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