturally, organically, the mirror misleads. It diverts. There are mirrors that are not mirrors at all, they are bewitching pools, or so they have been called, but they were issued the negative connotation of “bewitching” because people grew to fear looking within … in that way.

The house of mystery brings you back. It gives you a chance. It knows that imagination is mostly daring, and innocence. With daring and innocence you can see a lot. You can perceive with clearer clarity.

Trust no mirrors. Especially the ones that project themselves as absolute, or correct … the final word. The house of mystery will always be there, mirrorless and without answers. It is the temple for dreamers and mystics. Dare to enter, innocently.  

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Best Ghost and Audio

Posted on July 22, 2022 by John Biscello

I have to be careful. This business of old tapes, new tapes. There is responsibility involved. Stewardship. Care. Consideration. You cannot be a headless D.J. If you cut off the D.J.’s head and expect him to be able to communicate his music with fluency … well, you’ve got another thing coming.

There are old tapes. It is not your voice on the old tapes. Or, I should say, voices. Though, after having listened to those tapes over and over and over again, a distorting overlay occurs, creating an aural switcheroo, and you believe the voices you are hearing are your own. All the voices: you. Or so you think/hear. And so, in believing that it is you speaking to you, the audio then becomes gospel (in the same way that pop radio becomes candy gospel), you believe in what they say, and you have substituted “they” for “you” and that is where the danger lies.

In a sea of raging voices and audio, silence will be your best ghost, your greatest ally and helpmate. Do your best to remember that. Anyway, the tapes … after awhile, after years of listening, you may forget you are listening to tapes. You may start to believe that you are listening to the inner you, that these are messages arising organically, and that is when what you hear on the tapes assumes the mantle of truth. Again, therein lies a great danger, a threat and peril to your deepest sovereignty.

I understand that you want to give time to old tapes. That you are a keeper of catalogs. But, and you should do what you want, what you feel, but if one day you choose to burn down the entire audio archive, you have my blessing. Oh, and another thing: new tapes. Make new tapes. I’m talking about brand new tapes. Listen to those brand-new tapes and allow them to become the new old tapes in your life. The new tapes will become old tapes. The old tapes will become less relevant. Create new mixes, experiment with sound and tone, generate reams of audio touched with zest, curiosity, abandon. Rewrite your audio history and future. While keeping mind that silence, your best ghost waiting in the darkened wings, favors its own motives.

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Venus Infers

Posted on July 6, 2022 by John Biscello

Venus rising

in frothy lace petticoats

and sunkissed pearls,

the seawear of golden seduction,

and I, a lone comma

pulsing within the voluptuous grammar

of the ocean,

I, a conjugal apprentice

and disciple to all things

invoking beauty to rapture.

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P.S.

Posted on July 5, 2022 by John Biscello

With tenderest regards to everything,

to everything,

we are a hymnal species of kissing cousins,

from amoeba to Moses

to the stunning narwhal,

our sea tongues have touched upon

the lush symmetry and limitless vibrato

of a daringly molecular burlesque.

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Lucent

Posted on July 4, 2022 by John Biscello
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Slippers

Posted on July 2, 2022 by John Biscello

The world has become an enormous mouth.

Or a senile teenager fumbling with a fire sale chemistry set.

Silence, and solitude,

arouse their favored ebb

within the subtle gloam of twilight.

Twilight is a meek and intrepid lover,

an inscrutable pair of slippers

softening your steps as you cross

from one passage to the next, to the next,

where lost hours seed and seduce your invictus

into an exponentially stunning fade.

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Twilight

Posted on June 30, 2022 by John Biscello

Twilight is seductively meek.

Every day, at day’s end,

it inherits the earth

through valentine quivers

and softcore volitions of symmetry—

the sky, at its supple mercy,

bruises so easily,

pale liminal purple

adoring the tenderest wounds

between lovers merging nightly.

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Citation

Posted on June 30, 2022 by John Biscello

Tablatures of light

engraved in your palms

by eyeless angels

once upon a time

when yes was yes

and waves were forms

serve as source citation

while hosting vividly the fact

that your hands are the temples

which can be entered any time you’d like

no eye tests

or slow burn required.

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For Melody’s Sake

Posted on June 24, 2022 by John Biscello

It is a call, a calling.

Lost voices committing mutiny

to service seasons unknown—

Strange wingless angels

of mercy and memory,

the blue ones,

sounding the call, a calling.

Melody hosts its own discipline,

and we, the fragile disciples of music

and night blooming,

engrave this on the settlements of our bones.

Our bones, our bones seized and trembling,

as if gospel raised from zombies

among the centuries of metaphors roundly sown.

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