Tag Archives: John Biscello

Poolside

The water listened to the girl disappear and hissed. It was a warning that no one should try and follow her, every last fragment now belonged to incalculable depths. She was safe from trespass and further fracturing.     (Photo … Continue reading

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Paper Trail

Completed draft of my new novel, No Man’s Brooklyn. A return to childhood, to the source of ghosts, to Brooklyn roots.

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Sublime

The mouth, birthing a migrant kiss, begs gravity’s pardon in raising lips to a sublime arc.

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Indelible

To ebb, the startling clarity of a stolen kiss sentenced to null and ghost, to lips indelibly parted then closed.

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Enclosure

Sometimes, it is just a marginal thatch of shadow slivering a cheek, or the rounded vowel of dimple puckering brazenly a bare knee, or the laser surgery performed on my small, fearful history, by a stray, smoldering gaze, it could … Continue reading

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Bonepick

I tell myself stories in the dark, Anya. Whether or not they help is either of primary consequence or none at all. Sometimes you have to walk through the boneyard in order to reach the garden. This what I tell … Continue reading

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Soma

It is, at winter’s finite edge, that we glean the bent, palsied bloom, somatic in its turn toward Spring’s inevitable host.  

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Gauge

If, in words I found you wanting, lean to perish, would silence bestow a second, surer opinion?

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Gist

The manic blush and titter of young love is no serum nor mirage, but rather the gist of bloom martyred so soon to thorns.

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Bask

Rapt, in gratitude, the writer fasting on silence, and slimmest wisps, to gain Beauty’s favor and superlative bask, beyond recognition.  

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