Tag Archives: Poetry

Sate

Posted on May 14, 2018 by John Biscello

It was there, right there, between the sated tensions of sensual crumple and pulp, that the softest paring left desire’s wending veins exposed.

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In Bated Response to Oxygen for A Sort of Love Song

Posted on May 13, 2018 by John Biscello

How wonderful it is to have your breath, seized and arrested, to have your barest bloom subjected to the solvency of cherish.

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Oxygen for a Sort of Love Song

Posted on May 13, 2018 by John Biscello

Love, as a true bloom and pulsing grist, and not just mutiny, opiate in its seize and grip, should, at day’s end, allow you to breathe easier, lungs rooming with heart, space, carved out of ceaseless flow, respiring toward growth, … 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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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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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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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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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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