Beat, Bop & Abstraction- John Biscello

It took place

in an amnesiac haze and fury,

numberless nights

of lightningspeak and opiate rabble,

rocketfuel and anti-freeze,

bright slashing ribbons

of noise amounting to worry stones

indenting the infantpink tender of palms,

forecasting God as a vaudeville dunce

with a heart of gold, or succubus with cherry cola hips

 and scarlet stigmata,

on and on and on the show went,

fugitive motion and tensions

arrested in space,

rooftop calisthenics

and balcony-blown jigs (clothing

and skin optional), hell’s bells

and aeronautic scarves of silk

modeled by the slinksexy fox, Lana de Sade,

and Heaven’s 24-7

bodegas foil-wrapping promises

to go,

on and on and on, a mythical riot,

a Saturnalian blast and romp that flirted with

stratosphere, pecked at the cirrus lips of ether,

slapped and pinched dreamcake-angel-bums,

and then, remembering themselves to earth,

the plummet,

wasted, deprived, the worn-out edges

of a faded post-script,

faring traceless amens.

It couldn’t last. Life isn’t built that way.

And dreams, beautiful ghosts that they are,

must pass, returning to the sea

as babbling stitches of foam,

hemming clouds to waves

and Venus to air


Image courtesy of Pinterest

You can read more of John’s writing at John Biscello


Slumber- Sabrina Escorcio

I woke to a dream
where cicadas hummed louder
than my mind could speak.
Where the earth cried out
each sin from within its depths,
a spring from past delusion
flowed out of bedrock
as blood through my viens.

I remained there, asleep
with eyes wide open
to never see the sun,
in search for darkest light.
Upon a bed of soil and mulch,
where roots lined my bed
just as the bones of my ribs
encase the truth within its cage.

Sabrina Escorcio

You can read more of Sabrina’s writing at Una Zingara