p<>{color:#000;}.
The Secret Carnival
Erik Ash
Copyright 2017. Erik Ash
Shakespir Edition
.
Table of Contents
Morning
Noon
Evening
Night
Twilight
Morning
I.
Across the nauseous quaintness
of the town square
and through the vile machinery
of the road-strewn forest,
there is a perfectly manicured
patch of little grass,
ringed by mushrooms,
deadly in white.
Here there are oriental energies
and occidental deaths,
A portal.
A swarm of bees,
a mouthful of honey
a mouthful of pain.
Red,
like exposed flesh,
envelopes visitors
with the new vibrations.
It is here the refugees flock,
eager for release
or murder.
Their eyes flicker
with desire and memories
of fabulous quicksilver rides
Their feet lightly tramp
across the rain
as they close their eyes
and breathe.
II.
Soft pink
like liquid strawberry,
the sun slicks across the sky
in a haze.
A castle,
moist
with white spirals,
hangs in the clouds.
The people scurry across
butterscotch cobblestones.
There are sweet banquets
in the falcon architecture.
Buffets of fortification.
Damsels with full-bodied lungs.
Togas and tights
and bulging loins.
Scars without wounds.
Emotions without terror.
Leaning in,
a vision line with soft mounds.
Too much sugar
to be alone.
Too much cream
to be separated.
There’s a wild raucous
of waving laughter,
and the piercing screams
of a joyful bird.
It’s like the winter gathering,
incognito.
III.
Your eyes are the blue
after a storm.
And your smile oozes
with the juice
of sugar-coated fruit.
Melting and refined,
your cheeks….
Never wet, but glistening
like gems
forged
in the Passion of the Earth.
Rivulets sparkle upon the skin,
shining from a million facets,
reflecting a mirror of dreams
and shames
and gleeful fantasies.
IV.
With a crack of clouds
and billowing crimson winds,
the Prince descends from his castle.
His sparkling smile,
dripping with red,
gives off torrents
of thunder and shock,
wetted with anticipation
and held fast with flowing ribbons.
His jewels shine,
translucent,
softly swaying
like a melody.
Running their hands across them,
his riches,
symbol of the nation.
Both peninsular and insular,
silver and slim
and gold.
He had grace like December peaks
and power like an April bud.
V.
Aeons ago,
she burst from nature,
a diamond pool
of a crystalline winter.
A garden of flowers
sprouts from her head,
gold with sparkling azure.
Completely bare
like angel
like demon.
Her body was a rising sun,
yellow with stains of hygiene.
Spreading her arms
with sugary nourishment
and clapping a bizarre signal.
The breeze became scintillating.
The glow became joyful
and the Princess
drooled with rapt attention.
VI.
She opened her mouth
and sound roared out
like a shock of rainwater
dripping across crevices and valleys,
supple like a star.
A chirping horde of dolphins
in love with each other,
thrashing in the sea.
The rubbing of their fine hair
gives flame to the rockets
of Life’s Holy Chariot.
The Prince had been stabbed
in the dimples.
In a great flood of blood,
he flowed like a painting,
unrestrained,
into the crowd.
VII.
Watermelon flesh,
wet,
juicy,
and sweet.
It glimmers across a lazy lake.
The swimmers lick and lap
and love within its depths.
Leaves softly whistle
a lover’s lyric,
a sinner’s dirge,
an angelic ballad.
Nature’s bards know every courtly song.
Roses flush and moisten in the dawn.
Quietly basking
in the warmth of a hug.
The glittering dewdrops
tingle in the mud.
Soft whispers of intimate love
spills into the lap
of a tottering fawn.
VIII.
We’ll prance through the woods
and ramble on wobbly legs,
stumbling through clumsy kisses
and dreaming of an exploding Sun.
With teeth clicking
and mouths throbbing,
we’ll sing of a snug life
in a snug house,
tucked snug in a fluffy blanket
under which our bodies gently glow,
connected by a precocious bond,
electric and fragile.
We’ll exalt in our jiggling imperfections
and wriggle in pulsating passions.
Bathing in your perfect scent
and basking in the light
of your bated giggles
is sacred bliss.
IX.
The wet air
and the damp scent
of the spreading dawn
hang in musky delight.
