Boris K. the Buddhist

A decade of day-to-day agony was behind Boris K. , of traumas, anxiety, grosses of emptied liqueur bottles and millions of diazepam cases downed. Boris K. decided to burn all of his bridges, to retire from the grotto, get a new job, a new vocation, new surroundings, in his quest for a bright sunny day, and not a raise nor severance pay, he followed his heart and made way straight to Tibet. After he had met the Lama on his way to the Multicolor Monkey Temple, he decided to become a Buddhist.

First he started his pilgrimage. He made his way towards the Buddha’s Ropes region, the gate of Himalayas, where, dead center in the rainforest, was the Temple of Positive Serpents. At the top of this magnificent building’s stairs, he spotted a Tibetan monk clad in dead leaves-hued garb reciting the Kama Sutra. It all happened in an instant. He himself didn’t even know how.

Suddenly Boris K.s initiation started, along with rooting, prayers and spiritual music. Boris K. finally thought that he had found his life’s purpose, when Dalai Lama suddenly said:

‘Let’s just carve out the third eye on your forehead, so that you can become psychic.’

Boris K. started sweating profusely. Completely astonished and terrified, he grabbed the first available canoo and went jungleward. Breaking through the thick foliage, he found the sacred monkeys. They saluted him by extending fingers on both hands. As they hung from the trees, chanting sutras, down came Hasan from the tree, a monk initiate and Dalai Lama’s personal bodyguard – he was sent to get Boris K. back to the temple.

‘Fear not ,Boris, they will not prod you with a switchblade’, the monk said, and briefly explained the Buddhist meditative techniques of opening the Third eye.

‘It is, in fact, a seat of universal wisdom.’

‘Alright, if all I have to do is sing,’ Boris valored up.

For a while they travelled across the mountain chains, along what seemed to be endless space. In the distance one could hear Tibetan sutras saluting the newly-born Sun.

As Boris K. went down the cold, marble hallway, so did the monks, with their characteristic muffs on their heads, welcome him.

‘Boris K., you’ve reached the very end.’

Then they chanted. This is where Boris K. felt something cracking on his forehead and opening…

‘Ouch!’ Boris cried, and the world went murky before his eyes… In an instant he viewed the past and the future of all monks. One monk, for instance, he saw, will utilize the money taken as charity for his personal benefit – building a cottage in the Swiss Alps – and that he will, as punishment for this, be reincarnated in his next life as bindweed on the fence of that selfsame cottage. He also saw himself, how he will, should he participate in this fraud, become roof moss. In a different instance he saw how people, seeing him begging for food clad as a monk, gave him meat – which he accepted in accordance to Buddha’s teachings – but also how he will, in the next life, be eaten as a bull because of this. In the third image he saw himself how, while mowing the lawn in the Lumbini garden at the border of India and Nepal, he kills an earthworm – due to which he will himself, in his next life, become an earthworm cut in half. At long last he realized how he didn’t need the all-seeing eye. He decided to put some ointment on it and gave up on the monastic life.


The Purpose of Living

One day, Boris K. came to a conclusion that he did all that he possibly could in this world. He called the stupid stupid, the hypocrites hypocrites, the selfish selfish, the fool a fool. That night, an unusual duck-billed, finned being came to him in a dream and said:

‘You did not do all that you can, Boris… You did not cover yourself with a Bunyip-hide quilt, a mythical being of the old Aboriginal peoples. When you get up, the quilt will be within reach, and after that, you will meet a wise man who will help you fulfil your life’s purpose.’

When he awoke, Boris K. concluded that instead of his blanket he was covered in the Bunyip-hide quilt which he wrapped himself in then and there, trembling…

Looking into the mirror, he concluded that he had acquired a dog’s face, that his teeth fell off, and that tusks grew in their place. Turning around, he noticed a horse’s tail above his buttocks. Having nowhere else to go, Boris K. decided to wait for the Wiseman. Instead, his neighbor Basil came over, who took him out for a barbecue.

images (3)

The Balkan Viper Snake, “The Adventures Of Boris K.”

A Nostalgic  Letter of Boris K. to the Citizens of the Republic Written in Diaspora

The Balkan Viper Snake

What am I doing on this most elegant of wastelands?’ This I wondered the very day I found myself in Denmark. ‘Mere hours ago I was sat at an old oaken table, scribing letters to those in power who owe me favors…

I was recently let off from my job. As if this weren’t enough, the landlady started whining about me ‘neglecting my duties, not paying rent, not keeping the fridge full’. As these things usually go, in a moment of despair and utter feeling of confusion, I happened upon a news ad. ‘Looking for experienced whalers to hunt orcas on the Icelandic coasts.’ No hints, no winding mumbling, a short and sweet ‘Looking for…’’

I decided to reply to this ad. The next day, due to, as I had later realized, a misclick of the mouse, I found myself in Denmark, on a mission not assigned to me. However, not only did I not realize this at first, but I could not even remember how I managed to leave the Phenomenonpublic. I dreaded that the phenomenisations did their thing and that their temper would not get me back to the peace I have long desired for. Hence why I found myself in Denmark, the unplowed overseas sward where I knew not what fate awaited me.

That not so distant day, when it was negative seventy degrees in our warm little Phenomenonpublic, the subjects of the Kingdom of Denmark asked me to go to Aarhus where lived a magical serpent which can only be killed by a man that survived the nineties in the Balkans. Him alone, they say, is resistant to her venom for he himself has tasted venom of similar power. As a stranger, I won sympathies of the Danish National Parliament members and met Philodendrona the Third, the great-granddaughter of the ancient queen Margaret the Second, who lived on Faroe islands and wrote passionate love letters to me, encouraging me.

‘I am in love with you, Boris K. They say you speak mellifluously, that you write letters as if you were painting a poem, and that you do not fear bloody conflict. They also say that you bought Playboy off of Hugh Hefner.’

Upon inquiry of the location of the magical serpent, the noblewoman lay it down on me.

‘One tail-end is in Folketing itself, while the other floats in the Baltic sea. They say that it is so silver-tongued that it comes up with the Christian democrats’ parliamentary speeches and announces the Second coming of Hamlet…’


Philodendrona the noblewoman, who was unusually friendly towards me, placed her servants under my command, in order to make my difficult task somewhat easier to complete. She made the ride to Copenhagen with speedy Danish ferryboats possible.

I lay prostrate on the bed within the luxury cabin, keeping track of the live broadcast of the Parliament meeting via TV, when I heard a knock on the door. IT was the ferry captain who gave me an envelope as soft as black satin with the golden coat of arms of the house of Philodendron. The letter was sealed in red wax where the initials of the infatuated noblewoman lay…

The letter went as follows:

‘‘I’ve used up all of my influence, good Sir, to secure a place for you to live in within the very Tower of Folketing itself and have your peace. Get ready, Boris K. The Snake pays the parliament a visit every night. It crawls up the Royal stairs, at times pausing at the Royal library, studying the terrarium manuals. I’ve instructed the most famous Danish architect to put glass panels on the walls of Your temporary home, for they say that the Snake enjoys looking at its own body on glassy surfaces. Therefore the glass itself will attract her, and You will finally confront her, thus do join me, as a hero crowned by glory, at the Faroe islands, so that we may together live in wealth and happiness.’

Then came the instructions about the movement through the Parliament Palace.

‘At the bottom of the steps are the Reception rooms. They say that the Snake tends to pause there, to gather strength before climbing up the Royal steps.’

‘The post-script stated:

‘’Your mission is of utmost importance for the Danish interests Her Majesty has formal audiences every other Monday. The Snake knows this. Last month she bit her ring finger, and then took over the State Council and issued a few decrees regarding the necessity of undertaking food measures of raising lettuce in Royal Only reception rooms closed off from the public – the amount of light shining through the baroque windows is what the lettuce, in those very rooms mind you, really seems to enjoy.”


They placed me in a special chamber, the one they called the Glass Home during my stay at the Parliament, they packed it full with glass houses, so that I, eagerly awaiting the upcoming battle, could devote myself fully to my hobby.

Once I had settled, the Folketing was emptied out in a matter of hours.

’Beware the snake at midnight, Boris K.’ the Prime Minister said and slammed the massive oak door shut, leaving me all by myself.

The clock struck midnight when I felt the ruffling around the table in the center of the room. It was the snake which was studying parliamentary deals. Its back shone bright in the moonlight. I approached it all but soundlessly, but it spotted my shadow on the wall, spooked itself, turning its heart-like, flat head with her eyes  erect. It was adorned by intense black patterns along its thick, pale grey body. The snake curled up, bent its neck and tried to bite me.

I was ready. I let out the battery powered rat from the metal box, which I controlled remotely. Spotting it, the snake snatched the rat, attracted to the lights and sound effects the plush toy was emitting, and it spat out the batteries. Spotting this, I remembered to tie the light cable, hued female python yellow, to the electrical outlet. The sweethissing snake male was tricked and hopped onto the cable. Power surged dance-like throughout its body, but the snake, aside from a few burns, survived the high-frequency shock.

download (1)images (1)

I was crushed by despair when I spotted the freezer in the corner of the Glass Home. I threw it open. Before the he-snake a tempting sight of frozen food spontaneously came to be. For the reptile was it to be or not to be, that was the question?!

‘Go for it, snake! The Århus frozen rat. Ice worm a la carte!’ I proclaimed. The snake refused such a meal, claiming that it would rather have lettuce. Then it spotted a large covered bowl from which, akin to a snake’s tongue, stuck out a tiny green leaf. It darted towards the fridge, and I closed the door behind it.

When it noticed, the Snake wept. This touched me a tad, hence I asked:

‘Why do you cry, snake?’

