Tag Archives: John Biscello

Photograph

Posted on October 7, 2020 by John Biscello

Where was I then, or better yet, who? All night long I listen to the edges of old photographs brushing against the delicate contours of memory, and thank god for windows and doors. #30 from Untitled Film Poems Image by … Continue reading →

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In Her Solitude

Posted on October 7, 2020 by John Biscello

Chafing, with matted scales of light, became the cinematic measures by which her solitude was visaged and defined. #29 from Untitled Film Poems Image by Cindy Sherman

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Dim

Posted on October 7, 2020 by John Biscello

There is a tiredness which sleep cannot cure; there is a life, undimmed, surging unprotected beyond these walls. #28 from Untitled Film Poems Image by Cindy Sherman

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Stalking

Posted on October 7, 2020 by John Biscello

To become a vagrant to the territory of one’s own self, requires the right kind of corridor, an elliptical sense of fugue, and footfalls which softly echo a stalker’s unmitigated pursuit. #27-B from Untitled Film Poems Image by Cindy Sherman

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Moonshine

Posted on October 7, 2020 by John Biscello

It had been a night to forget, many were. She blamed the moon, because it was there, a mocking bauble belonging to someone else’s idea of munificent and festive. The scraping at the back of her brain would stop any … Continue reading →

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Deposed

Posted on October 7, 2020 by John Biscello

It was a wrong turn, modeling a cobbled geography of hell, that led her down and away from the sorceress she had been once upon a time in someone else’s kingdom of rape and vampires. #26 from Untitled Film Poems … Continue reading →

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Travel Plans

Posted on October 6, 2020 by John Biscello

Had she done the right thing? And by right thing what or whose standards was she applying to measure the moral correctness or lack thereof of what she had done? She had grown sick and tired of considering every angle … Continue reading →

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Reel

Posted on October 6, 2020 by John Biscello

No matter how many times she played it over and over in her mind she couldn’t for the life of her digest the magnitude of what had been taken and why. #24 from Untitled Film Poems Image by Cindy Sherman

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Butter and Arson

Posted on October 6, 2020 by John Biscello

Perhaps, in a hundred years, none of this would matter— the man across the street would just be a man and not her husband holding hands with that bitch from 5-C who had the nerve to knock on their door … Continue reading →

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Steppingstone

Posted on October 6, 2020 by John Biscello

She had played dress-up to echo the life without— At twilight, she’d shed. #22 from Untitled Film Poems Image by Cindy Sherman

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