Tag Archives: Prose

Station

Posted on February 21, 2024 by John Biscello

Historyless is where I come from, the sun-crotched navel, the part of me not yet born, the part of me dead to the world on its way to being born into the potholes and foothills of unimagined fictions. That, plus … Continue reading →

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Andrea Doria

Posted on February 21, 2024 by John Biscello

Itchy navels, persecutions, manias, projections, snot-rimmed abysses, it’s been a mixed bag of plenty and none, and here I sit with the day’s teeth growing long and chomping down with razor-edged intensity … the stringent air of day after days … Continue reading →

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Casanova’s Memoirs

Posted on February 21, 2024 by John Biscello

The weevils chewing through the wall and burrowing into the hollows. Rot sets in. Yet I wake up and the sun is a perfect circle, a ball of fire, a kissing fool’s star. I smile. To hell with the weevils. … Continue reading →

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Ark

Posted on February 20, 2024 by John Biscello

Semen has flowed. The danger is past. This is an old proverb from a sunken country, a made-up country, a country that no longer exists or never did. This mother country with its many flaring mother tongues and tidals of … Continue reading →

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Music

Posted on February 20, 2024 by John Biscello

We Are Ugly But We Have the Music. This is our title, our collective moniker, our flag. It is a torn and flagless flag, denominating no allegiances, no cultural attachments, no geo-political persuasions or fevered legionspeak. None of that. We … Continue reading →

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Test Dummies

Posted on February 18, 2024 by John Biscello

(Excerpt from Worlds Last Imagined, novel in progress). We saw them carrying life-sized dummies to the town square. It was eerie how each dummy so closely resembled the person who was carrying it. We watched as all the dummies were … Continue reading →

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Funereal

Posted on February 17, 2024 by John Biscello

(Excerpt from Worlds Last Imagined, novel in progress.) Last night Ariana and I attended our own funerals. It was something we did from time to time. We saw ourselves, lying there, pretending to be dead, saw a wavering horde of … Continue reading →

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Love and Death

Posted on February 8, 2024 by John Biscello

The branch of the tree reaching down. It reaches down to graze the time-scarred headstone, to caress it. Could this be … a secret love story, a love story with no history, or with a cortege of history, spanning many … Continue reading →

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Rabbit Season

Posted on February 7, 2024 by John Biscello

The love hotel under the overcast afternoon sky. Thick mottled clouds. Two rabbits perched on a crescent moon, backs turned to the viewer. Earth and sky mixed, how lust has room for all seasons. The love hotel is about 100 … Continue reading →

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Time, Travel

Posted on February 7, 2024 by John Biscello

The boy sat on the train that would take him to the station where he would catch the train that would take him to the airport where he would be lifted away from everything he had been dreaming in real-time. … Continue reading →

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