‘I will tell you, if you let me go’

I decided to let the poor reptile loose, and the reptile, happy that someone wants to listen to it, stopped crying snake tears and started its tale after a deep sigh.

‘I wasn’t always like this. I spent my life in the body of a well renowned Balkan politician who, upon phemonenizing, was forced to flee. Fearing recognition, I thought of disguising myself as a snake. Ever since then I’ve been living in foreign lands as the Balkan Viper snake, where I felt somewhat protected, but still living in fear of the citizens of Århus, who have a bone to pick with me.

download (2)

‘Every year around this time they get Balkan-based hunters, all in order to destroy me. Scared and alone, I spend my time with octopi, fellow sufferers from the deepest of oceans, where we nostalgically recall intriguing lettuce and gorgonzola recipes which I’ve tasted in my fatherland.’

Shaken by this story, I hugged the snake which wept on my shoulder. Instinctively I felt that the snake is in essence a misunderstood, kind being, and the snake said to me:

‘I recognized your noble and pitying character, therefore I will help you.’

The snake offered to take me on its back over the Norwegian sea, to Narvik, where I will be taken back to Phenomenonpublic by the North Atlantic current.

‘That road is the safest and the fastest.’

And to this the snake added:

‘Beware the people of Århus.’

As a token of gratitude, I gave it an enormous bowl filled with lettuce leaves, seasoned with hot, Århus spread, one which I located in the fridge. But the Danish spread, due to phenomenizing, was full of intestinal parasites, which made the snake lose weight drastically, twist its tongue and drop dead.

I buried the critter with the highest of honors, covering with gestures of formality its slender body with juicy lettuce leaves.

I sat at the table. It was packed with political scribbles, pamphlets, contracts, edicts, directives and decrees, secret letters of the highest parliamentary officials and the European commission. None of this mattered. At long last I had found what I had been looking for: an envelope, paper, ink and pen.

I started the letter addressing in an exalted manner Her grace of Philodendron.

‘I came to Folketing as per Your council, and I saw one end of the snake tail. Amid the fiercest of battles, I cast myself upon its tail, but it wiggled out and escaped into the Baltic sea. I grabbed the tongs from Folketing’s terrarium made of stainless steel, boarded a ferry and started snake-hunting.’

My hand was tired, but my Graph von Faber Castel pen made of twenty-four karat gold slid effortlessly down the surface of the paper. I decided to adorn the tale with as many Munchausenian descriptions as possible, hoping for, if not the title of a baron or a spokesman in the parliament, at least a solution to my housing problem, a modest stone house, somewhere in Eastern Greenland.

‘My dearest Philodendrona.

The quest for the snake was almost as long and arduous as its killing.’

Not wanting to keep the noblewoman in suspense, wait and worry, I mentioned that the ferry fell to pieces under the rush of the undercurrents.

‘I floated like a shipwrecked sailor on a piece of wood, dry-mouthed, when a supernatural strength penetrated my body. I was overjoyed when a few weeks later, having swum breaststroke over the salty Baltic sea, I located the mealymouthed snake which, upon spotting me, fled across the three seas and two oceans, leaving enormous cuts on the sea’s surface.’

‘Halt, do not fear!’ I shouted to the snake which kept fleeing maniacally, fearing the venom I had inside me. I had long been trying to think of a way to outsmart it. I feared the venom in me going evaporating under all the phenomenizing. As thoughts were rolling onward, I quickly came to a conclusion: the mealymouthed snake can be beaten by – a coalition.’

When I wrote this, I looked at the Contract lying on the table specked in the blue stamps of Folketing. This gave me strength to push onward.

‘I offered the North sea snake a Coalition Contract with the magical seal of the Pacific and a while whale, a great-great-grandson of Moby Dick.’

‘Only when part of the coalition with the sea hound which felt like a land-based housecat did Moby manage to swim to Madagascar. Only in such coalition, oh snake, would you be part of a team capable of relativizing the Loch Ness Monster’s popularity to whom I’ve already been a PR manager.’ I told the snake conspiratorially and handed it the pen to sign the Contract.

The snake, as is true of any other individual political entity, was drunk on the thought of impending glory. It accepted me as its manager.’

Enchanted by my own flights of fancy, for a moment I stopped, gazing at a distance. I shook myself back into reality, pleased. I clenched the pen harder, dipped the tip in ink and continued.

‘I gave the snake the pen – it wanted to grab it with its mouth, but the minute it tried biting into it, the phenomenizations rejected it. The snake bent and twisted its tail around its head, for it spotted the pen below the tail. It tried reaching for it with the fangs, when the pen flew away again. The snake wrapped itself in an untangling hank and suffocated. I saw its winding body away, which, motioning on the surface, slowly sunk until it was completely out of my sight.

I killed the snake after a long and hard-fought battle.’ I ended the letter to the noblewoman Philodendrona.


I folded the letter, took the envelope closer to my lips, sealed it and beaten by all the events and assailed by immense scenes of which some I made up, and some lived through in the Parliament of Denmark itself, I fell asleep.

The royal subjects were enthusiastically congratulating me and organized a reception in my honor which was attended by Her Royal Majesty herself. I’d been decorated with the Medallion of the Snake with golden and silver rays. I became an Honorary member of the Royal library of Denmark and had lunch in a prestigious restaurant Norma.

I was manufacturing various Balkan venoms per order, as well as antidotes for the Liberals who in particular feared snakes. On the streets of Århus by daylight, and on Faroe Islands by night, I paraded around, crowned in glory, my head held up high, decorated by various medals. I was headline news in the press. I was looking forward to returning to Phenomenonpublic and had declared this during a press conference – when I was met by the silence of the citizens of Århus. They all hung their heads, for their consciences were unclean. In what way could they even tell me, they were whispering among themselves, until one of them proclaim:

‘Now that you’ve killed the snake and freed us from this misery, you deserve the truth.’

Then, not lacking the fear of my venomous might, they explained to me that he who kills the snake can return home only under the condition that, should he abandon this accursed place, he crawled back to his fatherland, where they will sue him for grand treason the minute he finally crawls into it.


The Birth Of Narcissus

when I submitted this poem to the magazine, I received the following reply:

Dear Leila,

Unfortunately we are going to pass on your work. We don’t feel that it is quite the right fit for our A Portrait in Blues anthology. Good luck placing it elsewhere.

Kind regards,

Platypus Press Editors

Rather, this poem contains all the blues’
features, only the message is not served on a plate. Pay attention to key words. It’s a poem about the separation of a (wo)man from the toxic environment and finding strength and meaning in their own being.

authors’ note: Rest assured my remark does not contain any hint of the petty conceit. Enjoy my poem.

Or not.



I  have found my face

It is beautiful…
to smile by the lake, to kneel before my image
I, Creator,
Beside my one true lover
Who gazes upon my improved facial features
I, Creator,
I touch them with my newborn newly lengthened arms
Recreating myself , but in my own image

Graceful mirror,
what a magnificent creature I am
the pure form, offended by piss-poor perfection
I have no need for this damned society
Of humanity’s cretinous castaways,
now that I have found
my mad reflection

One vanity
one nature
one jealousy
that gazes at what she cannot touch!
no more!
and one love
always reciprocated.

With this new love brought from Heaven to Earth
with this beautiful creation emerged from the freezing water
there will be no more Petrarchan Platonic patheticalness
no more dark clouds above my shoulders with the strong pungent smell of storm
there will be.. No!
no more waking life, no!
No more wounds in my back, no crying at night
no more…

I understand that love is essential
I am taking the silvered mirror
I am kissing the lips of God
I am having my first date.
with Myself.


Boris K. was mildly astonished and asked of the meaning behind the street art, when he suddenly spotted another oddity. People were so short that their garb was dragging along the moldy tiles.
‘Oh, why you are… Downthesewerians!’ Boris concluded.

an excerpt from a story “Boris K and the Majority’s Minority”



Note: How many times do you wonder why someone is avoiding you and not getting any closure, judicially speaking. Kafka’s stories have no closure. Real life stories don’t either. Let me tell you mine.
Back in the bygone Nineties, I had a friend whom, without delving too deep into her private life’s choices, I had been very close with. We hung out in high school only for her to, all of a sudden, upon graduation, start ignoring all of my calls, moving the other way when she would meet me in Kragujevac (along one street, at the time well specked with hot spots for hanging out – therefore it was easy to run into her and vice versa). I asked her, whenever I managed to get to her, having passed her protective mother, her sister (whom I also used to spend schooldays with) why she was behaving like that. The moment she heard my voice she would have a panic attack, screaming. Later on I would receive strange phone calls at midnight, odd sentence structures uttered by her and I’ll stop there before it drags on longer than the royal bloodline…
It was odd to me what was happening to her and rumors reached me that she had had some “problems”. I connect the dots, some semblance of an explanation was there, but not enough of one. Why is she screaming only when running into me? I felt like Ed Gein, the serial killer.
I found out who her psychologist was (in Kragujevac this was doable) and decided to book a session with him as well in order to learn why a dear friend considers me a Michael Meyers mere hours after a field trip to Greece, and fast forward a few years, screams when seeing me, why she only invites me over on her birthday surrounded by a multitude of people and receives flowers as a gift from me. Psychologists had even then been playing professional ethics and, between two insulin shots, the weary-eyed diabetic psychologist told me all of her secrets, both known to me and unknown, adding ‘The very second you came into my office, by your friend’s description, I knew right away that you’re Leila.’
I mention this because I had openly stated my name and surname as well as my intentions, I added that I had no intentions of delving into the intimate details of my friend’s life, merely to provide additional info to the psychologist so that she might help her… and maybe even begin to realize why the sudden shift of behavior towards me. Were these some midnight cries for help? Still, she had been a remarkable friend to me. She was there for me when no one ever was! I had to find out what was it about me that disturbed her so much. Did I do something wrong? Something I was unaware of? Was I at fault for something?
And I added, maybe I too could get a piece of advice from an expert such as her, and then the psychologist suddenly burst out at me saying ‘She wants you to stop calling her! You’re harassing her! She’s sick! She has–’ and this is where she told me what my friend was diagnosed with.
I repeat, the psychologist growled at me and said ‘Ah! Look at you, as fit as a fiddle, and she’s so frail, and yet you’re the one disturbing her!’
‘But all I want to do is talk to her… Let her know this, and I will stop trying.’
And I really did. But her calls did not cease.
But that is a long story, my vain attempts at trying to reach the person I had spent schooldays with and shared a room with in Greece for five days were just that – attempts in vain.
But you know how it is – when in Serbia, even as an LAPD employee when you go to a psychological consultation, that is where you are – a psychological consultation. Period.
I come to Belgrade and lo and behold, I immediately meet a different, new friend who was there for me in the same manner the last one was – she was there for me when no one ever was! But she had also started avoiding me and in an attempt to prevent this, learned in the antique mysteries, I kept pushing and pushing for her to divulge the secret to her shift, to which she had suddenly said ‘Leila, I have a stomach cramp and I see a psychiatrist every day. You should go to, because I really have no strength to keep on giving advice to you! I really don’t!’
To this I sighed and said ‘Well, I did go.’
Suddenly the friend was flabbergasted and much like my at the moment next-door neighbor upon seeing the Halley’s comet, the second sun of Nostradamus and the follow-up moment of making the sign of the cross, she said in an accusatory, almost Kafkian way ‘Oh, oh so you DID go!’
I stopped trying to talk to her or get any closure, I think about a year or so now…
Did I do something to her? Something I am unaware of? Was I at fault?

