Tag Archives: poem

Darwin Didn’t Do This

Posted on July 23, 2018 by John Biscello

In the name of indigenous graphing, I, delegating tongue for the task at hand, would like to explore, catalog and classify every species of scent and taste flavoring her body, not overlooking a single derelict fraction, or remote hint blushing … Continue reading →

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Bewitchment

Posted on July 23, 2018 by John Biscello

She exceled through the spread of rumpled longing, her eyes, vimming crushed flecks and chocolate sprinkles of sorcery, she bewitched, darling to the pretty mouth that spoke sudden violets, stilled in wilding fire and perish.  

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Runoff, or, Here There Be Tigers

Posted on July 22, 2018 by John Biscello

My desire, running the length of corridors, unwitnessed, untouched, smoldering in resident ancient bake– Here there be tigers, clawing at the sun’s scorching midriff, gutting the fame from light, until there is no longer any difference between molten blood and … Continue reading →

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Un-Cover-Girl

Posted on July 22, 2018 by John Biscello

It was the length of her longing, the startling pinkness and volume of its expenditure, that lent the moon its covetous curves and fringes, to be uncovered.  

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Dive Bar

Posted on July 22, 2018 by John Biscello

To have and to hold and to let go, repeatedly, breathing lessons for skin divers in mortal dread of sea changes.

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Dreamlife for the Living

Posted on July 22, 2018 by John Biscello

It is really just one long dream interrupted in thorny intervals by fictions that we mistake for realities, the single white feather floating like a tangible sliver of breath on the river’s cyclical surface tells you all you need to … Continue reading →

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Haikuless

Posted on July 21, 2018 by John Biscello

Moondrip down her thighs– No haikus can cover this mystical turn-on.

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Such Sweet: A Savage’s Manual

Posted on July 21, 2018 by John Biscello

To break the company of skin, with new conscienceless teeth, the animal and the moon drip hot evenly in parting unison.

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Mmmm

Posted on July 21, 2018 by John Biscello

There is need beyond words for which my tongue, engaged to the slow-burning loll and bib of cherry wet, demands immediate exact placement of her body as an open-flowered storm of scent and rapture, a fragrant tumble, unlettered, ribbed silence … Continue reading →

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Stones, Passing

Posted on July 19, 2018 by John Biscello

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 →

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