He understood that to unhook stars you sometimes had to stand on tall buildings. Really tall buildings. Vertigo was reflected back to him, bigtime. Advertisements
I am a young boy, fated to innocence, walking through the lavender mist of Time’s softly slipped dream, every grain of sand a stitch in the marvel of kingdom’s comely veil.
Will I run out of words before her mouth reaches mine and exhumes my distance? Tongues are such funny bridges.
Between the call of bodies, testing the ream of vocabulary’s limits, words exact their talent for slow burn, and quicken to replenish.
Fictionalize me, martyr me to your crosses and lost causes, give me a form by which my double can register touch, and seeds of desire, twitching and sputtering in the blue flames of fabulous opera, make me the husky baritone … Continue reading
I can go on. Sometimes you fall off the edge of a sentence and find another one waiting for you there, like the billowcushy arms of a cloud-woman, or keenly lighted wraith, and you can go on, holding hands with … Continue reading
There’s nothing sexier than a girl undressing in cursive to reveal the curves and loops of pure language squeezing every last drop from metaphor to exalt and fondle the core of similes standing in for skin and fire and other … Continue reading
Posted in Poetry, Uncategorized
Tagged expression, John Biscello, language, lust, poem, Poetry, sensual, sintax, syntax, words
She knows who she is, the one who placed a piece of the moon under my tongue when I wasn’t looking, now, when I speak of night, light follows, to gild my bated communion.
So this is the mouth which has given lather and freight to scabbed pearls, this, the passage, where screaming daisies have weeded out spells of violence to sunder Beauty’s veil.
Words, the right ones, ripe and engorged, outgrow the necessary dark inside you and, abiding the laws of catch and release, demand light, air, voice. Beware atrophy, the root killer, and do not leave language, ingrown, unattended.