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Meta
Tag Archives: mysticism
Strange Angels
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 angels, blue ones, film arcehive, fragment, high priestess, mysticism, Prose
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Distance
People have called it the glow, the click, the hum, and for every abnormal drinker, for every addict, you are willing trade in everything for what amounts to a rigged facsimile of eternity. It is the sort of false eternity … Continue reading
Posted in Prose, Uncategorized
Tagged addiction, distance, Heaven, John Biscello, mysticism, no man's brooklyn, novel
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Stones, Passing
At the carnival I was most intrigued by the stone-swallower. A waifish bronze-skinned lady with dark hair, plaited, and slender fingers. I was rapt, watching the way she carefully arranged the stones to form a sort of pyramid at her … Continue reading
Posted in Poetry, Uncategorized
Tagged carnival, dreamlike, dust to dust, John Biscello, mystery girl, mysticism, open wide, poem, stone-honoring, stones, woman
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Childhood’s Wake
You can feel it in the air, a razory sheen, all the childhoods that were lost or stolen or seized or buried to model catacombs and secret lairs, are returning to the surface bigtime, the reclaimants growing new teeth and … Continue reading
Posted in Poetry, Uncategorized
Tagged Beauty, childhood, John Biscello, love, mysticism, poem, rebirth, self-expression, soul, spirit, what dreams may come
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Charred
I was there, nameless gluttony of charged particles, when the dream-trees were felled by alabaster whorls of lightning. From the siege I salvaged a charred branch, which became my staff, my walking stick, and I began to wander in search … Continue reading
Posted in Poetry, Uncategorized
Tagged devotion, dream-trees, gnostic, Hermit, invocation, John Biscello, lightning, love, mystic, mysticism, nature, particles, poem, Poetry, trees, wanderer
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Sleet
Scattered, like numinous sleet of commas, the faeries intimated bright shards of language, not yet discovered or long since forgotten.
Crayfish
Crayfish, obsidian, antennaed, slick with frothy scum as you crawl up from the brackish rim of a forgotten pond, my heart recalls you as an ancient mystic, an oracle of medicine, who needs not license nor recognition to exact vital … Continue reading
John Biscello 