FANTASY FOREST

A. C.  Lovelace © 2026

DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT; The work below features abject depictions of bigotry,  bodily fluids, viscera, racism, and themes of Sexual Assault. Brace yourself for the utterly grotesque. 

FANTASY FOREST’s narrative structure mirrors Dante Alighieri’s 14th century three-part epic poem (The Divine Comedy), specifically The Inferno, where events are told through a series of cantos. Similarly to Dante’s illuminated manuscripts, this is a contemporary work reflecting current events with allusions to historical figures shaping its setting. 

Canto I

I venture through the Forest of Fantasy, 

In pursuit of eliminating a blight. 

My swell soles skip and play in pure ecstasy; 

Woodlands of promised dreams bask in Blue Ridge light, 

The Guide, Karen, leads souls into the Verdance.

Before Heaven’s reproach, I trespass in fright

Relinquishing the nesh title of Freelance, 

I fancy what might dwell away from Progress. 

Apocryphal Flatwoods “Braxie" glares askance 

A prank prop placed among pitiful egress. 

The oak sign post ahead reads in naphthol red: 

Abandon all despair, Dreamers of Distress. 

Ensconced in a cabin of bygone timber, 

Karen sings tales of the Miracle foretold. 

One wish per lifetime– each blessing a glimmer; 

As dusk nears, the cicada chorus consoled. 

Sprung from Victorian hands, and War ashes, 

Ulysses S. Grant subsidized Nature’s Gold. 

Tonight, we shall canoe donning rose sashes

Camp Respite will prove an interim dwelling, 

As the Great Outdoors is removed of fashes. 

Oar in hand; Karen silhouetted yelling, 

The lantern shines in panoramic charcoal. 

Mortal coils at Her behest, we’re propelling. 

Canto II

Nine trails converge at the lonesome Wishing Well. 

Each passenger participates in their path. 

Elected by Sprites; guided by the Ringing Bell. 

Four riders short, we’re abreast the Trail of Wrath. 

Temporal remnants roam the lush groves in droves. 

The Pale Oarsman points to the spectral soiree. 

“Come hither, Next Passenger, and seek your troves.” 

Her Phthalo-blue pupils pierced my personhood. 

Without a moan, I am against mangroves. 

Alone with the Moon’s Curse, I join the deadwood. 

Along the way, sits a disembodied door. 

Signed in dried blood, “V” reeks of infanthood. 

Trekking leads to one Lass with a crucible. 

Abigail Williams, starter of the Trials. 

Victim of John and the Puritan Bible. 

Beside me, stands Mary Jones, using vials; 

The Man-Monster wears a prosthetic fanny. 

His, no, Her gaze instills deeper Denials 

In the Grotto, rests Jefferson’s nanny; 

Tears plummet to her youthful, burdened stomach. 

Placing hands on mine, her smile grows uncanny. 

Sally Hemings, an enslaved slummock Negro; 

A Pom like me, can’t fathom Crown Betrayal. 

Tracking paint lines, Madame Old World is aglow. 

Canto III

Lili Elbe, the Fag Painter, studies trees. 

Entrails exposed, lies her uterus enclosed; 

Encased in roots, insects gain free entries. 

Aghast, I shake, yet her countenance composed. 

Suddenly, stomach pain appears sharp as spears 

Mine is Real– not a Fabrication imposed. 

Elbe collapses onto portraits of queers. 

Distracted, the artist vanished in a blink. 

Lights beam from a thicket constructed with beers. 

Her dress blown by an updraft, she gives a wink. 

Marilyn Monroe lunges covered in opioids. 

Lips on mine, she protests, yet our bodies link. 

Pills pushed in appetizing, perky cleavage. 

Runny makeup and the breath of spirits, 

Discomfort takes control despite the leakage. 

“No” weaves, and wanders through the strained moan snippets. 

I shove– Monroe phases through the podzol.
Trudging in drugs, my Mental craves some Whippets. 

The Ringing Bell, drowned out by weeping, lost soul, 

Reverberates amidst abyssal hemlocks. 

The Wishing Well nears, marked by towers of coal. 

Its conspicuous shape, surrounded by stalks;

Deafening chimes direct me from the ghoul realm.

My arrival is met with ancestral rocks. 

Canto IV

In eerie solitude, I spin the wet winch.

Rises a pail filled with my splitting image;

A finger emerges, taps, and so, I flinch. 

Behind me, a drag Aunt Jemina visage, 

Marsha P. Johnson wore a noose on his neck

A kinch, in which, I swiftly tied post-scrimmage. 

Starvation overrides, and leaves not one speck.

Striations of meteors pass overhead;

Despite the mess, I no longer am a wreck. 

Hands clasped, the wish was granted as I bled. 

Hirsutism and soon shrunken mammaries. 

Then Malodor followed by a Phallus Red. 

Fetus ejected, I recall memories. 

My girlhood in phantasmagoria threads;

There goes the uterus, and my fantasies.