Tag Archives: dream

Unfinished

Posted on December 18, 2017 by John Biscello

There is an epitaph marking the life we have lived from the ones we have not. This is where I begin to separate the words from their cause, running on, unfinished, end to start.

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Innocence

Posted on December 18, 2017 by John Biscello

Blindly, blindly, blindly, she reaps every choice from my scythe and asking. I live with brute innocence and murder in her heart. I am not her child, I am her fiction, her sad fable and paling wrath.

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Glean

Posted on December 18, 2017 by John Biscello

It came to me, a pensive glean, a vision. Tomorrowtime when we, the Inners, will no longer just be metaphysical whispers  or codified concepts. Tomorrowtime when the Outers will have found the means to extrapolate us, to call us into … Continue reading →

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Plaything

Posted on December 18, 2017 by John Biscello

Wafting from afar, the intimate rumor of a divine toy, a cryptic plaything, implications in tow. A tonic and pacifier of blank rages; buoy and anti-freeze to sudden plunges into sub-zero climate. These conditions cannot be bested, but they can … Continue reading →

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Dance

Posted on December 16, 2017 by John Biscello

I get so sleepy and restless and roiled and charged. If only they knew what they called world was simply a clusterfuck of particles dreaming of dance partners.

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Arclight

Posted on December 16, 2017 by John Biscello

Bidden by tatters, and gravity’s mutable arc, the palpitations guide me. They are subtle, duly engaged, a milk-slow run of shivers. Bracing the rim, I peer out of cavedark: everything is sudden, color-soaked, a ferocious din and melt, fringed shawls … Continue reading →

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Pour

Posted on December 15, 2017 by John Biscello

So much light poured in, so much passive worth.

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Draft

Posted on December 15, 2017 by John Biscello

There are no mirrors here, yet everywhere I see myself, a bated draft of furls, each bearing the right to exist, and respire ably.

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The Writing Life

Posted on December 10, 2017 by John Biscello

Pen, referencing a glossary of soul, scratches out excess to clarify Eternity, finger-holds, tenuous at best, dignify the mount of a marvelously impossible task.

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Retreat

Posted on November 23, 2017 by John Biscello

Perfectly still dog, robed in dust; birds, choral and bright, flutter and thrash in needle-comb trees; I, this side of dream, trespass lightly.

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