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The Secret Carnival

Page 3

by Erik Ash

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.

 


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