Jean Rhys- John Biscello

You held the islands in your eyes, where it rained

and rained and then the sun warmed wet to a wafting hiss.

This Jean, you, the feline slink,

filigreed shock, and sinewy comb

of whitelaced waves

ruffling upon

puttied blobs of shore.

Heartsore eyes,

you looked out

when no one was looking,

when the judges had lost sight of you,

and then, daring glee, you’d dive

into the smallest kingdom,

of mudpies and sandcastles,

seafizz kissing the wiggling halfmoons of fresh pink toes,

and you’d laugh and laugh, nymph of the sea,

begging its inheritance and claim

with the involuntary desperation of the meek.

Yet the islands, at the mercy of memory-tides,

flooded regularly, and you, rag doll corseted to a raft,

were carried back back back—

the shabby hotel rooms with vicious mirrors,

brightly lit cafes with trained voices

faring your terrors,

and your heart, o your poor heart,

a ruptured cadenza

consummating tender relations

with all the wrong men,

and out of its brokeneness

flowed the sap and resin

of nursery school blues—

I didn’t know

I didn’t know

I didn’t know.

There was the bottle, gauzy fretted palls,

the milkfingering of wind.

There was also ribbed fringes of prose,

and that was where we found you,

alone, the barest treble,

shipwrecked on a distant island

that was mostly made of mist, and nostalgia, scabbed.

You held the islands in your eyes, Jean, where gashes

came to know the sea’s suture and rhyme, its flicking bluegreen tongues

as balm and frolic upon

the smallest kingdom

restored

to grace.


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Fierce and Daisy- John Biscello

Among greengolden pastures,

the fierce grew. Its plastic

vampire teeth tore into the jugulars of bluebells,

its molten leavetaking gave the earth

scars and heartburn, and left the fresh grass in tears.

The roots, understanding the nature of siege, its effects

and causes, sent fierce a chance, moist daisy,

the softest of sorrow incarnate.

Fierce, mating beauty to sadness, blushed

an incandescent vermilion that spread

like holy wildfire.

Fierce stayed fierce

but loved through

daisy’s soft sorrow

in fostering fated

outgrowth.

 

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

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

 

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