Tag Archives: Poetry

Cocktail Mixer

Posted on October 5, 2020 by John Biscello

It wasn’t her house, her nightgown, her anything. And the old woman in the sun hat snoring like a phlegmatic breeze— Who was she? Existential hangovers are the worst, she thought to herself, as she tried to piece together hazy … Continue reading →

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Missive

Posted on October 5, 2020 by John Biscello

Letter from Wonderland– Dear Miss So-and-So, Your husband injured himself chasing a young girl in fuzzy pink rabbit ears down a dark narrow hole. Do not expect him home any time soon. Yours Truly, A Secret Admirer.   #5 from … Continue reading →

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The Replacement

Posted on October 5, 2020 by John Biscello

The course couldn’t be changed, same as the sounds coming from the other side of the door, which belonged to her broken-in replacement. She waited, for something to stop, or perhaps to knock and show that the next move was … Continue reading →

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Soap Drama

Posted on October 5, 2020 by John Biscello

She thought about it at least once every night. What it would be like if he wasn’t there, if she, with delicate blankness befitting a housewife, mixed his cocktail in a new way a different way, just once, then watched … Continue reading →

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Enigma

Posted on October 5, 2020 by John Biscello

Rapt fascination– when the enigmatic meets the readily apparent in an effort to fashion and sustain identity from the lore of diminishing returns.   #2 in the Untitled Film Poems series Image by Cindy Sherman

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Legacy

Posted on October 5, 2020 by John Biscello

After watching the bruised legacy of her childhood pass her by out of the corner of her eye, she had developed an astigmatism which, in effect, bred her glaring suspicion of distance, and violent need of its diffuse edges.   … Continue reading →

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Ravels

Posted on September 7, 2020 by John Biscello

At the wound’s core, dark luscious ravels of text, courting, inviolate measures, the fathomless brood of Beauty’s End.

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Shed

Posted on September 3, 2020 by John Biscello

It is never in your best interest to fashion yourself in a corset of old dead skin; shed, as a sibilant directive, breathes ceremony into the places where you ache, to die, and begin again.

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Everybody’s Got One

Posted on September 2, 2020 by John Biscello

I was once asked to create a safe happy place to which I could go during times of distress and turbulence, and there it was, as it had always been– a wooden bench set under a streetlamp in a park … Continue reading →

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The Greatest Job on Earth

Posted on August 31, 2020 by John Biscello

So much depends upon a red spiral notebook opened to a blank page, beside a pen’s barest volition to longing, within silence’s meted reign.

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