I will no longer be posting Boris K. stories until…

I will no longer be posting Boris K. related full stories until the book is published. After this gem that I am right now sharing with you, I’m taking a break.

A Short, Though Not as Concise History of the Downthesewerese People

Boris K. was well acquainted with the history of the Downthesewerese people as written in the holy book of Cunnilinqus. The original manuscript was in the Linz city library:

And thus the goddess Sewera did cast a grim curse upon the city encasing in in eternal ice. As if this weren’t enough, she also created the Seweronimbus, the ice cloud ‘pregnant with semiprecious jewels of manholeatta and sewerrathata.’

And the young goddess had lost her knitting needles that afternoon, without which she could not have even imagined a more creative way to pass the eternity.

And then, upon taking a stroll among the walls of the unfurled Empire, she observed a nubile young Downthesewerese lass which she had created from the Egyptian Nile river residue.

And upon that most unfortunate day it was when the goddess felt a tinge of anxiety and disturbance. Thus she decided to seek pleasure in the palace. A feast was arranged then in her honor which, much to her dismay, the young blind Downthesewerese lass attended.

And the goddess did plant her in marble, fed her well, then talked her into giving ice skates a try. And the blind Downthesewerese lass carelessly rushed all over the icy surfaces.

And seeing as the lass had been clumsy and seeing as she rose back on her feet with more difficulty with each subsequent fall on the iced surface, the goddess did then offer her to try her hand at softball. The lass managed to injure herself in this sport as well.

And the goddess said, Wee Downthesewerese wench, you play defense. You’re in the foul zone now, get back to base!

And the lass did respond, But, goddess I cannot see! Where are the balls?

And the goddess did say, You are the ball! The goddess did reply wickedly, swung her hand and catapulted the Downthesewerese lass back to base and charged up the running bath in order to catch her mid-air.

And yet after playing her own particular form of a softball game, with the Downthesewerese lass’ help who was now stumbling blindly all over the palace and screaming, the goddess was still far from amused.

And thus she decided to enter the Glasssnake whose snow-white scales shined on the sunlight like a milky-white glass and with this action placed the Downthesewerese lass under temptation. She gave her a magic Linz banana and she did hiss, Should you eat this, four eyes will open up and you will become the best softball player in the known world. You will also have your own softball bat, and it will take the form of a magical banana from Linz.

And the Downthesewerese lass did realize that the banana was a fair meal, felt it up and established that its form was desirable and tempting. And she did take one of the fruits from the snake’s hands and ate it. Four eyes opened the very next moment and the lass came to realize that she had been naked. Upon this realization, the Earth tore asunder and the Downthesewerese lass fell through a horrifically deep pit.

Thus did, according to the holy book of Cunnilinqus, the first manhole come to pass and thus did the Downthesewerese woman get her name. Boris K. loved that part the most.

And amid the darkness of the first manhole the Downthesewerese lass did hear the beating of footsteps. A well-groomed Downthesewerese lad had carelessly been strolling down the goddess’ gardens when he tripped on the Linz magic banana peel and fell into the manhole.

And the goddess Sewera did take but one look at the manhole and saw that he was fine. Thus she created the Union made up of 28 Manhole countries.

And the goddess said, As long as I live you will dwell In the Lands of the Manholes and be the lowest of all men! And she did growl and reduce them all to the size of a human thumb. And the cruel goddess took all the precautions and forever separated Linz from the Downthesewerese folk surrounding them with seventy-seven seas and four hundred and thirty three winds.

And even with that having transpired, the Downthesewerese did not lose hope, believing that a day will come when they will, wandering the manholes in search of ideal sewer life conditions, manage to overcome the set obstacles, return to their place of birth Linz and entreat the merciless Sewera.

Let the Sleeping Dog Lie

A year after his monitor went kaput, Boris K. banged his hand on the table. He had had it! He took a piece of paper and started writing.

Boris K. was no essayist, let alone a scientist or a sociologist. He observed the useless keyboard with longing eyes. He stared at the paper, when suddenly a wave of inspiration struck him along with an army of ideas which clouded his mind. For a moment he thought he had been spoken to by a higher power. He wrote fast enough that a she-stenographer 250 clicks a minute strong would envy him, and the moment he finished, he sealed the letter and concluded aloud to himself:

‘My monitor is broken. This should never have happened.’

He put on his tux, took the earnings from his last film review and with a defiant air about him ventured outside. At precisely midnight, from the 123rd floor of the Secret service’s headquarters, via the magic of megaphone, the deep bass of Boris K.’s voice soared the Republic.

‘Citizens of the Republic, you all well know that machines do everything nowadays. Who even needs you right now? When you get cancelled and my patented machine gets the job not only will neither you nor I exist, but…well, neither money nor economics will exist either, nor politics!’

The President sat upright in his bedding in the building next door.

‘An urgent phone call from the church, mister president!’, he was told this before the phone even rang. There was many a consequence on a multitude of souls following Boris K.’s voice. A retired bank clerk lady still about her wits had, upon the mere mention of the words ‘revolution in human manufacturing’, screamed and escaped the building where she had been living secluded all this time. Mute witnesses will for generations tell tales of seeing a woman running through the streets, disrobing one piece at the time, screaming how she was renouncing everything. Everything!

The Secret service headquarters was surrounded by both the armed forces and the police. Boris K. held the megaphone with his one hand, and the other, the jacked up one, he used to grab two prostitutes at the same time and place them in front of his body as hostages.

‘Hold your fire!’, the masseuse guild of the Republic shouted. The voice of Boris K. had reached young ears and old alike. The awakened Winners sat at their computers afraid and desperate and with an incessant click click click of their mice for a moment they were displaying a dreadful sound. Panic spread across the city while Boris K. spoke over the megaphone:

‘The constitutional rights will still stand! Criminals shall be punished!’

Two old ladies with nightcaps forced out into the street from the sweetest of dreams embraced on a bench and wept. An old man had dropped the chess board which he had taken with him to kill time while the state of emergency was in full force. He smiled an uncloaked a golden tooth.

‘For all of the citizens of our Republic I have crafted a container and programmed it so that all of the molecules can merge, extracted from the liquids of materials thrown away in them and useless, which can last up to a millennium. To you, they last no longer than five years. Five!’ His voice broke off for a second.

A neon sign popped up on the billboard revealing the password:


The Republic’s gate opened. Another state of emergency was put in power, for one was not nearly enough.

‘There is no money. Capitalism is dead. Its time is up, your time is now. Type in the password TOO MANY CLONES, no spaces. It will fling open magic gates as well as my patented container. A quantum leap of intelligence will follow!’

From open manholes Losers popped out, filled with hope, their eyes looking at the distant lighthouses.

‘Artists!’ The voice behind the megaphone roared.

The counter-terrorist units carefully snuck into the building and surrounded the bathroom. The hostages were doing their nails. A senior gentleman was downing the newest brand of ‘Vlast’ tequila, a Russian brew. He was thirsty and rather apathetic. The Peacekeeping Forces grabbed Boris K., disarmed him of his megaphone and tossed him from the 123rd floor. Boris was fortunate enough to drop into an open container, the only one in that part of the city, and thus break his fall.

‘We punished this man here, this saboteur and anarchist, for he has broken the main postulate of the Republic: Never wake the citizens at precisely midnight!’

At that moment Boris K. stood up from his bed, covered in sweat.

‘The keyboard is working, article done,’ he mumbled and tripped on the beveled edge that Frau Suzie had measured together with the flooring installer and fell right into the toilet bowl. He managed to get his whole self stuck in there, escaping the eerie nightmare which hadn’t been stalking him since his experience with tar, feathers and a dog in the friendly Uganda. Hidden among the feces, sprinkled with moldy entrails and Waffen SS grub made of a brown substance, he yelled:

‘It was all just a dream!’ Comforted as such he spent a few moments in the toilet shell until he remembered to flush.

a_revolt__digital_anarchism_by_braboanarcho-d606q1m (2)

Boris K, the cosmopolitan protagonist

‘The Adventures of Boris K.’ was already published in Serbia, but I’ve decided upon the expanded Kindle edition to have the cosmopolitan protagonist live through cosmopolitan fate, to have him read and loved not only in the isolated space of the Balkans, but also among the aboriginal tribes whom he, often, breaks bread with on his travels.


