Tag Archives: fragment

Strange Angels

Posted on August 10, 2022 by John Biscello

The days fly into the blue and disappear, and your mind, in its memory-making, contains the disappeared days as film archive. I want to set fire to the archive. Burn all the films. Watch the celluloid twist and incinerate. I … Continue reading →

Posted in Poetry, Prose | Tagged , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Metronome

Posted on August 10, 2022 by John Biscello

It doesn’t take much to become days of mourning. This world provides plenty of opportunities to convert one into days of mourning. Then days of mourning becomes weeks of mourning. Months of mourning. Years. But it begins with days of … Continue reading →

Posted in Poetry, Prose | Tagged , , , , , , | Leave a comment

In the Catacombs of Grief

Posted on August 10, 2022 by John Biscello

In the catacombs of grief, she wandered. She wandered, without thirst, without hunger. This frightened her. Had she lost her basic humanity? Why had she created such elaborate labyrinths? Say that ten times fast, she said to herself. At least … Continue reading →

Posted in Poetry, Prose | Tagged , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Come Wander With Me

Posted on August 9, 2022 by John Biscello

She, from a young age, understood that she possessed an interiority complex. That, no matter where she went, all roads lead back to herself, to the worlds within.    I don’t exist out there, not really. Out there, I am … Continue reading →

Posted in Poetry, Prose | Tagged , , , , , | Leave a comment

Girl on a Bike

Posted on August 5, 2022 by John Biscello

   I bike through the swirling dust. The dust pinches my skin. The dust is cinematic. It seems, nowadays, everything is cinematic. Novels, TV, reality, cinema … dust. We have become cinemanesthasized. We are in a trance. How long will … Continue reading →

Posted in Poetry, Prose | Tagged , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Cherry’s Eyes

Posted on August 5, 2022 by John Biscello

   Cherry went to the strip club just because. Just because she had heard things about strip clubs. Just because the strip club belonged to fathomless caves and Cherry was motivated to spelunk.    Cherry, new-old upon this earth, would … Continue reading →

Posted in Poetry, Prose | Tagged , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Balloon and Jukebox

Posted on August 4, 2022 by John Biscello

She would name the balloon Clarice. She always thought she should have been named Clarice. Perhaps in another life. Clarice was yellow. She decided that Clarice should go on a journey. She would open the window and let her out. … Continue reading →

Posted in Poetry, Prose | Tagged , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Blue Jukebox

Posted on August 2, 2022 by John Biscello

She passed through the beads dangling in the doorway. Echoes of beads rattling, like glassy cricket bones crunched, her moving forward, stopping at the counter, men’s heads turning, as if on rubbery swivels, none say a word, wordless the men … Continue reading →

Posted in Poetry, Prose | Tagged , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

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 … Continue reading →

Posted in Prose | Tagged , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Father, I

Posted on February 12, 2018 by John Biscello

   I’ve been waiting for you to exist, I say to my father, even though he is not there.    What?    I’ve been waiting for you to exist, to become real. Me too.    What the hell are you … Continue reading →

Posted in Prose, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment