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The Secret Carnival



The Secret Carnival

Erik Ash


Copyright 2017. Erik Ash


Shakespir Edition




Table of Contents














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.


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.



Soft pink

like liquid strawberry,

the sun slicks across the sky

in a haze.

A castle,


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,




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


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.



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,


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.



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.



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,


into the crowd.



Watermelon flesh,



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.



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.



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.



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,


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.





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.



Private sweets.



Lying in bed,

the body becomes a universe

of layered dimensions.

Globes of warm ice,


Rivers of soft mauve,



a soft mountain.


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.




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.



From the trees,


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.



In a clearing

of vibrant color,

a poet was gathering flowers.

He drew upon their soft petals

pictures without image.



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.


destinies fulfilled,

everyone felt the flow

spreading down their throats.



A forest of emerald

and a forest of gold



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.



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,


with kisses.

A rose of human creation.

And the joy comes




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.



Red like a carnation,

his face glows in her presence.

There is pink flesh

from beauty’s thick kiss.

Mountains of smooth cream,


with the smack of love.


The graceful perfume


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!



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.





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.



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.



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.



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.



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.



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 into the evening.



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 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.



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.



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


again and again.



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.





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.



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.


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.



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.



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.


I grow flush

with wet fear.


A strange growl


among the eerie chirps of the multitude.

Do not bathe in its scent,

lest you become enraptured

in its stinging snare.



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.



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.



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.



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.



The snow comes down,


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?



In rumbling black,

flaccid yet stiff

and stumbling in the heat.


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.





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.



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.



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.



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.




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.



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.




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.



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.



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.



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.


The Secret Carnival

  • Author: Erik Ash
  • Published: 2017-05-18 21:05:17
  • Words: 3641
The Secret Carnival The Secret Carnival