Tag Archives: poem

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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Word/Less

Posted on May 9, 2018 by John Biscello

Where words fail, empty husks grifting air to blush, my tongue found the clefted hollow between her neck and shoulder, warm run of shivers, novel to the slip and touch.  

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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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Bliss

Posted on May 8, 2018 by John Biscello

To follow your bliss you must kiss your demons squarely on their mouths lancing their sealed lips with a flaming tongue perpetrating tango between worlds where love consumes every last thorny bit.

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Treaty

Posted on May 8, 2018 by John Biscello

The warring, within, ended. No one won. White flags, adorning the masts of souls, became the rage and pacific vogue. Ghosts kissed demons, demons kissed children, children blew kisses into the air, christening echoes. I woke up, sudden to my … Continue reading →

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Lisp

Posted on May 8, 2018 by John Biscello

Writing, some kind of lisp, and stutter, to chance God’s breath, as your own, to cherish.

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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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Torn

Posted on May 8, 2018 by John Biscello

All the pearly angels, torn, and wept, like so much confetti in a storm, papering a small world, where heaven closed off to rapt, and cherish got hopelessly lost.

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