Boris K. and the Shaving Kit

Upon his stint as a taxi driver, where he was accused of taking the customer to the wrong destination, Boris K. decided to seize different business ventures. He turned bitter and frustrated. Surely he was a remarkable driver, but the phenomenonizations did their trick.

He had heard through the grape wine that some busses of the city transportation, especially along certain specific routes, defied the laws of phenomenonization. He picked up the wanted ad for the bus driver position on line 42. This was unbeknownst to the she-passenger entering the bus at the front, in obvious high spirits, spreading the sour scent of Black Kashmir all around. Others looked at her abhorrently.

Boris K. tightened his grip on the steering wheel, stepped on it and the bus came to life. Parallel to this a panicky tenor of a frightened man soared within the vehicle. What happened was that a shaving kit went missing from an old man’s bag. Panic ensued. Droplets of sweat sliding down Boris’ temples. A saintly smile adorned his face, which horribly mismatched that hellish eyestare of his. Someone sang mid-dream, and the old man/mugging victim threatened to have them inspected and vacated the vehicle cussing and swearing. All of this, an endeavor too much for Boris K. to handle.

He turned towards the most gracious she-traveler and, the moment the well-off lady was powdering her nose a la France and Chanelled eyebrows above her eyes, he spoke to her courteously:

“Were you, perchance, in a dire need of a shaving kit?” The sensitive she-traveler teared up in an instant hearing these words, noting that she had just finished performing her bathing ritual in a sweet-scented bathroom.

“By the Majestic Mach-3, beyond a shade of a doubt, not a single hair ever grew on my body!”

Looking at her, Boris K. was imagining that Chanel the she-traveler was in a glass jar rounded up top. Noting Boris K. staring at her with suspicion, she said:

“I was born in an airplane, the moment the Chernobyl nuclear catastrophe took place.” Having said this, she took of her wig and the baldness popped out in full display.

Face Mask

Boris K. pupils contracted. He was at one moment observing her bald head, at another her white, smooth hands in velvet gloves. The passengers leapt from their seats. They were pointing at the top of her head, accusing her of stealing the distinguished senior gentleman’s shaving kit.

“We all saw her!” The loudest of the voices accused, belonging to an older woman with a hat.

“She is the perpetrator! She lies!”

Boris K. asked to see the contents of her bag, which the lady opened. Ampules of ketamine powder emerged. A drug evaporated which put a spell on the passengers and blurred all of the windows on the bus. They all jumped off their seats and started banging on the four sets of double doors, begging Boris to release them.

The she-traveler exclaimed, disappointed:

“I should’ve taken a cab.”

With his last ounce of strength Boris K. used his walkie-talkie to report a diversionary Mujahideen attack and fainted. When the fog dispersed, the bald woman was no more, and the granny wearing the fedora, the loudest accuser, pullet the shaving kit which she needed out of her brassiere, not to remove armpit hair, but for magic – to harm the neighbors stealing her exotic flowers.




Dorian D., the tenants’ association vice-chairman of a decrepit Balkan-based building, followed the societal standards blindly, believed in them and fought for them tirelessly. He was an example of a warrior against evil, having no other thoughts other than those of holy duties to God and the IRS.

When a shop of exotic foods opened up in the building across the street Dorian D. decided to look into it in the name of the municipality. The moment he ordered the necessary ingredients for a lamb chop a la the Kosovo Maiden*, the checkout counter lady said:

‘We sell exclusively the specialties of Barbados!’

‘@#$% Barbados!’ D. mumbled this.

The patriotic lady cussed in Barbadian and said:

‘You owe me money for the virgin oil you dunked down your bag!’

Dorian D. shivered and nearly wept. He turned around and ran off, blushing like a newlywed bride.

The same day he visited daddy repairman. He sunk into the chair and with zero fear of the unknown he told him of the unpleasant encounter.

‘I want a symbol tattooed on my forehead which will rid me of this bad reputation of mine!’

A few hours later je went out into the street with three zeros tattooed on his forehead, flaunting like a peacock. For Dorian D. had NEVER been in debt to anyone!

He entered his apartment, turned off the lights and went to bed. The ink, which just so happened to be of exotic origin, moved from his lower to his upper forehead, closer to the moor, decorating it with grotesque patterns.

The next morning, Dorian D. made his way to the mirror to admire his ink. Instead of the beloved zeros, three sixes appeared in his reflection, a deed of the hellish ink game of Barbados.


*the Kosovo Maiden— a Serbian national symbol, is the central figure in a Serbian epic poem by the same name, symbol of Serbian womanhood—wanders the battlefield “amongst bleeding heroes,” seeking her bethrothed, who had been killed.  She is the legendary “first nurse of Serbia”.

Injury – Justice

“If an injury has to be done to a man, it should be so severe that his vengeance need not be feared.”- Niccolo Machiavelli
Vengeful fate, weave a new web
For the one you hunt them with now is much too small
THEN Chase them onto the Dreadful coasts
The Deal is signed
And the Mission given
Into the hands of the Jib!
Go hard on the Hunchback until the Heat and the Thirst
Of the Villains
Drink my vendetta up.
(The Mind is entranced by fire
(Burning, burning in the wild flames of ruthless might!)
May even the Terror of the heavens itself with its cruel hand not make
The mortals quiver, disgustingly silent in this race
Just like my hand drenched in anger will harrow these throats
Of theirs
Until they whine a hopeless whine:
Hear ye:
A Wound of anguish lies
A foot drenched in blood
And a Heart on fire.

Flash Fiction + Biography Of a Misfit


Won three awards on the story competition “3-5-7” as a part of the “Helly Cherry” competition


  1. (…) 
One day he merely ended it, period. Underlined it, too.

2. Departing the star from the Magellanic Clouds. 
And there was supernova.
Leila Samarrai, a misfit among authors, managed to host her misfitting poetic nature in genres spanning 5 to 100.000 words. A poet of Himalayan seclusion, she was born in Belgrade in 1976

Ljubodrag Stojanović, author, A review of the short story ‘Artists’


What I truly love about Samarrai’s writing is the brilliant dislodging of epochs and people, eruditional toying with the documented and the fictitious, the unpredictability, the lavish fancy and terrific dialogues. One should not be Tagore to enter the Garden of her worlds and labyrinths, where Mozart and Trier meet, Wagner and Bach, or rather Bachs. With Samarrai time and space are toys, an occasional means but never an end, rather a limbo where they, in fact, do not exist. In her necropolis living people dwell, , while the dead or undead roam the city streets, and those dislodgings seem quite convincing, realistic, even logical. This writing and Samarrai as the author both deserve a far bigger readership, for the fate of the poem-the verse-the tale is not to be silent nor is it the fate of great authors to be unmentioned.



“A Poem of a Crocodile” 

Satire is a defense of the intelligent from the primitivism of the dumb. “Crodocile” is a poem which could be part of elementary school textbooks. It has a merry Ionian scale rhythm, I kept hearing the piano while reading it, occasionally trying to imagine it accompanied by sounds of acoustic guitars and, as a throwback to my childhood, the voice of Branko Kockica. Also, the poem, especially in its final verses, can of course be – though this is optional, of course – a reference to, as it is now popular and not all too politically correct to say, the influx of refugees, or rather migrants, into Europe. But this is not the end of it: “Crocodile” is also a poem of protest, engaged literature, a reflection of the author’s social consciousness and her view of society and the system, both here and in other parts of the globe. Still, she has a specific deal with the Crocodile, and she herself, as the verse puts it, is a Crocophile, meaning she knows all about the Crocodiles and other newcomers to Belgrade and Serbia, perhaps more than she is willing to share. Whether the Nile delta, Guatemala or tiny Serbia will be the house of crocodiles, whales and other magnificent creatures who truly sleep with their eyes beyond all evil, we might learn in the continuation of the poem or in the poetic cycle with this central topic, for the author, despite her minimal experience with rhyme [Paryse, Londyne…] feels at home with this style and with her lucidness and verse-laden engagement, the recommendation presents itself, meaning that, speaking in sports’ terms, the A-team stays the same.

Ljubodrag Stojanovic was born in Gnjilane on April 22nd, 1972, where he had lived until June 1999. He writes aphorisms, poems, rock lyrics, plays, short stories, and novels.

He is currently living in Nis.

Selected bibliography: ‘The Serbian Story’ (2002), collection of aphoristic prose ‘Both Insane and Confused’ (2009).

