Tag Archives: poem

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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Waltz

Posted on May 12, 2018 by John Biscello

On the night God went topless, and the nephilim performed a burlesque of Carmen, or perhaps it was the Wizard of Oz, the girl with the frosted tulips in her hair, and love song in her head, turned off the … Continue reading →

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Daughter, Mother

Posted on May 12, 2018 by John Biscello

Mother, without your touch, blood-lush access to eternity’s grasp, I am rudderless, and adrift, in a world that shits on innocence. ………………………………….. Daughter, without you to hold, a promise illumined into love’s totem, I am sunless, and moonless, a stray … Continue reading →

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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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Still Life w/ Selfie

Posted on May 11, 2018 by John Biscello

  How I, my ego-fiend-self, craves and wishes and desires to take ultimate credit for the words and poems attaching themselves to their mortal host, John Biscello, thinly grafted to his signature and persona, but deep down I understand all … Continue reading →

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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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The Source

Posted on May 11, 2018 by John Biscello

Their hearts, registered as infinite beacons, have gone gently and luminously into nights not so good and pitch-black, braving flytrap folds and god-awful rows to soothe, mend and restore the bruised vitals of daughters and sons; they go, infused with … Continue reading →

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Sculpt

Posted on May 10, 2018 by John Biscello

To sculpt, with just the right amount of brandish, and restraint, how you, art to your own crumble and chasten, exact marvel, slowly, at the Muse’s favored bidding.  

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Runes

Posted on May 10, 2018 by John Biscello

Hungry ghosts, gorging, moon-bellied, rending gristle from earthly scavenge— my god, these monsters and their appetites, swallowing illusions whole, to feed empty its runes of fire.

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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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