Tag Archives: Poetry

Wildflowers

Posted on June 1, 2018 by John Biscello

The child in me the fire carrier has always wanted to love big with no barriers or wind tunnels or bubble-clots to gum up the flow. I think maybe this is the Paradise whose greenest tips I have grazed and … Continue reading →

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How the Heart

Posted on June 1, 2018 by John Biscello

The sound, the fury, and brassy racket the multitudes within have made on my behalf, or fractures to mend, yet my heart, bare in its asking and grievous wants, resounds its measureless bask to innocence with no end or fixed … Continue reading →

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Swallow

Posted on May 30, 2018 by John Biscello

Today the glass is half empty full of singing void and fire me cutting my teeth on the rim tonguing rapaciously at spiked air clenching at the impossible slake if only I could swallow smooth as grace this bitter seethe … Continue reading →

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Song of Hope

Posted on May 27, 2018 by John Biscello

They kill poets in these parts don’t they? When I got here I saw Walt Whitman’s wizened head out back impaled on a stake flies buzzing round its concomitant rot and stench I heard one of the locals say it … Continue reading →

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Romanticism 101

Posted on May 27, 2018 by John Biscello

If I were there right there goggle-eyed and flame-pawed between her legs and she began secreting the deepest most lucid mirrors and glaze of honey waft of orange blossoms crushed and enmeshed in heavy musk would that appease my hunger … Continue reading →

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10:47pm

Posted on May 26, 2018 by John Biscello

It is times like this when I feel as if I’m on fire on the inside that I want to give a live play by play on process raw and unfiltered before it has a chance to cool off and … Continue reading →

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Sintax

Posted on May 26, 2018 by John Biscello

There’s nothing sexier than a girl undressing in cursive to reveal the curves and loops of pure language squeezing every last drop from metaphor to exalt and fondle the core of similes standing in for skin and fire and other … Continue reading →

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Burble

Posted on May 25, 2018 by John Biscello

To pour, unrestrained, Beauty in her cups, and burbling fount, a lasting refrain.

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I Listen

Posted on May 23, 2018 by John Biscello

Dawn. The sea breeze, salt-fringed, rolls in through the opened glass doors, its damp fingers sifting and touching upon the cravings, rent and folds of our shared bare skin, It’s like home, you say, and this makes me dig my … Continue reading →

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Kin

Posted on May 22, 2018 by John Biscello

There are chambers inside myself I have yet to discover or visit, for example, that one room rumored to contain a monk in tattered robes hunched over a yellow table benignly autistic in his relations to text and verses which … Continue reading →

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