Erik Ash

Month: December, 2012

Milwaukee Factory 12-19-2012


Snow on a Fallen Tree 12-18-2012

The Priest III.

Your image is scorched upon my heart. My blessed blood flows with the smell of your gentle perfumery, like the elegant days before redemption. You are a fruit exposed to a thirsting mouth; you floweth into a needy world. The warmth of your grace envelopes my bony fingers and overwhelms me.

I know that I deserve no kind of delight. A creature bound by the night has locked away my every pleasure. The shameful begging slithers out of me during the weak mornings. The seven colors of the Sun shimmer in an occult prayer.

Trumpets ache with piety,
singing airs to joy.
The red bass bounces in the sonorous feast
of an onerous love.

To be held in judgment
is a terror known only to humanity.
To caress is a bliss
known to all vivacity.

Big Bend Grassland 12-6-2012

Sonnet to a Winter’s Night

In a blistering winter’s night comes rain,
Whispering spirits of a softer day.
Murmurs which haunt a somber kind of pain.
A chill’s tender tongue flicks and flays.

The air, besieged by crystal, breathes
And sways in a wanton waltz of blue.
The rust singes the brittle lips and sings
What only the cradle of the breast soothes.

In the calm flare of a lingering breath,
We wrote an immortal book of the wretch.
Kissing under the gallows, we steal death,
Lest we scribble an ominous sketch.

Hide not from the rattling skeleton,
It breathes through the air we take refuge in.

Big Bend Mushroom 12-10-2012

The Femme II.

            The crimson fluid cascades into the delicate crystal of a sensual curve. It is the vilest form of life. It spills with the Moon and croons with the miserable flesh of a forsaken room.

            He is the afternoon of a chaste life, whispering Latin tunes in synthetic waves. His eyes are black with lust and hidden disgust. The slender dots of red, green, and blue sing a requiem for the lost folklore.

            The creeping tingle of the stranger’s presence basks over the fields of famine. I glow under the tutelage of human experience, and fall under the grace of a holy power.

Hail the Drunken God!
Hail the angel of the sleaze!
   the grimy power of dead currency!
It is a nasty skin that I lick
   and a nourishing flavor I worship.

A lovable caress.
The juice that Saves.
Savor the tender crusts of a body
   and breathe the misty air.



The tangled, wet mass
   flops and entwines
   between the orderly streams of metal.

It scratches the muck
   that replicates against the wave of destruction.
Like a harsh fiddle,
   it vomits in alleys of disinfectant.

In its hatred
   it screamed and tore
all of the fabrics
   which had so tenderly needled it.

Milwaukee River 12-5-2012

The Priest II.

The Priest


            Statues gaze into the cavernous hall and weep at the sin which flows out of the multitude. This is a world of debasement and tingling skin. This is an age of vibrating ears and racing hearts. We fling ourselves at every form of nakedness, and write somber odes of isolation.

            They look to me, the stained priest, for comfort. But I am not the pure cloud that grumbles on a tumbling horizon. I am filth in wet drawers! A lecher with perverted symbology!

The haunted longing
which swoons upon my breast!
The impossible dreams
that flutter in my gut!
Its smile is like the bent bow of love.
Its eyes are the soothing legato
of a swan in its final dance.

I shed a single tear for Its beauty,
like a liquid diamond of tribute.
It stalks the dark forests of my muse,
the strutting devil of a bleary fever.
And I love it,
to hold an idol in my arms,
to caress Its skin,
to gaze into Its charms and lusts.

It is sinister.