The secret carnival, p.1
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       The Secret Carnival, p.1

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The Secret Carnival

  The Secret Carnival

  Erik Ash

  Copyright 2017. Erik Ash


  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
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