Lustful breath
in the air of a loving rest,
clutching to the breast
of an ancient temptress.
Teasing subtle sexualities
and sharing nostalgia
for a warm future.
Skin on skin
like hot chocolate
during a blizzard.
X.
We flash sly smiles,
musing about the intimate offenses
of our bodies,
our vulgar chemistry.
We mumble awkward joy
and adorable fluster
in the moist air.
Green explodes
from the thawing soil
as diamonds melt
into delicate liquid,
like a perfume, it wafts
over tenuous skin.
Slick with yearning
and desire,
unrelenting.
To crave every morsel
of another body,
to lap up every drop,
to soak in every crevice.
This is what it is to be alive,
to be awake
in this glorious dawn.
Noon
I.
In a suite of garish red,
his face pressed
between her legs.
Tightly embraced.
Nameless women.
Nameless men.
Nature shattered to make way
for ancient mystics.
Fires rage
to soften the meat.
Skins flay
without gnawing mouths.
Always in heat.
The sponges taste so sweet.
The tissues of botany.
Simmering
Flickering
Private sweets.
II.
Lying in bed,
the body becomes a universe
of layered dimensions.
Globes of warm ice,
embraceable.
Rivers of soft mauve,
nourishing.
Here,
a soft mountain.
There,
a hard mound.
Bursts of energy
emanating from distinct space.
To the north,
a wondrous jungle,
terrible in its depths.
To the south,
twin bogs,
soaked in a dense musk.
Farther south,
a rain forest.
A liquid element,
super hot.
III.
Rough,
and energetic twins,
bouncing suns,
releasing swarms of life
into the flora.
So sensitive,
they twinge at forceful rejection.
Long do they moan and weep
at negligence.
Do you grin
at the shorter?
La bon.
Do you swoon
at the longer?
La chanson.
Or do you perhaps linger
on slender beauty?
La promenade.
They are the stout matriarchs
of the sacred children.
Giving a million births.
Giving a special kind of nutrition.
So loving,
the parents of the wooded mountains.
IV.
From the trees,
lustful
and stretching,
they emerge.
Barely material,
tender and ethereal,
they stroll through the woods.
And at the cedar,
they share grace
with swirling hands.
The whimsy of a sweet foam.
They do not believe in the fury
of a warm brandy
and a fireplace.
They clamor for snow banks
and lovely caves.
They climb into pouches
like infants
and nuzzle in their sleep
with the hiccup
of a fallen god.
V.
In a clearing
of vibrant color,
a poet was gathering flowers.
He drew upon their soft petals
pictures without image.
Alone
and quaking,
he let fingers
taste his body.
He let himself get covered
with the saps of nature.
Beyond suspicion,
his love was felt,
was impaled
with sweet vines.
Spread,
destinies fulfilled,
everyone felt the flow
spreading down their throats.
VI.
A forest of emerald
and a forest of gold
glisten,
separated
by rolling hills
of grass.
During the winter of the day,
two faeries approach;
one birthed
of a throng of green buds,
the other birthed
of swarms of falling leaves.
They move their bodies
to a beautiful ballet.
The stems of plants
twist around their treasured parts,
their emeralds and marigolds.
The flourishing of their limbs
gives song to the heat.
The Sun illuminates
the texture
of their loving
flower skin.
VII.
A flick of the tongue
and a light rub
on the tender seeds.
The odor of these delicates,
like silk in the wind.
Hungry and loving,
the shining eyes illuminate
a hidden cavern.
And nothing seems so terrible,
so desperate.
A sun rises here, too.
A soft hand curls,
painted
with kisses.
A rose of human creation.
And the joy comes
soon.
VIII.
Sweet as a feather,
it blushed and brushed
with bursts of joy
and soft squirts.
Could this be love?
Could this be a ghost?
these secret smiles
this breeze of air
this breeze of breath?
The light moisture
of lips
as they begin to part.
It bristles and begs
to feel the bite,
to be corrupted,
to be oh-so-sweet.
IX.
Red like a carnation,
his face glows in her presence.
There is pink flesh
from beauty’s thick kiss.
Mountains of smooth cream,
shaking
with the smack of love.
The graceful perfume
blooms
like a decadent rose
from the loam
of her eyes.
He is in love
with the swirls of paint
that dot her body,
streaks from a glimmering master.
How he swoons
for the nourishing milk!
for the Goddess Biologica!
X.
Purring from the lips,
a silently pouring river
of flowers
trickles in the breeze.
Salt that is sweet,
a tender ale
from the mouth of the Earth,
tinged pink with a lovely Sun.
The somber mists that cloud one’s eyes,
the longing that gapes like a wound.
To dance in the fog!
The Flora sings!
And what a song it is
that knows only the glamour of childhood.
What a bombastic lullaby!
that comes purring from the lips.
Evening
I.
A bird sits perched
upon the crimson cliff,
singing a boisterous song
of velvet
before diving into the sea,
into freedom,
with a sharp eye for pleasure.
A river,
thick with spices
and exotic creatures.
It is the color of the sun
as it flows
like a nourishing soup,
scalding the lips and the throat.
With a light heart,
creatures dance upon the pebbled shores.
Feet grope the dull jewels
and exalt in the sensitive silt.
II.
Lust in the odors of the forest,
in the softness and twirls
of a blushing world.
Dazzled by the melody
of blooming roses,
under the stars of mystery,
sparkling orbs.
A holy face,
a fleeting embrace.
The aching of the divine
gives meaning to the swill.
III.
There is a sea
that sparkles like acrylic
as it quietly drips across one’s face.
Among the yipping birds
and the dancing golden grasses,
framed by a dying jungle
which sparkles anew.
Wondrous blue and silky white
float in the sea of the sky,
as do I;
bound by the arms of my savior.
I quiver under her healing touch.
She is overflowing with the divine;
it whistles from her mouth in a sweet melody.
It is phantom.
Scalding rocks litter the ground.
The earth has been seized by bitter conflagrations,
slashing the throat of all life.
I can hear life’s tender wails
as the flames tickle my belly.
IV.
A city of flimsy petrol,
oozing with color
in the light of a hazy sun.
There are crystals that want to be broken
and precise rocks that crumble away.
Rows of sweet cottages
stacked in patterns.
They stretch out by the warm fireplace
and daydream of pastel pictures.
Acres of mutilated grasslands
under the dominion of lonely trees.
Gentle plants whisper at my sensitive skin
in the barren fields,
overrun with spurts of life.
V.
In the fuzzy waves of light,
a chill creeps across the air
as the frivolities grow bitter
and the revelers begin to slobber.
The Moon has chosen to make herself absent.
A prophecy of madness.
Wax sears the skin,
a pauper’s seal.
Are the wailing instruments
singing a sonata to pleasure?
Wet and shaggy,
whole bodies itch
in the aftermath
of a lovely swim.
The warmth of recovery
spreads from the gut
and aches across the mind.
VI.
They cry for freedom
in the smoke-encrusted alleys,
sodden with grey drainage.
They want freedom in the streets
as they gnaw at the marble
and snarl at the face of a mocking god.
Fireworks explode with screams of delight
as the ancient ferris wheel creaks along,
gleaming with pale glamour.
It is a nightmare of color,
strangled by the warm hands of love.
Footsteps.
Footsteps into the evening.
VII.
I am assured
that I am loved,
although my skin shivers in nakedness
and my eyes weep in blindness.
A slight smile
as I clutch my chest.
Pain…
Pain and breathing.
Is this what they call the filthy wound?
The guilt of my debasement?
This palpitation is a fiction.
It’s a cosmic epic.
A universal myth.
The tale from which we have sprung.
VIII.
The animals refuse to be terrified
as the crimson leaves drip
and the wild grasses grow brittle.
These are the times of leisurely strolls
and crystalline breath.
These are the tears of horrified evergreens.
The soft strumming of a mandolin.
The bitter crackle of dried mud.
From a pair of royal blues
springs a waterfall of sex
while insects congregate
in the torrent.
IX.
I am fearful
while the water gushes through my ears,
even as she giggles
and splashes about
in the light of a rising moon.
There is apprehension
as the spotlight falls
and the voices of authority
sing their horrible calls.
A smack that is red
falls again and again
while shouts of pleasure
cry
again and again.
X.
The birds of the carnal
with their aching cloacae
caw on the hazy horizon
that curves like a blessed thigh.
