Wisteria by Paul Collins
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.
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.
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.
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
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.