Tag Archives: Prose

Judy Garland

Posted on August 11, 2022 by John Biscello

   You’ve got to make up your mind, he said. Do you want to fuck Judy Garland or be Judy Garland?    It seemed my entire life would be determined by how I responded. I could tell, by the gravelly … Continue reading →

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Borneo on Mars

Posted on August 11, 2022 by John Biscello

There is the glass ashtray. The mangled cigarettes. The hotel room. The window open with the breeze coming in, ruffling the curtains. The breeze is lace fingers. Tiny fingers. There is the unevenly applied lipstick. The besieged housemaid. There is … Continue reading →

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Sideshow

Posted on August 10, 2022 by John Biscello

The Great Snakewalker, holding a yellow umbrella with splashy red polka dots that conjures the notion of enormous blood platelets, balancing on a tightrope comprised of tail-tied snakes with flicking tongues, descendants of Ouroboros, and she the Great Snakewalker does … Continue reading →

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Strange Angels

Posted on August 10, 2022 by John Biscello

The days fly into the blue and disappear, and your mind, in its memory-making, contains the disappeared days as film archive. I want to set fire to the archive. Burn all the films. Watch the celluloid twist and incinerate. I … Continue reading →

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Metronome

Posted on August 10, 2022 by John Biscello

It doesn’t take much to become days of mourning. This world provides plenty of opportunities to convert one into days of mourning. Then days of mourning becomes weeks of mourning. Months of mourning. Years. But it begins with days of … Continue reading →

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In the Catacombs of Grief

Posted on August 10, 2022 by John Biscello

In the catacombs of grief, she wandered. She wandered, without thirst, without hunger. This frightened her. Had she lost her basic humanity? Why had she created such elaborate labyrinths? Say that ten times fast, she said to herself. At least … Continue reading →

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Come Wander With Me

Posted on August 9, 2022 by John Biscello

She, from a young age, understood that she possessed an interiority complex. That, no matter where she went, all roads lead back to herself, to the worlds within.    I don’t exist out there, not really. Out there, I am … Continue reading →

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Our Lady of Dust

Posted on August 8, 2022 by John Biscello

They taught us dust. Those were our lessons. We sang dust. Sermons in dust. We ate dust. Sometimes the dust we ate was inseminated with sunlight that insisted upon the rotting wood of the windowsill, the worm-eaten wood. That sill … Continue reading →

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Girl on a Bike

Posted on August 5, 2022 by John Biscello

   I bike through the swirling dust. The dust pinches my skin. The dust is cinematic. It seems, nowadays, everything is cinematic. Novels, TV, reality, cinema … dust. We have become cinemanesthasized. We are in a trance. How long will … Continue reading →

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Cherry’s Eyes

Posted on August 5, 2022 by John Biscello

   Cherry went to the strip club just because. Just because she had heard things about strip clubs. Just because the strip club belonged to fathomless caves and Cherry was motivated to spelunk.    Cherry, new-old upon this earth, would … Continue reading →

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