Sept2012: James Mullard - Two poems
…hands so small, so formed, you lift your little bones towards me, fall into a kiss. smothering, you seem to skip between moments. break from my closed palms, deep into my mouth…
…if my fingertips could be as light as i saw your eyes that night, i’d reach in deeper than i’ve ever gone inside. sweep past those brittle bones, peel back layers of thinner flesh. make from your heart a paper moth, frayed membrane wings, then we could make one of mine, muscles softly shimmering. an ephemeral heaven runs through these familiar veins, if we could just cut them free could we make from them new shapes? another useless guise for the human form, we’d watch them, perfectly small. thin as lace, ribs uncaged. far from those lonely sheets, rising, trembling, lost in the dark. blood flows, falls below in streams…
…clotted, we must have skipped a heart beat somewhere. nerve wings spasm uselessly on the carpet. i see your torn up body curled over itself, fallen, in tears…
A tongue catches your fingers as you run a hand across the brambles, those thickets of carnality, watered seasonally with the saliva of wanton lovers. Curious, you reach out, and the thorns instantly cut your hands into pale shreds of skin. As you embrace the wilderness, leaning in, your heartstrings pulled to breaking point, you feel a warm rush through your body, and let the briars of lust tear you apart. A knife through petals, a lash against a flowery backside, circular cuts rising like buds on your bare back.
Little stems of new passion, dart a kiss past the creepers; that hand crawling down your chest is undoubtedly your own. You picture the swamps between her thighs, the stench of forlorn longing, more and more fingers taking root. Her smell spreads; intoxicated, wild; you close your eyes, push, and hit a wall. Thick branches close between climax, caught against the membrane perianth, a perpetually closing fleshy cup, which then breaks; the forest floods. Strange reds, deep maroon, burgundy and rosewood, flowing like wine - stains a single leaf. My seed promised orchids, but springtime has come and went, and only a single flower bloomed.
James Mullard, is an English Student at Manchester Metropolitan University, and is influenced by Baudelaire, Lautréamont, Cendrars, Rimbaud, Aragon, Bataille, Rachilde, and Droste