Tag Archives: passion

Gravity

Posted on May 13, 2018 by John Biscello

The only voice of hers I know is in my head, frozen to an untouched form, lying, bedwarmed, in gravity’s stead.

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Perigee

Posted on May 11, 2018 by John Biscello

It cannot be held in tongues, the veering arc of this perigee, ice-hot moon, rounded, throbbing to full, lightly crushing the sea’s glittering fount of lace.          

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Votive

Posted on May 11, 2018 by John Biscello

There she is, luscious votive to my jagged script, contours engaged to flesh out missive, sealed in hot wax, lightly scented.    

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Dare

Posted on May 9, 2018 by John Biscello

Shelling, till hips grafted a wild rush of air, bone rubbing against empty, this flint, improvising a dare.    

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Twine

Posted on May 9, 2018 by John Biscello

Stars, numinous beads and cursive drag of ghostlight outerwear, how God models etheric bling, and jazz, to catch the breath and flammable fancy of lovers, innocent by turns, falling, softly, softly, in twining burning pairs.

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Froth

Posted on May 8, 2018 by John Biscello

There was pulsing, and founting, the sea caked around her ankles like silky ribbons of froth. It was just a dream, but still I found her, throbbing through dawn.

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Holy

Posted on May 8, 2018 by John Biscello

Unbridled, the holy seethe, touching upon lips, to reinvent the kiss as barest gospel.

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Breeze

Posted on May 8, 2018 by John Biscello

It was the way she danced with words when no one was looking, the slant and tease, fastening my burn to the summer dress spelling out her form to my fingers, their covet to brand and possess, breezing lightly the … Continue reading →

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Hide

Posted on May 8, 2018 by John Biscello

I am guilty of having poured too many words on top, too many phrases turned to silver coins massaged into the gaping eternity of palms, I have done my best to imitate the rain, and have failed, but how fucking … Continue reading →

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Brink

Posted on May 8, 2018 by John Biscello

Her hips, bladed just so, moved sharply in sync to the slothful slake of honey, slowpoured to christen the edge and brink of longing. Lazy Sundays between her thighs were my favorite holidays away from me in the nearest heaven … Continue reading →

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