Tag Archives: lust

Kiss

Posted on June 3, 2018 by John Biscello

In the resident smolder of lips, a seared prelude, announcing blatant recourse to the sheerest intent.    

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Ghostlight

Posted on June 2, 2018 by John Biscello

It could be like this. Early morning, light milkpooling at the edges of your bed, dawnfrost bleaching your bare feet and subtly wriggling toes softly phantom, and I follow the erogenous ghost past your shins, to the rounded pate of … Continue reading →

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Romanticism 101

Posted on May 27, 2018 by John Biscello

If I were there right there goggle-eyed and flame-pawed between her legs and she began secreting the deepest most lucid mirrors and glaze of honey waft of orange blossoms crushed and enmeshed in heavy musk would that appease my hunger … Continue reading →

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Sintax

Posted on May 26, 2018 by John Biscello

There’s nothing sexier than a girl undressing in cursive to reveal the curves and loops of pure language squeezing every last drop from metaphor to exalt and fondle the core of similes standing in for skin and fire and other … Continue reading →

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Portense

Posted on May 18, 2018 by John Biscello

By fever, and sappy resin, proof positive that bodies, in thorny solder, invent new ways for souls to portend and commit arson.    

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She

Posted on May 18, 2018 by John Biscello

She, the wrinkled pool of lusty glaze and somatic charge, of aural bouquets teasing cherry-bled sound and fragrance from whetted lips, fasting to shape a comely beckon, moon-fed by dark.

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Mend

Posted on May 14, 2018 by John Biscello

To possess, in eyes leveling a raised smolder, here, there are no rules or fences, only a blatant running of stitches to the sun’s sheerest mend.

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Whet

Posted on April 22, 2018 by John Biscello

It’s funny how lust secretes its stories through text whetting metaphors.

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Initiate

Posted on April 22, 2018 by John Biscello

It was only when her thighs caught fire that he began to understand the laws of arson as practiced by goddesses imitating sirens.

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Satyr

Posted on April 19, 2018 by John Biscello

I found him, wanting, satyr’s swell of thorny play– fondling fresh, green grass.

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