In a time that excites,
the liquors flow
in every color
and the music pierces
and shatters
in every color.
Snide men
in the garb of the bride
clutch at the romantic vibrations.
They wail under the evening stars,
in the shadow of the glowing towers.
Night
I.
The Shadow Cloud
engulfs the moon
and shines like a crown
upon the brow of Night.
The sounds of abusive flesh
groan in the blue,
giving birth to a new Sun,
more terrible than any lord
who has walked upon this soil
or gazed upon this horizon.
Do not weep,
for it is not sorrow one sees
in this horror
of chains and rage.
II.
This is the heat
with which the night flows,
melting the flue
with a bouncing beat,
reddening with flaring scorn.
Groveling in desperation
for a little kiss.
Sweet.
Like sugar on the cheek.
This is the music
with which the rhythm glides
and sticks its head
into an ugly foray.
Severe is the draught
that burns dust upon the skin,
leaving such lovely marks.
A purr and a throb
that sprouts like a wet seed.
It never congeals
in the heat.
III.
I can hear the wailing
stretching across the blue horizon.
They exalt in pain
and the art of flying blood.
The giggles lie etched upon the polished stone,
a monument to wine and the tears of submission.
Driven mad by sodden desires,
they cackle during fleshy meals.
The uneasy music resonates
while chemicals bubble
into a filthy cocktail.
And we are drunk and wild,
piercing in every way imaginable.
IV.
In the mauve of an unholy night,
while the moths fly
gathered under the last salvation,
there lies a monster.
It creeps upon the muddy floor
and strikes after years of solitary begging.
Terror!
I grow flush
with wet fear.
A strange growl
hisses
among the eerie chirps of the multitude.
Do not bathe in its scent,
lest you become enraptured
in its stinging snare.
V.
Alien hope courses through veins
at the beat of sobbing music.
They chastised the petulant youth
and mounted his terrified face.
It is raining gold.
They exalt in the empty splashing.
Their sour smiles are drenched in it.
Damp air in the misty rain.
The smell of chemicals in rusty sewers.
Hands clutch at my skull
and linger on old radios of static.
A cry flies through the drunken machinery
and flutters upon the heaps of tragedy.
Oily black hair scratches
in a dark tide.
A crack snaps through the air
and oils the soft flesh of the buttocks.
The smell of leather
and jewels nuzzled into intimacy.
It is love slowly ripping.
VI.
Fires leap
in the desperate ravaging
of a plummeting night.
Tongues flick
in the dry air
of a climactic descent.
The snarling slaves of the hive
sing vicious odes to lives
while feasting on the carnal delights
of their Queen.
They bounce and dangle
from the precipice of flesh
as they march on
towards rapturous explosion.
VII.
A crowd stomps through the fell wood
of a broken forest.
In a screaming sacrifice,
depraved sugars pollute the skin.
They sting with perverse sadness;
a life spent buried in wet organics.
They sizzle in the pool of a hermaphrodite,
loving the magical spells of obscura.
The groaning vessels
pump life
through the chilly spirits
in the harmonic colors
of a violet landscape.
VIII.
Yellow foam splashes upon the river,
craters in the silt rattle of latter days.
Train tracks softly quiver
under the light of fractal stars.
The bars ache and cry
under the weight of pungent misery.
Human eyes gel in a gentle chill
and wonder at the blackened sky.
Can there be light
from the depths of this swaying ocean?
Consigned to the waves of oblivion,
we roll on.
IX.
The snow comes down,
glittering
like frozen sparks.
In the bitter cold
writhe broken hearts.
Devilish voices in the static
whisper of failures
of broken loves
of blood and disease
and death.
Paint flicks off a broken toy.
Skin frays like an old coat
torn apart by freezing rain.
Tangled nerves,
a disheveled neurosis
with split ends and knots.
Who is this decrepit thing
reflected from the mirror?
X.
In rumbling black,
flaccid yet stiff
and stumbling in the heat.
Alone
and wriggling in a frantic dance
of naked bodies.
Where shall we be cast?
A midnight rain freezes upon the skin
mouthing joyless prophecies
of a graveyard built for one.
Ghostly lights flicker
drawing souls closer
and closer
to that final singularity.