Ljubodrag Stojanović, author, A review of the short story ‘The Bitch’

Ljubodrag Stojanović, author,

A review of the short story ‘The Bitch’
THE POETRY Leila Samarrai is an exceptional poetess. Hence why the lyricism is so excellent in her works. Consciously or not, whatever the case might be, ultimately it is irrelevant, the verses flow from her sleeves, fingertips, quill, making up a powerful waterfall of verses which floods us readers, therefore we, occasionally, while disappearing into the colors and verses of Samarrai, get the impression that we are reading a poem, a poem that akin to sound (of whistling) gets stuck in one’s throat.
THE PLAYS I have had the honor of reading Samarrai’s plays. Perhaps some would call me subjective on this, but her plays are equally as good as her poetry. What’s more, Samarrai’s poetry and plays often are intertwined, making up an antique literary fatherland. Samarrai’s erudition mixed with imagination creates and destroys worlds and universes, leading us through epochs and vast spaces as if in a dream, or rather, in a moment. Is ‘The Bitch’ a type of play? Very much so. This story yearns for an adaptation, and it might happen if an open and ingenious enough person reads it and feels its bark or voice as an invitation for casting of a role of roles.
THE FARCE Speaking of playwrights, farce is the one thing that must not be avoided in Samarrai’s works. However you identify with her protagonists of either sex, with their realistic – and in a way our own, too – basic and easily recognizable problems, we are left with the other side of Janus’ face, partly smiling, partly grim. It is enjoyable to wander around the light and darkness of Leila Samarrai. Her humor can also be quite vocal, with many a hahaha within, and it can also, in the blink of an eye, turn itself into a very sharp and even shredding satire of human and less-so characters. Samarrai is what Branislav Nušić could have been had he ever wanted to dabble in horror.
THE ABSURDITY Mentioning Samarrai’s works, and glossing over the absurdist tinge of it, would religiously speaking be blasphemous. Even though it seems easy to write of absurdist literature or to write absurdist literature itself, I would disagree that everyone can do it with a little bit of imagination packed into the zeitgeist. Samarrai’s absurdist tendencies are not there for absurdity’s sake, nor does it adorn itself with it, spraying it all over the letters, nor amateurishly summon it like the Dodolas summon the rain. The absurdity is there, it materializes on its own, popping out of the situation, has a face and form of engaged literature, it is strong and loud, it chides and accuses, it awakens and sobers…
COURAGE Leila Samarrai is without a doubt a courageous person. I will not go into the minutiae nor explain why I think so. It will be enough for you to take one of her works, read it from start to finish, and it will all be clear. Without literary courage, there is no literary quality, or rather, it remains unfinished and silent, which in literature is a death worse than death.
METEMPSYCHOSES AND METAMORPHOSES IN ‘THE BITCH’ All of these characters might in a Borgesian, Alephian way, all be one. Peter is Ana and is Pipi and Fifi, and…The whole work itself. And not just him, but each of them separately. Dismantling, rearranging and transforming of characters is in particular a great treat of this all-encompassing work. For instance, Pipi is 2×3.14! An amazing solution out of which Pipi becomes Lazarus who is raised back from the dead. Also, the amazing ‘woof woof’ ending, with its greeting or saying goodbye, stultifies any character division to humans and animals, men and women, protagonists and antagonists. A top notch work of fiction alongside which you grow and learn.…/I-lud-i-zbunjen-aforizmi…/54762727




Review, Nataša Mačukat, professor of German language and literature ‘Upon reading ‘The Adventures of Boris K.’ …

Review, Nataša Mačukat, professor of German language and literature
Upon reading ‘The Adventures of Boris K.’ my first impression was – a novel came out fit for its time of publication, in an ocean of new well-renowned works of fiction, completely anachronistic, more often than not imitating the romantic form and expression. A novel that discovered new in a completely natural manner, without the forced and assembly-line experimenting, in an age where ‘nobody believes in the virginal literatures anymore’, it simply materialized itself out of the spirit of the 21st century.
Other than alluding to Kafka in its very title, ‘The Adventures of Boris K.’ can remind the reader of E.T.A. Hoffmann , the German romantic author who was at least two centuries ahead of his time, with its elements of fantasy and the bizarre, or of Gustav Meyrink with its specific type of horror. In a broader thematic context the novel takes place in a setting where literature has long stopped being Arcadian due to being overladen with historicity and had also long and in the widest range possible started to deal with the relationship of the individual with society – in Central Europe.
The subject matter of the novel is Serbia in her transitional age, without mentioning this specifically, but can be understood in a far broader context. Obviously a work of satire, but avoiding that which satire has become today – institutionalized, watered down, overly present, and cynically and arrogantly used by those whom it should by definition be targeting, because they cannot be touched, and it creates the illusion of democracy.
Boris K. is represented best as a video game character – without much character he goes to different ‘missions.’ With his facelessness, one moment overly and nigh-drunkenly involved and another barely mildly so, adding the bizarre nature of the missions, he describes all of us people of today – forced to adapt to various roles with the purpose of maintaining an existence, most assuredly losing our way and accepting worthless roles and habits, we lose our essential self.

SLIKA NEBOGLEDOM ODGLEDANIH, roman pisan u online varijanti. Zahteva vaš konstantni update!

“Slika nebogledom odgledanih”, odlomak iz novelete, Leile Samarrai, roman pisan u online varijanti. Zahteva vas konstantni update! Novi pasusi ce pristizati…
Možda sam vas sve izmislila. Možda ste vi samo u mojoj glavi, vrtite se tu u ritmu valcera, krijete se u ogledalima, kezite mi se u lice i govorite:
– Mi smo samo hteli da te zatvorimo, u kuću. … eventualno iza resetaka…. Nismo predvideli halucinacije….
– Šta bulazniš?
– U pravu ste. Imala bih mnogo posla ako bih hodala starim putevima, utabanim putevima da bih sačinila nekakav dokument o sebi. Da preorem svaku brazdu svog detinjstva. Da oslobodim duhove prošlosti koji su me i doveli do vas kao robove oslobođene okova, samo da bi na sebe navukli teške, zlatne lance.
Ne znam kako ovo da počnem drugačije, stoga, uvodi, objašnjenja, dokumenta, nestanite.
Prihvatite ovaj uvod kao moj šturi poklon:
Zovem se Marija Mediči, imam 34 godine, po profesiji sam propala glumica i student istorije (još uvek apsolviram…) i već desetu godinu progoni me grupa propaliteta, varalica, psihopata i ludaka, zbog čega na ulicu ne izlazim, ni sa kim se ne družim i ne viđam pošten svet.
Tomislav Kalpeper, profesija pravnik. Nabijen i nizak, oči kao u Akira Kurosave, voli bičevanje do krvi i smrti, klanja se Dodoni Rasel, profesija engleski, svačija Muza i bič Božji, udata za kepeca do struka joj, gospođa malograđanka i kućevlasnica bordela upečatljivog naslova „Akademija bola“.
Nostradina Babel, nosi slavne retro kovrdže a la Merilin Monro i kao ona, seks simbol je kruga beogradske dvojke. Uzor joj je Eva Braun. Prolupani, samoljubivi stvor, čija je mama oligarh bankarstva sa transferom novca kad joj zatreba.. U maminoj dresuri, Nostradina, inače član Mense, je, jedna od onih, koji su, preko noći, od prosečnog konzumenta radže i bensedina, zajedno s drugim nitkovima i brbljavcima, postali generalni direktori, sa naci – arijevskim pogledom na svet. Oči – kao Leonardo Di Kaprio. (i boja i oblik)
Miss M, zli invalid mastermajnd, veselog duha kao i omiljeni joj slikar Tuluz de Lotrek. Da je u njegovom društvu, zajedno bi slistili bure apsinta. Ovako, Miss M bi dala bubreg za dve stvari: levi bubreg za Nostradinu, (na rate, ako može i po povoljnoj ceni), a desni, kad joj po svoj prilici Nostradina odbije levi, za bure hajnekena. Zlovoljna je jer je ponižena. Okružuje se priglupim slaboumnicima. Dodoni Rasel joj je bliska rođaka.
Krilatica: „Ja sam kao pijavica. Kad zgrabim, ja ne puštam“
Džezebel Hasanaginica, 35 godina, građe teretnog automobila, zvana Maratonski bik, zlih i agresivnih namera koje otkriva tek kad se uvede zakon o zabranji točenja alkohola. Dotle joj osmeh leprša na licu, hladnokrvna i metodična dok ne zagrmi u basu i ne polupa sve kafane kroz koje redovno šeta. Kada je u kondiciji u stanju je da preskoči sto. Od bosanskog pakla do mističnog pustolova, od poslednjeg nokauta u kafani Druga Mi Kuća i Šuj Baje Bluza do Divovskih trka. Specijalizacija: planinski maratoni. Staje na svakom 50 – om kilometru dok kroti mamutsku trasu pred kojom su mnogi poklekli da se, uz pljoskicu, priseti starih dobrih dana“
„I tako sve do Kuromajera“, zagrmela bi u basu, zadivljenog pogleda na Monte Rosu..
. Redovno ažurira horoskop. I svoj i tuđi.
Bludna kći koja je krenula u crkvu.
***futurus persevero / this thing must be continued!

I još par statista….

Aaaa gde ste se vi upoznaliiii?

 Prokleta sam večnošću. Kidala sam lešine pod Trojom, opipavala skamenjene praegipćane, Nabta Playe, jela sam crnoglave sveže sumerićanske glave. Moje vreme je duboko. Moja nebesa su obojena u tamu, bez sunca. Bez zvezda.

Uz podli osmeh penjem se uz piramidalni Materhorn. Gazim neosvojive vrhove, doletela sam iz kantona Vallais, sa sve crnim jezerom koje je potopilo Gimenvald.


Upoznali smo se na Kalabrijskim plažama, zapravo. Podelili smo divno letovanje.  Osvajala sam Kalabreške planine, a Kalabrija mi je oduvek bila kao dom.

Ako ikad budem želela da se ubijem, sigurno ću se baciti sa kantakarskog mosta.

A vi me pitate gde upoznajem Južne Slovene i Bosanku?

Stoga, zar je bitno gde smo se svi upoznali?

Na Materhornu ili u kafani “Kod dva brata”?

Šta oni tebi konkretno rade?

Njima ne mogu parirati carski špijuni za istorijskih apsolutizama. Naravno, upitanost zahteva odgovor: motiv. Zašto ja?

