Wisteria by Paul Collins

The autumn winds grope her mercilessly,
as idle hands lunge for delicate petticoats.
Their ugly, pockmarked howls pinch her deeply
with each new limb they expose,
until her tears drop like leaves, unheard
and become soiled.

By the winter, she’s left leaning awkwardly
like a slapper against a lamppost.
Her body but scattered, bent baguettes,
freeze-set with the frigid, nightly chills,
which preserve her stark immodesty
and her malign revenge.

Yet spring adorns her with tentative protruding buds,
glazed like freshly shellacked fingernails,
as her body itches with the swellings of youth
and foliage fastens frills around her chest,
summoning the dewy-peach lustre of virginity.
Now she basks in our wanton, forgiving glares.

As the summer teases, she writhes Lolita-like
in a raincoat that clings to her, just so.
Her barely concealed fruits spilling out,
as the sun caresses her skin hotly, until she cums
with that cacophony of lilac bells gawping, grape-like,
ringing out the sweet moans of her petite-mort.

Foreign Bodies, written by Paul Collins

I insert my fingers into her mouth,
to check if her airways are clear –
so that all this breathing can begin.
Her lips seal around them tightly,
absorbing them like some foreign tongue
for the curious language of sighs, that ensures.

I drift to the canals of her ears,
where I fill them with coarse, English words
that barge through their depths like a syringe –
to clear all belief in a way back,
as they summon their inner drums to beat.
Marchons, marchons, she seems to sing.

I lodge myself within the safe-haven of her hair,
surrendering each eye like a passport,
to a perfume that declares jurisdiction
over the lining of my lungs,
drawing in my diaphragm with colours
that dazzle me with choking desire.

I lift myself up to look into her eyes,
searching desperately for irritations.
Her eyelids open wide like an EU border
and she blinks at me once for yes.
I check the status of her breasts
and she bathes my eyes in their unclasping.

She languishes on the bed, odalisque-like,
as her eyes migrate south with the swallows,
guiding me to the place of worship.
I remove the remaining obstructions and descend,
gently swabbing her soreness with my lips.
as her thighs pinch my head like tweezers.

I stick out my tongue and say ‘ah’
and she welcomes it like a lollipop stick,
pressing herself against it stubbornly,
whilst her hips wriggle lithely in my palms.
My cocooned ears just making out her own ‘ahs’
as she whispers back the message, like téléphone Arab.

Then she extracts me with a tug of my hair
and pierces me with eyes like brochettes.
“Penetrate me” she insists,
in an accent, thick with longing.
And so we assume the position,
that turns missionaries into converts.

It’s here where the nub is finally found,
amongst all the tapping of veins and piercing of folds,
until our fluids finally merge like seas that meet
and our two foreign bodies collapse
into the space between walls,
where only wildflowers grow.

Allahu akbar, I cry.

Paul Collins

I’m a middle-aged-Londoner-Brexit-refugee residing in Lyon, France.

Poetry is currently just a hobby I fit around other things, but it has become an important creative outlet for me. My aim is to one day be published.

I simply want to write poetry that I’ve not seen before. To that end, I want my poems to be disruptive and provocative. I like to write about two things at once, because it forces me to use words in unusual/unexpected ways.

All my poetry is published Instagram: @thebloodofthesethings

This site contains affiliate links to products. We may receive a commission for purchases made through these links. For more information, see my disclosures here. 

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