Tag Archives: romanticism

To the Lighthouse

Posted on May 30, 2022 by John Biscello

Here it is, finally. A séance for the living, real-time cinema for possessed bones and sad visionless ghosts, who are on the cusp of claiming their spacious reams of empty, and time-locked vagrancy. The door behind the door has never … Continue reading →

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Boundless

Posted on March 23, 2020 by John Biscello

The sun rose today and kissed my face all over– Romance knows no bounds.

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Dawnsong, or William Blake 5.0

Posted on June 20, 2018 by John Biscello

We are the mythmakers and shapeshifters, the water threads unraveling foam under the bridge that knows its lofty tether to sky as part of ancestral bind and the dead honed to be risen; we, the Drummer’s flat, furied palms seeding … 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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Song for the Meek

Posted on January 26, 2018 by John Biscello

It has finally come, bearing a fount of bruised petals, blood-pink and white and reigning silvered silence, the year the meek inherit the earth, the plight of sensuous souls flown within to claim tenderest grace on loan from God’s rimless … Continue reading →

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Flea Bitten

Posted on January 9, 2018 by John Biscello

Greyhound: A sleek, streamlined, swift-as-the-wind breed of dog. A coughing, sputtering, wheezing, smoke-blowing mutt, prone to flea infestation.    I spent a great deal of my twenties canned inside the dank sweaty armpit of travel Americana: Greyhound.  It was an … Continue reading →

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Baby Romantics

Posted on November 13, 2017 by John Biscello

Baby Byron didn’t yet have language, so he twisted and contorted his face into a mask, a distressed aria sounding his discomfort. That it was existential, and not hunger, thirst, tiredness, or physical pain, meant nothing to him. Without language … Continue reading →

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Roar

Posted on September 10, 2017 by John Biscello

Teeth of a bandsaw, roaring through grist for the mill– Stories make warm ghosts.

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Swing

Posted on September 7, 2017 by John Biscello

After the deluge, the horns lost their bright voices– Swing low, sweet chariot.

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Princess Leia on the Rocks

Posted on March 19, 2017 by John Biscello

Excerpt from “Stray Passages: My time in San Francisco lasted a little over a month and would have been even shorter if not for Diana.  I arrived and decided to check into a hostel in North Beach.  I picked North … Continue reading →

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