Zapletena priča i mnogo dramatičnih dana, da bih pružila odgovor znatiželjnim ušima. Nisam poznavala hohštapleraj dok se nisam preselila u Beograd. Opipavala sam ih (sva ova lica koja su našla svog pisca)i napipala kroz pomrčinu i pakao noćnih klubova. Stare frajle, polni organi izmešani, postavljeni na pogrešno mesto, na jednom telu, sunčani točak na nasmešenom licu Džezebel koja me zaljubljeno posmatra, energija, svetlost, život, Džezebel, maratonski bik, sunčano tele, večno dobro, međuigra očiju i poziv.

Moja usamljenost je bazdila na prosutu svinjsku utrobu.

Ti, živuća kobilo, praroditeljko života, siluj me!

Ti, o Ištar, paganko, što nadvisuješ sve, obljubi me!, tako bi stihovao Aton u sapfo varijanti. I zaljubih se u ovu Dafne ili Erosa, kako je ko shvati (a Dionis ona biva kada cugne neku)

Preskočiću naporne detalje razbuđivanja Erosa među nama dvema. Dosadne su pojedinosti o beleškama što ih čini želja u očima. Ili pupljenje cveća, čiju je nevinost probio trn prve odsvirane note žestoke, raspaljene strasti. Ukoliko želite takve pojedinosti, obratite se literaturi markiza de Sada ili metafizičkom doživljaju seksa Julijusa Evole.

Bila je to igrav pogleda i po neki dah u stakatu, dve rasplesane nimfe, pregorele želje usled zabranjenog dodira. Kadgod bismo poželele da smrvimo ćutnju među nama, i da poljupcem zapečatimo nameru, pojavila bi se ONA. Ime: Brona Lisa, 38 godina, ukočenih linija tela, arhajskoj osmeha, nalik na wondjina slike Aboridžina koja ukrašavaju šuplje grobnice i prikazuju glave bez usta.

Tablični integral kao pojam bi bio najpribližnija odrednica njenom postojanju. Kao i pozamašni muški kožni novčanik Emporio valentini made in Banja Luka, iz koga su izvirivale novčanice nalik na mnoštvo raškuštranog perja kongoanskog pauna.

Kako bi se mašila za koju, tako bi Džezebel nesvesno zabacila glavu unazad u ekstazi, prevrnuvši očima, zakolutavši ih čini se do potiljka, uz jedno: “Ah! Moram da odem do pošte da uplatim novac za prijavu ispita!”, iliti “lepe sise su seksi, ali pare nemaju cenu, sorry darlin’.”

“To je lijepo”, rekla bi Brona lisa – ali zaboravila si na štafelaj.  Trebalo bi i njega kupit’. Ti si i umjetnica. Moraš vežbat’ crtat’”

Tada bi mi Brona Lisa uputila pogled a la Lisi Borden, u trenu kad je čuvena serijska ubica zamahnula sekirom obrubivši glavu rođenom ocu…


Pisac! Waky! Waky! Sarkazam u dupe, pa u napad na novi dan.

Stojim sa nebogledom ispred prozora I zumiram staze I bogaze zelenih beogradskih površina.

Moja soba liči na radničku spavaonicu.

  • Ja sam svakako morala da znam kako će to da se završi – spuštam nebogled.
  • Mislite da je postojao neki plan, blagoslovljen Bogovima?
  • Popišan, misliš? – sedam ispred računara sa izrazom lica čoveka koji nema ništa, apsolutno ništa više da saopšti.

I šta se dalje dogodilo? Mislilo bi se da devojka od 26 godina koja se seli u veći grad, sa toliko talenta i mudrosti može da shvati da u vezi ne mogu da postoje troje.

  • Nije mi padalo na um da se zadržim u Beogradu. – okrećem nebogled prema sebi – Nekad nesebično doniramo sive ćelije iskrenosti ljubavi koja nas je zadesila… Ko to povraća u uglu? Ah, to je moje JA današnjice. Koliko toga mogu reći o svojemu JA današnjice.
  • Briga me za čoveka JUČERAŠNJICE. Briga i vas i nebogled.. No, ko može da ispriča ovu priču do čovek koji je nije preživeo? Sad samo korača novi čovek I džara rane, potkopava mesto groba čoveka koji je umirao svih deset godina. Gde mi je lopata? Vidi kako grob odjekuje! To se leš diže I budi.
  • Ja više nikad neću voleti jer sve čime sam mogla voleti je oduzeto kao oduzeta ruka ili noga ili isečena, raščetvorena.

Ne bih propustila niti jednu reč, samo da oživim mrtvaca. Neka jaukne, pa ću mu grlo ponovo iščupati, da se zauvek utiša.

  • Izvolite nastaviti posao. Nebogledom odgledajte!

Kako pisac ili dete, ili devojka podložna ili ponižavana čitavog života, poput Justine, sa svim njenim nevoljama nevinosti, može ODMAH prepoznati otrov zmije koja gmiže među kamenjem, među lišćem..  Potom ODMAH ublažiti žuč.

  • Govoriš o posebnoj vrsti senzibiliteta?
  • Razmišljam o tome da promenim ime u Justina!

Da, Justina beše ona što je vikala u suzama, čija je obzirnost i afekcija bila usmerena nerazborito, ka razvratnicima koji kušaju sočno,  čija okrutnost vezuje u lance,  oholnicima i podrugljivcima.  No, zlo je uvek zakopano u suprotnostima, zlo je uvek ukopano u obično.  Tu se ono krije, pod vatrenom korom afekcije, izmršavele istine koja teče iz isuviše vernoga srca. Gmiže zlo licem kojem bejah privržena, ja Marija Mediči, ostaviću Justinu markizu, da se vratim sebi i svojim ranojutarnjim mukama umočenim u pero. Kako je morala da boli glava oživljenog čudovišta, stvorenog od delova raznih leševa, eto,  na to liči i moje Čudovište. Oživljeno baterijama i cinkovim pločama prikačenim na bolne delove tela, eteričnom vatrom, kalorijom i elektricitetom, udarom munje,

I takva je moja priča.

U mojoj priči, svi su mrtvi, do Čudovišta koja danas, proživljavajući svoj elektro – život,  evoluiraše do klonova bez emocija, oni koji konzumiraju.

Zahvaljujući nekom čudesnom promislu,  reših da se prihvatim iskopavanja, ja, čiji grobarski posao obavljam hladnom usredsređenošću najodrešitijeg mislioca.

Koristim čuveno pero Eversharp, upadljivo lepo u jednostavnosti dizajna, posvećeno i u službi vladavine pravde i zakona koji pravdu sprovodi. Optočeno zlatom,  njegovo telo odiše naglašenom elegancijom. I direktno je svrsi…

Uzimam smisao iz vaše, za mene tad besmislene rečenice (ili za Justinu besmislene): zar ne znadoste… Kako ono rekoste? Gotovo s gordim prebacivanjem! Kakva je to poliamorična aluzija u ponovljenoj tvrdnji! Zar je Džezebel kakva Afrodita koja spava sa Aresom iza Hefestovih leđa, ili mora da ga pita? Jesam li ja nežna boginja koja se pretvara u Kali razaračicu, a Brona bi bila raktabija iskidanih žila i popijene krvi?

Da se vratim na Afroditu, mrežom ulovljenu, skupa sa Aresom. Dogovoreni brak sa ružnim i slabim Hefestom kako ga vidim, nalik na neumoljivu Heru, Afroditi se nije svideo.

Džezebel je, sračunatom prepredenošću,  prigrlila ovaj dogovor, skupa sa svojom totemskom maskom prerušene zveri u očajnom pokušaju da se reši bolne osamljenosti o kojoj su mi govorili kad sam pristigla u Beograd. Punila je ta tračarska zverad lažima kao pirat džepove nakitom ubijenih, mislila sam i nisam ih slušala. Ali, kad se trač zaseje, izniknu sadnice, reči se iznova vraćaju u život, makar ih pamtim da bih kasnije mogla da opovrgnem njihovu neistinitost.

Govorilo se da je kurva, a la za sto lira u sto vira. Behu vrliji u pljuvanju i nabrajanju njenih nedostataka od Seneke koji je pisao moralna pisma Gaju Liciniju. A većina gadne krvožuči koja je belasala niz bradu tračera kao kod besnih džukela, odnosila se, upravo, na koristoljublje i promiskuitet, u kojem joj je duša iščezla, kako san shvatila, skupa sa sve hladnim srcem koje ne poznaje čari erotske ljubavi, osim ako nije rutinizirana i smišljena, sklona finansijskim transakcijama pomešanim sa orgijastičkim rešenjima.

  • Čemu bolna osamljenost?
  • Da, bolna osamljenost, to je naša Justina. Rođena u krilu razvrata, dotle, uvek na dnu planinskih vrhova koje Džezebel ovih dana neumorno osvaja…

Za nju je novčanik Brone Lise izazivao osmeh koji je reflektovao grč Brone Lise, fenomen koji ću imenovati “bronalisin” osmeh. Kriva usta, izlivena u još krivlju liniju nepomičnog kipa arhajskog perioda, ušuškana u sigurnost i kako bi Grci rekli, kalokaghatos.

“E da je meni taj kalokagatos!”, lupila bi me po ramenu Džezebel kad bi me pitala: “A što se tebi ne dopada Brona?”

“Naprosto volim.. sumersku umetnost”, odgovorila sam uz pivo kojim me je Džezebel, uz šmekerski osmeh, nedolično nalivala. A ja sam pila, žudno, taj otrov, onako kako bih tad žudno popila sve njene poljupce.  Ko spozna da mu svirepost sedi s druge strane stola u zagrljaju očima, a one šalju pogled žestok kao prasak munje, uz bestidnim šapatom izgovorene reči podmuklih namera, uvijene u lažni humor. Ipak, ličio je na lakrdiju u scenskoj igri budale zveketanera koji se glupo šali samo da još veću budalu zabavi.