Twilight
I.
Bones crunch
in the wake of a hard-fought meal.
Fires crackle
by the sweating red skin,
cackling at deep humiliations.
There are howls and screeches
that illuminate the trash-strewn fields.
Empty bottles vomit up
the memories of bygone days.
A needle for the cure.
Our bastion has crumbled
under the flood of sludge-drenched rain,
a quiet tragedy
among the riots of desperation.
A song of longing
lingers in the stench
while the light silently dissipates.
II.
Wolves scamper across the ice,
cackling at the carrion.
The decrepit sirens groan
and paw at the torturous ground.
Yipping animals churn
under the shame of crinkled skin.
A shot of pain
sears through the body
and shivers in the exquisite frost.
The seeds of a miserable flower
float across the air
and scratch like claws
upon a metallic corset,
so raw in its furious domination.
III.
Do you see the Horror
descending across the horizon
with his slim grin
dripping with grim skin?
Its grotesque limbs flail in the dance,
a macabre ballet to swollen fear.
The pulse of the darkness glows
in the limp silence.
The still sensation
cascades from a broken bottle.
The Sacred Works beckon.
Behind a foul curtain
the Horror lies limber,
awaiting the next act with glee.
A corp of black floats en masse
to snag what little remains
from your brown bones.
IV.
Searing through the sinews,
chemicals explode through my imperfections.
My skin stretches with tumors
of desperate vanity.
Rags flap in the frigid breeze,
torn apart by the burning ice
racing through the air.
Cracked ribs
and defiled skin
oozing with odors
and dreadful humors.
Contemptuous smiles
seep from the cheeks
as memories of shame
drip down your loins.
Was I ever really loved?
Did I ever matter?
Do memories of my laughter
yet pump through your blood?
All of this is doomed to rot,
like a carcass in the sun.
V.
Ravenous,
with a mocking squawk,
a sad iteration of birdsong,
a courtship that festers,
silent or screaming,
the black birds of Death
will rip apart your flesh,
silent and screaming.
Furious scavengers
shift in the snow,
gnawing at hardened morsels
rotting on the bone.
A maddening moan
sings a deafening drone,
demanding humble apologies
for a life lived in scorn.
VI.
Fallen prey to the raving scum,
drums soaked in blood
and tears and rum.
A flash, a crash
and the anguish of a gun
spent too soon
in heavy breath,
impregnating the mind
with death.
My fruits grow heavy
in the moldy womb.
Spilling out of their fleshy tomb,
they rain on the innocent
like sickly candy,
memories of a shameful dandy.
Bitter sugar
for a bitter youth.
And when the putrid flowers bloom
across the void’s aching doom,
no one will hear my horror’s remorse,
my final croon.
VII.
Silent
in the blue glow
of a robot future.
Brains without minds.
Bodies without souls.
Life without love.
Licked by flames
inside and out
dead and alive.
A coward with no redemption.
A sinner with no prayers.
A savior with no flock.
Strung up by the noose
and made to dance
a hangman’s jig.
Our strings are cut.
The puppet lies broken.
VIII.
The crack of a dying voice
aches upon ears.
Fragmented moans of past love
ring in isolated panic.
Knees tear apart
in service of a deadly maiden.
The concubines of the Shadow
lust for revenge.
They gush from rusted pumps.
Sludge covers their vacant bodies.
The ferocity of their pallor
turns fear into a manifest phantom.
Its cruel, cold fingers
scratch at rosy cheeks.
IX.
They were risen by a slender hand,
by the Witch of Necropolis.
Their heads were bowed in servitude
under the charring wind
of the deathly plateau.
Noxious rivers were oozing
from sweaty valleys.
Ecstatic, frothing prophets
performed a ritual cleansing
in the putrid stream
Rotting flesh flung off bones
as they performed a grinding dance,
a last explosion of sensation
in the waning din of music.
X.
In the darkest void
the ghosts swirl about,
driven mad by dreams of decay
and the brutal fruition
of somber frays.
The rush gushes ears and eyes,
cries for the loves buried in letters.
A tingling of dreams
shimmers across skin.
A tiny kiss for remembrance.
No moon.
No stars.
Only the ferocious dark,
The Silent End.