Tag Archives: Poetry

Emily Dickinson

Posted on April 12, 2018 by John Biscello

At the severest hour, everything fell within. A banquet hall after the crash, after the deluge, and you, a mouse, courting lull, tracked pawprints in flour, stalking floorboards for crumbled manna. You, the mouse, with slow heaven firing your eyes, … Continue reading →

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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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Next

Posted on April 10, 2018 by John Biscello

The lushest red rose, a fragile torch passed, to grace whatever comes next.

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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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instagrammatika

Posted on April 9, 2018 by John Biscello

it’s a new world a small world after all lowercase no-scroll instapoems & screenshot epistles taking you over the moon and on the road and back again in one fell lyrical swoop just in time for another poem about sublime … Continue reading →

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Anne Sexton

Posted on April 9, 2018 by John Biscello

It begins with a stopwatch, and a glass of water. The stopwatch belonged to her father, or to her father’s father. The glass of water is a joke. Imagine trying to remedy all that desert within, all that scabbing red … Continue reading →

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Joan of Arc

Posted on April 6, 2018 by John Biscello

Enlightened, perhaps. God-engorged hormones, maybe. Regardless of why, Joan, you were the rebel prototype long before James Dean zipped up a red jacket, or Marlon Brando mumbled and curled his upperlip into a totem, before Louise Brooks and Josephine Baker … 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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Product Placement

Posted on April 2, 2018 by John Biscello

NovelTease Literary Panties, Designed for the Well-Read Woman, Who Desires the Company of Her Favorite Writer, Between Her Legs, Snugly.

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Easter

Posted on March 28, 2018 by John Biscello

She, tender Sunday, wearing only beads of rain– her skin held the light.

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