The Secret Carnival
Page 3
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 lo
ve
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.