Tag Archives: poem

Vellum

Posted on April 11, 2018 by John Biscello

At vellum’s core, pink, parsing the grammar of lips, to trespass, lightly.

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Morning

Posted on April 11, 2018 by John Biscello

Scars worn out to fade, old records played in small hours– Dreams chased by morning.

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Bath

Posted on April 11, 2018 by John Biscello

Sun, drizzling pink onto the rim of the tub– Lady, soaked, warms up.

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Knead

Posted on April 10, 2018 by John Biscello

From hips to belly, the distance between longing and bare knead, swelling.

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Prelude

Posted on April 10, 2018 by John Biscello

Small, slow kiss, followed by lips mowing soft petals– How to eat a rose.

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Sacrament

Posted on April 10, 2018 by John Biscello

The tenderest shoots, she offered as nuptials– Blood, green to the touch.    

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John Fante

Posted on April 8, 2018 by John Biscello

Inferiority might have been your first memory. Though you were born on American soil, Denver, CO, April 8th, 1909, the chinked chains of immigration had you by the throat and bowels, pinched your nerves as you butted your head against … Continue reading →

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Sylvia Plath

Posted on April 4, 2018 by John Biscello

To be a mother, and to double as a dark sorceress, a cleaver of dried bones, could not have been easy. Especially in the 1950s. They burned witches then, as well as reds and blacks and faggots, and other things … Continue reading →

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Growing Young

Posted on April 2, 2018 by John Biscello

I want to grow young with you, she said. It made perfect sense. People had it all wrong. You don’t grow old, your body, this borrowed vessel, it withers and ages and decays, your body grows old, your brain grows … Continue reading →

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Juice

Posted on March 29, 2018 by John Biscello

Slow kind of winter, Spring, mainlining taproot juice, hastens light to mold.

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