The Secret Carnival

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The Secret Carnival Page 2

by Erik Ash

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 spot
light 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

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