Tag Archives: poem

The Wonder Years

Posted on November 29, 2018 by John Biscello

There is no cure, no failsafe remedy that can be bought and sold, bargained or commissioned, from without– You must become first best mate to your own soul, and you, like the voyage, may find a course aligned to the … Continue reading →

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Hello, Goodbye

Posted on November 28, 2018 by John Biscello

The day she traded her worn cross for a feather the air kissed the light.

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It’s a Wonderful Life: An Anthology

Posted on November 28, 2018 by John Biscello

My holiest intent is to do my best to enjoy the hell out of this specific incarnation, its quirks and foibles, challenges and riches, as I fully invest in playing John Biscello for a short while, before identity melts and … Continue reading →

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What We Talk About When We Talk About Fire

Posted on November 28, 2018 by John Biscello

By carnal I mean tearing pulpy flesh from the moon dipping it in kersosene then the match the fire between your legs as the sound of sirens thrill and enlighten us to the possibilites that A) We will be saved … Continue reading →

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Marvel Universe

Posted on November 27, 2018 by John Biscello

There is a level of insistence, a shivering drumbeat, that comes with being who you are, exactly, upon this earth, fractures and all. It is the very bones of existential jazz, its jonesing and felicity, and the greatest most supple … Continue reading →

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The Gospel According to Skin

Posted on November 27, 2018 by John Biscello

Today I woke to the pulsing ribbed memory of that night you wore nothing except a knotted bodice of white flags, and my mouth, prey to your body’s religion, submitted gospel as a savage flagrant reform to amen.

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Every Breath You Take, the Remix

Posted on November 26, 2018 by John Biscello

By revolving gradations of blue I have loved you, have sunken to airless depths trying to breathe you in, every dammed bubble sealing the green of memory in a small forever place where cherish is softened by reams of fading … Continue reading →

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Alms

Posted on November 26, 2018 by John Biscello

There is something about the holiest seethe that keeps us golden-green migrant beggars, bartering stigmata for leavened alms to persist, this side of dreaming.  

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Lip Reading

Posted on November 26, 2018 by John Biscello

Kissing, where the vibrato slug of tongue plugs in to electrical temporal heaven for a singed sprint through molten puddles.

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Instructions on How to Use a Blade

Posted on November 26, 2018 by John Biscello

To ask how deep is not the right question of the blade, but rather, how much moon, if any, is reflected in the silver of your teeth when piercing skin to venerate pink?

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