Tag Archives: Poetry

Grasp

Posted on February 22, 2018 by John Biscello

Dawn’s broken promise, an arterial rupturing of light bleeding fevered gold through drawn, dusty blinds, morning, slow to rise, small hands reach out and cannot grasp forever.

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First Steps

Posted on February 21, 2018 by John Biscello

It is not about holding her perfect, just so, in a prescribed manner, but rather, can you slowpour your breath into one another’s hips and clefts, while swaying? It is the mutual pressing of scars together, a controlled friction that … Continue reading →

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Liason

Posted on February 21, 2018 by John Biscello

Adore, the charmed offspring of Love’s prickly liason with Innocence before it ripens and falls. 

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Tilt

Posted on February 21, 2018 by John Biscello

A mirror, tilted, starkly pooling lovers self-similar turns and views of each other: I am I, you are you, qualifiers blurred and dissolved in a furious crossing of ritual desires.

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The Upstart Scarecrow

Posted on February 21, 2018 by John Biscello

(Listen to the spoken word track here.) There he goes um-humh that’s him Willy Shakes the upstart scarecrow and derelict poet of the barrio and bodegas— gin rummy seizures and shaker of visions— hangnail to a scab dude rips it up … Continue reading →

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Trinity

Posted on February 21, 2018 by John Biscello

Beware the airless room, without light, laughter and love, a Trinity beyond reckon, none of it is worth a good goddamn.    

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Slingshot

Posted on February 20, 2018 by John Biscello

From a distance, within, the story of a writer’s life in the day of fiction’s living wake.

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Ember

Posted on February 19, 2018 by John Biscello

How a writer, cave-timing dark and solitude, annoints an ember by crafting the small hours into a flagrant torch.

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Wish You Were Here

Posted on February 19, 2018 by John Biscello

 Send us postcards from your loneliest places, your fault-lines and secret rivets, send us words and we promise not to burn them, we promise that something of the ineffable will stick, as if a lasting thorn in God’s bruised paw.

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Preschool: A Love Story

Posted on February 19, 2018 by John Biscello

Jilly, aged three, bared her teeth & bit Jack, four, hard on the arm, breaking skin & drawing blood. Stunned, Jack’s baby blues ballooned & gaped at Jilly, bright with malice & glee. Why Jilly why, Jack cried, nursing his … Continue reading →

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