Tag Archives: poem

Not a Sonnet

Posted on June 6, 2018 by John Biscello

I can go on. Sometimes you fall off the edge of a sentence and find another one waiting for you there, like the billowcushy arms of a cloud-woman, or keenly lighted wraith, and you can go on, holding hands with … Continue reading →

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Cask

Posted on June 6, 2018 by John Biscello

It was, in a state of psychic undress, where I found I wanted to reveal, more than to confess, scoring a litany of wounds, and bruised valentines, to the expectant cask of woman’s fired dawn, beyond reproof, and failsafe fronts.

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Milk & Angels

Posted on June 6, 2018 by John Biscello

Slotted between worlds, a living wake, whitefulness encroaching like a milkspreading cape of ocean, the requisite baffle and glare, It must be the angels riding in mounted on Mercy, you think, and you wait for them to turn the corner, … Continue reading →

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Splint

Posted on June 5, 2018 by John Biscello

We were there, the enormity of lust, like a ten-ton elephant keeping us company in a crawlspace big enough to fit one small child, if even that. We were there, hemmed in by the impossible, telling the shadows to keep … Continue reading →

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Shed

Posted on June 5, 2018 by John Biscello

It was the way she talked about rain pouring down from between her thighs like liquid snakes bottomless in their appetite for razors and new skin that made me think and think again about shedding through the slake of fire.

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Vein

Posted on June 5, 2018 by John Biscello

The infections that get inside you and start singing are the hardest ones to cure because you and your addict crave more and more strong music to mainline into your tenderest vein en route to cave-in.

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Room Service

Posted on June 4, 2018 by John Biscello

Love, in its ripest season and deepest proof, does not steal or seize your breath, but rather brings more oxygen and room in which to breathe.

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Of Dogs & Gods

Posted on June 4, 2018 by John Biscello

I’d like to be the kind of person my soul knows I am.

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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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Lull

Posted on June 3, 2018 by John Biscello

Sometimes, even the light, in its radiant parry and thrust, needs to be laid down, in order to receive, openly, the starried lull of brokenness.

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