“Znaš… –  tvorkinja varke nežno položi svoju ruku na moju, ali tako da okrenu dlan prema gore. On zasija u ružičastoj jasnoći. “Mnogo ljudi se pored mene propilo”

Tad podiže usne ka meni, osveživši trenutak bliskosti. To me uzruja, ali potpali i nekakvu mračnu bojazan u meni. Dodirnula me je jednom slična slatkoća sna i zamalo me je uništila.  Spoznala san ambis boli. Posrnula san davno. Ne bejah kao Justina, već mnogo gora, bejah Justina bez mnogo pameti, a od tog trena i bez integriteta…


iz Nostradinine čet arhive- POČETAK:

Njeno “delo”, darlin’ sve je to plod mašte. Naravno da će nas predstaviti kao beskrupulozne i prljave šminkere kada je ogorčena jer ju je Džezebel otkačila. Prvo napada, šalje poruke gde te hvali do neba, a onda se primiri. Potom te naprska pljuvačinom kad joj ne odgovoriš…

– Omča oko vrata, za tebe. Poput uskog užeta.. verujem da si zato morala da je prijaviš. Pretnja revolverom je ozbiljna stvar…
Of kors. Nego bre.. da promenimo temu.
– Naravno. Ona nije moja tema. Ne želim je.
– Hani… nju niko ne želi. Menjamo temu. Samo da iskažem generalnu misao pre toga koju ćeš ti da saslušaš: ljudi koji pročitaju dve knjige u životu, a onda ih stalno citiraju, pa ispada da su ne znam koliko pismeni… Ljuta sam na takve likove!
– Da, mašu svojom navodnom elokventnošću!
– E to! Tako i ona.. Mislim, edukacija, to je futur, tu nema dileme. Razumi me, meni ne smeta ako su nekome cipele prljave ili ako ima samo jedan par. Ona tvrdi da sam ja snob. Pa da sam snob, ja bih joj počistila čizme, ali stvarno se ne bih spuštala toliko nisko. KRAJ CITATA


Oduvek sam maštala da, u samoći doma, ovde u dnevnom kod mojih, masturbiram kraj florentinskog stola od ebanovine kupljenog na aukciji kod Kristija, sanjarila je Nostradina. Akcija sa skupocenom stolicom iz spavaće sobe moje mame. Oba komada u Luj LXIX pozi. Komadima tepam: Kegni i Lejsi. Kad mama i tata nisu kod kuće. Ima li išta popaljivije od toga?

Nostradina nežno dodirnu pametni telefon. Soba bi bila u potpunom mraku da je nije osvetljavala plazma lampa, Teslina kugla. “Uspostavljam elektronski kontakt sa kaučem.. sa teslom.. a ti?”, otkuca nepoznatom sagovorniku koji joj uzvrati porukom na ekranu, na šta joj se obrazi zarumeneše. Oseti drhtavicu i nemir. Da ovo nije Marija Mediči?
“Gde živim? Tu, odmah, iza ćoška”
Zašto me pita gde živim? Kucam na nameštaj porno dot com sajtu i to iz čiste dosade, a sagovornik hoće da se intimizuje.
Šta pita sad? Kakvog ćoška? Pita me.. Šta ću sad? – stanka, da bi joj srce zaigralo – Ah, pa šta je meni! Uvek postoji laž kao opcija!
“Čuj, otkad sam doživela saobraćajku, ne sećam se ničega o svojoj adresi.. Imam amneziju.”
Kako to otipka, Nostradina panično isključi telefon. Preostalo joj je jedino što je mogla da uradi u ovakvim situacijama kad je osećala misteriozno, a opet sabrano prisustvo Marije Mediči, duha prošlosti koja joj diše za vratom i pohodi je u mučnim i teškim snovima. Porno sajt za ljubitelje stilizovanog nameštaja, uz obaveznu čet opciju.
Nekada je to bio kokain. “Vrhunski”, nostalgično je pomislila. Poznavala je lika u Njujorku koji je farmaceut, a pritom I diluje kad dođe za Beograd. Često dolazi za Beograd pošto mu tu žive roditelji. Umeo je da donese I trideset grama koke, pa I više. Smiruje telo. Tako dobar efekat.. To ju je popravljalo. Dobijala je za džabe jer je lik bio fakat zaljubljen u nju. Potom je ona društvu prodavala vrhunsku koku po ceni od pedeset evra I odlazila u skupe kafiće, čašćavajući već debelo naalkoholisano društvo od tih para.
Prodavala je po gram – dva, a ostalo je čuvala za sebe jer je stvarno bio u pitanju vrhunski kokain.
Sada bi ubila za trideset mitja koke iz NY. Ljudi dođu i prođu, on je uvek tu.
A ona se ne druži sa bilo kim, već isključivo sa likovima I likušama ekstra sređenim do koske. Ne sa nekim klošarima.
“Marija Mediči se gnušala bogatstva, kakva budala. Govorila je da novac ružne čini lepima, debele mršavima, glupe pametnima, a pametne odbačenima. Kasnije mi je rekla da je moja porodica problematična! Ha! Zar moja porodica? Rekla mi je da živim u ispraznom skloništu postojanja. Da san površna luda, ta Marija Mediči. Možda u meni nema ničega, a u njoj ima samo opake zavisti! Kako se usuđuje da me naziva praznoglavom prišipetljoj koja je dobila svet na tanjiru od svojih roditelja. Nazvala me je kancerom sveta i malograđanskim smradom. Šta ona zamišlja? Da nije krv i meso? Da ja nemam srca? Da ja nisam krv i meso? Kritikuje našu ekipu! Sanjin otac je mafijaš i njena majka je poginula u nekom obračunu na Ibarskoj magistrali, pa ceo život krivi oca za to. Na Tanju majka ne obraća pažnju, čak je i hvatala par puta da se drogira i govorila joj da previše troši? Katarina se zabavlja sa dilerima jer nije jedna od tih koja može da priušti sebi kokain. Droga se ne dovodi u pitanje niti moja standarna ekipa. Imam pare, Marija Mediči, može mi se. – zaključi i uzme ogledalo. “Moj prijatelj.. Kada san sa ogledalima nikad nisam sama”, reče i histerično se zakikota, spremna da se našminka. Ali, tek kad otkuca ponoć…
Najednom, oseti nečije prisustvo. To je utvara. Hoće da je namami u zamku.
“Nostradina, upali sijalično svetlo”, bila je to mama. U mraku su joj se caklile oči.
Nostradina poskoči sa stolice i poslušno upali svetlo osetila je tremor, stravu, srce joj preskoči, a disanje joj se ubrza. Poče da muca: “M.. ma.. ma, t..ti si…”
Dočekao ju je pakosni sjaj u majčinom oku.
“Opet si mi prčkala po tekućem računu. Od sad pa na dalje, nećeš zlostavljati moju visa karticu. Više nema dizanja para iz autómata”, reče hladno Nostradinina mama, sitna žena, s trajnom na glavi, obučena u haljinu za koktel parti. Kako to reče, uze Teslinu kuglu. “Lezi u krevet, da ne kasniš na posao. Krvarila sam da te ubacim na mesto generalne direktorke, a ti mi ovako vraćaš. Samo jednom zakasni na posao i zaposliću te u maksiju, jes čula!”
“D..da, mama”
“I ugasi svetlo kad legneš”
“Hoću.. mmm.. mama”
Majka je stajala ispred Nostradine i gledala je optuživački.
“Dva sam privatna detektiva morala da unajmim od tebe umesto da odem u Tunis, sama, u povoljnom terminu.”
“Ali, mama, mene ona stvarno progoni”
“Zar to nismo rešili?”
“Mama, ona hoće osvetu”, izlete joj. Nostradina pokri usta šakama.
“Nije me briga za rezultate kod šrinka u medicinskoj ordinaciji. Nije me čak ni briga da li je to.. to.. revolverašenje istina, lažljivice jedna! Našla san ti posao u internet marketing firmi sa renomeom. A šta ti radiš na poslu? Piješ bensedine u kupatilu I ne skidaš se sa tvitera. Misliš da ja nemam svoje ljude tamo koji prate svaki tvoj korak… Zabušavaš, kažu. Pa, naravno, kad sam sve ispite morala da ti kupim, jer nećeš da se udaš.
“Ali, mama ja pijem bezkofeinski čaj.. ja…”
“Sutra idemo opet kod psihijatra. Ili to, ili nema više sto evra na stolu da se ponese ili ti uzimam kola.. Kaži…”, mama se preteći približavala.
“Neću više nikad”, bezizražajno će Nostradina i obrazi joj se zarumeneše.
Odjednom shvati da je potpuno sama u sobi. Uključi mobilni telefon. 46 propuštenih poziva za grad od ekipe. Potom uključi tablet računar.
“To je Džezebel – a njen poziv se ne odbija”, zaključi Nostradina i pažljivo otipka brojeve na mobilnoj tastaturi tablet računara. Vratila se na sajt furnitureporn dot com.
Opet će reći da kasni.
Ponoć je otkucala.


In his tiny two-by-two hole in the wall, Boris K. sat with a dignified expression on his face and his legs out in a straddle. He wore two left slippers of diverse colour. As he casually turned to peer in the cracked mirror, he was greatly displeased by the sight of his slicked-back gray hair. He attempted to part it à la Sieg Heil, but could not really pull it off because – he wore a flower in his hair, you see.

At springtime, as the locks of his raven hair started blooming, he left all the women breathless (left-wing ones in particular, as they were especially partial to flowers).
“There is a certain symbolism to them,” they claimed.
Boris K. was a seasoned communist, a ruin left behind by the transition, a redundant loser. Like many others, he looked back on the times when he subscribed to the Labourer newspaper with nostalgia. It used to be a matter of prestige.

