by Erik Ash
The Secret Carnival
Erik Ash
Copyright 2017. Erik Ash
.
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 desi
re,
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
