Christopher Brownsword


...consists of two pumps working in tandem to circulate blood around the...


There is an expression in use today whose cipher might readily be painted in bloodied streaks across the emblems of botanists and which pertains to describe the position adopted by flowers when lying horizontally on the ground with only an extremity (raised skywards along a level equal to the hands of a supplicant bound in prayer at zero degrees) retaining the memory of what had previously been its vertical bearing: decumbent. This posture, that is to say, decumbent, as regards flowers extends likewise to my own whilst lying on the bed with my stiffened cock in my fist, the massaging of the glans between my index finger and thumb releasing a film of liquid to facilitate the retraction of my foreskin as the meat twitches in response. Should it therefore be dismissed as no more than a coincidence that the orchid yields so keenly in every contour of its arrangement to the image of the phallus, that its very petals are infused with a musk not unknown to those who finding repose in the moments following orgasm have sought to further liberate their senses by greasing the palms of their hands in the sweat that escapes from their scrotum and inhaling the aroma emitted from every pore as if testing the rarefied atmosphere generated by an expensive perfume or the interior of a slaughterhouse? Yet if I am less to compare my cock to an orchid than to state explicitly that said appendage literally is an orchid then I must similarly be obliged to concede to the mathematical certitude of my anus belonging to a specific genus of orchid, namely the dead horse arum.////////Having about it the appearance and fragrance of putrefying meat, and accustomed to growing among the carrion of seagulls, the dead horse arum attracts swarms of flies, each of which congregates inside the dilated aperture made of the dead horse’s petals folded outwards with intent to lay eggs into what chemical signals have induced them into mistaking for rotted skin. The flies are subsequently enclosed by the orchid as the opening is sealed behind them, wherein they are held captive until dawn; during which time the orchid douses the flies in pollen by dint of it expecting they will later pollinate still another dead horse, thereby ensuring the species perpetuates itself and the glyphs for survival contained within the frequency-encoded language of its DNA are replicated. (I too am a pollinator in so far as when releasing gas I expel spores into the atmosphere; in doing so, I initiate the creation of a new universe. Scientists, after all, believe the territory outside earth’s gravity belt to possess the aroma of a bad egg; this, obsessed as the scientist has become with scatology in his or her neurotic, near pornographic reduction-to-order of the micro- and macrocosm, is merely to imply that the universe is no more than a giant fart, and one whose expansion may be attributed to the manner by which a smell will slowly spread and permeate an entire room, gagging all except s/he from whose slackened bowels it was issued and who, inhaling the tainted air, feels a certain pride in his or her achievement whilst others experience little beyond a heightened sense of nausea). To this end I offer an explanation as to why larvae dribbles down my thighs and the reason flies are expelled from my anus whenever I crouch over the mouths of lions to shit! Ah, an explanation to whom exactly? The woman - for the sake of confidentiality I shall henceforth refer to her only as N - I have called upon to stand in the corner of the room and watch as I masturbate cares nothing of such matters; for she herself is a flower, more violent in its quest to annex terrain for itself than the blackberry bush when viewed through time-lapse photography, whose rootlets pierce my skin and which my veins assimilate until the nutrients from my body are contrived to mix with hers. ‘Every woman,’ N insists, ‘is a sacred flower.’ And so it is to ornament the carpet across which N treads with garlands and kisses that my innermost self has become aligned with this woman, this flower. Let it be understood as N walks upon these garlands and kisses blossoming into meadows beneath her feet that she tramples upon my soul, this fruit that even the harshest desert could not wither, and as she crushes it between her toes a river of wine is pulled by magnetism towards infinity. Somnambulist, awaken...blindly in the dirt! She! A conductor held together by robes of flesh and bone through which transmissions from other planes of existence are broadcast and received! Somnambulist, awaken to yet one more dream! My eyesight blurs and my hands are shaking; embers are being stoked in my belly. I choke and howl amidst the din of vultures; nightly they stage their vigil above my head. She! A conductor held together by robes of flesh and bone through which...Her name! Quickly! N! She! Her name! I choke and...Isis! Ishtar! Semiramis; at whose feet owls have gathered! This too is where I come to rest, at N’s feet; my nervous system beginning to malfunction due to lapping at the rancid milk that gushes from her tits and blackens the soil. When it is no longer prudent that a toxin be sucked from one’s body the choices regulate themselves to either dying or puking out the contagion; is this not the service all lovers provide for each other, to purge what rapidly has soured from manna to poison in the genitals or womb, to distil those fatal compounds developed by many a flower to defend itself when faced on every side with predators?! My fingers...my...my fingers are down my throat and I am retching. Dogs approach one by one from valleys filled with lengthening shadows. My fingers...dogs...one by one. Can there be any pleasure greater, I wonder, than to council animals in establishing a pecking order around a pile of vomit? If so, I have thus far in life been deprived of it! But they must wait their turn, these dogs whose snarls resonate with the bruises to my face and torso, and those among them who display ambition above their designated stature will be kicked and trampled until they learn their place. I alone will constitute the first sitting! It is only by virtue of a bio-electrical deterrent released into the body of the lemon shark at the time her young are born that prevents her eating them! Ha! I am not a lemon shark and nature in its wisdom has devised no laws as such to prohibit a person sustaining himself on his own bodily expulsions. I must therefore rejoice in the bounty of good fortune (to flex the vertebral arch) and be grateful for small mercies when feeding as I have been conditioned to live; like a cur upon all fours!

Christopher Brownsword was born in Sheffield, England in the early 1980s. His first collection of poetry Icarus was Right! was published by Shearsman Books in 2010. A ltd edition handbound booklet of new poetry titled The Eternally Sucking Gorge of the Void has recently been published by Frequency 13 (contact freq13@gmail.com for more info).
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