Due to his former high-ranking positions as the coffee brewer and sentry for the Trade Union sessions, he retained the habit of sitting, sleeping and eating dressed in a gray business suit. On that cold evening he was waiting for the arrival of his landlady while reading “The Trial”. Remembering the times past and the chanting of the famous “Comrade Fidel, if you so said/we’d go live in a car shed,” Boris K. mused how, everything said and done, he was actually still living according to his beliefs. The very thought was heartwarming. Boris’ “car shed” belonged to none other than the very harpy, the very shrew who announced her intent to arrive at 6 AM on the dot. At that time, with the first rays of sun, she was to materialize in the flat. Boris felt hungry and mildly nauseous. Maybe it was the fear of the landlady, or perhaps an omen of the apocalypse. He felt confused. By the powers of the left wing, Boris K. was no coward!
He approached the old refrigerator, opened the handless door, and saw a drunken lady squeezed into a small glass cage. It was a bottle of vodka, the Russian standard with 40 percent of alcohol. The poster on the wall offered him support and encouragement, or at least so it appeared to Boris K. It seemed to be saying “Bottoms up, Boris! Long live the counterrevolution!”
“Alas… if only I could squeeze myself inside just like you,” Boris thought wistfully. He envisioned his landlady, the morning sun illuminating her like a halo, menacingly brandishing the electricity bill. He huddled against the wall, crying like a baby, his cheek resting against a poster. A thought pierced his aching head, which throbbed as if clenched within a hoop.  “But I don’t drink.”
“Now or never,” he spoke out loud. After the first sip, it occurred to him that he should attempt to seduce his aging landlady. He was determined to fight to the bitter end.
“This is how Alexander the Great charged against the Persians with his sword!” he thought, detaching his tear-stained cheek from the poster. “Is the casino Alexander still open?” he asked the wall hopefully, his face beaming.
Feverishly, he contemplated the way to get out of debts.  Even without a penny to his name, Boris K. decided to try his luck at the adjacent casino. He took a big gulp of vodka and stumbled. Toppling the chair, he knocked down the suit and the grey socks and grabbed for the closet. He let the bottle drop out of his hand after the second swig. Somewhere in the pile of jumbled clothing Boris spotted a formal suit à la Vienna. He looked at it from all sides. He looked both ways furtively, as if he were not alone in the room, so surprised he was at the appearance of a beautiful, shining suit in such a gloomy environment. He stroked the buttons gently with his fingertips. It was exactly what he needed. Boris K. looked up at the ceiling and muttered “Thanks!”
Delighted, he cast another glance toward the closet and noticed the secret barrier dividing it into two parts. He grabbed the handle and shook it tentatively, but it appeared to be locked. Boris K. stepped back and stood in the middle of the room. The bottle of vodka back in his hand, he raged at the locked compartment.
“You’re hiding some great treasure, I know it!” “
He heard something rattle in one of the suit pockets. His hands shook as he rifled through the pockets, but all he found there was some brass buttons.
“Pure gold,” he soothed himself.
Donning the suit, he decided to use the buttons as gambling tokens. Thrilled with his incredible discovery, Boris K. danced a few bars of the Viennese waltz in front of the cracked mirror, arranging his hair. Out of breath, he fell onto the sofa. He was transported back to the harsh reality by the picture of Fidel Castro winking – or so it seemed to Boris K – straight at him.
“Too much to drink,” Boris concluded. Pulling himself together he threw the cheap buttons into the corner of the room, took one glance at the electricity bill and burst into tears.
The old lady entered just as she promised – illuminated by the first rays of sun. On her dress, tailored back in the forties, she wore an embroidered swastika.
“The Brazilian tarantula. Such an elegant little animal,” she explained to the curious butcher’s wife in passing. She wore lace gloves, dirty fingernails showing through. Smoothing down her oily hair, she swiped a dainty finger over one of her eyebrows, tattooed according to the latest fashion. Following the unfortunately drawn arch, she cast an Ilse-Koch-like look to Boris K. A cynical smile spilled across her elderly, clenched lips.
“Cash on the table,” she pulled out a stopwatch from her undershirt, “in 60… 59… 58…” As she counted down, it appeared, the last seconds of Boris K’s short life, the age spots on her cheeks broke through the layers of golden foundation and bright lipstick on her cheekbones.
“Do sit down, old Fräulein,” stammered Boris K, pointing to the sofa as full of holes as a Swiss cheese and stinking of cigarettes. The old woman threw him a contemptuous look. Boris K. realized his mistake. “Meine Frau,.. I… I… Frau, bitte,” he stammered, hypnotized by the embroidered swastika flanked by a flashy heart-shaped medallion. Finally, he murmured “Just let me run to the casino. I forgot my wallet next to the roulette here.”
“The casino, you say?” The old woman swiped the corners of her widely open mouth using a forefinger and a thumb.
“I swear by… this poster on the wall, Fräulein Suzy!”
She studied him like one would an insect and, with a sudden twist, cast a look filled with loathing at the poster of Fidel Castro. Stalin was her true love, but it was a fact she carefully concealed.
“Too bad he is an infidel,” she said as the light pushed its way through the dirty windows, illuminating her head like a halo. Her voice rang with the austerity typical of elderly women of reckless youth, who remembered their days of decadence just a touch too wistfully. Once easy, now a puritan, she had changed the dirty skin of her body and threw it on the altar of martyrdom, akin to a snake.
Boris K. repented his actions. He felt like taking off his nonexistent à la Vienna hat.
The old woman turned, eyes bulging, and approached him at a menacing pace. With the stance of an SS officer, her long nose touching the chest Boris K, Frau sniffed him, noticed the empty a bottle of vodka and contemptuously waved her hand. Settling into the sofa, she closed her eyes in the manner of a yogi. It lasted a whole of fifteen minutes, with Boris K. perspiring, dabbing the sweat from his brow and occasionally massaging her feet, until she cried
“Genug! Stop!” Her wide open eyes startled Boris K and he immediately stood to attention. “At ease!” Boris K. threw the left shoe off his right foot, hips swaying. “I forgive you, just as my Fritz would have done,” she murmured wistfully, remembering her old love – a high ranking SS officer, carried off by the maelstrom of war. Boris K. burst into tears of happiness. “But, under ein condition! ,” she roared in a thunderous voice. Boris K. was all ears. “I will write off your debt if you can squeeze yourself into this bottle.” The Frau pointed at the vodka bottle. “Verständlich? Understand?” the implacable Frau screeched.
Boris K. glanced at the bottle, then at his soft, pink hand (he was an artist, and it is well known that they do absolutely nothing under the sun). He wanted to protest, to say that one could not treat the oppressed classes so. Squeezing people into bottles like that? Not even Mengele would have thought of that, he thought – but said nothing. Somehow he managed to bend his back; he crumpled, growing smaller, lowering his proud fists, his skillful fingers curled and his head hung low. Thus his entire body distorted.
Boris K. kept diminishing before the terrible powers of the frau, finally growing small enough to squeeze his tiny hand into the vodka bottle, followed by his shoulder, chest and spine – the latter proved easy enough to squeeze into the bottle – and finally his feet, which by that point had completely refused to obey him. Thus Boris K. successfully completed his task under the Frau’s contended smile. Only Boris’ two large, terrified eyes remained visible.
The giant frau stood up, took the vodka bottle and headed for the locked compartment – the strictly guarded secret of all secrets. For years she was suspected of hiding, if not jewelry, then at least Fritz’s letters there. She reached into her pocket for the gilded key and opened the plywood compartment. Frau looked with pride upon the arranged bottles of numerous manufacturers – English and French, but mostly German. One bottle contained Sir Gawain, her former tenant, the second Herr Hans, and the third, Jean-Paul. From the fourth, the Obergruppenführer Fritz (the former supreme commander of the Waffen-SS) smiled at his lover, the Frau, who blew him a tender kiss. Each of the bottles contained a tenant hopefully peering through the stained glass of his prison, every one of them grateful to his landlady for being so very generous as to write off his debt.


Imaginarium, Igor Morski 1960



It will all be over soon. Aaaahh, damn them, the rotational optics of insanity is gaining momentum in my head. I am not a woman. I am a macroscopic particle. A Spinning top. Call me Spinning top. I will do it so suddenly, so feverishly, and yet so calmly, my hand won’t shake. I will mildly lean forward, legs spread to shoulder-width, yes. Calm the body down. Aim carefully. Pull the trigger. Deep breath. Aim, pull, calm… Calm…


OGRLICA RAZDORA Ili kako sam dobila svoj prvi i jedini pijanino u životu (Dnevnici…)

Ili kako sam dobila svoj prvi i jedini pijanino u životu

Ruka i prsti formiraju kupolu. Neko vreme, pre toga, držala sam ruke na površini klavirskih dirki..
Opasnost vreba. Živim u pustoj dolini straha. Nema zagrljenih, okrvavljenih telesa, grad nije razoren, ljudi nisu preplašeni, naprotiv, dok se neka majka porađa tokom pada krstareće rakete na zgradu MUP – a u Beogradu, ovde postoji univezalni sklad, poput univerzalnog rama za prapočelo. Sve čestice na licima u skladu, razlivena u osmeh, ljudi ponovo međusobno razgovaraju. Bombardovanje je događaj decenije! Big party u malogradu! Svi su na ulicama, a ja sam zabila glavu u dirke i pitam te muziko: Zašto ne mogu, ja Salijeri, ispratiti tvoj milozvučni glas. Ti tečeš u meni u plavim valovima… Nanosim ti besmrtnu uvredu svojim pokušajem da te odsviram. Ja.. nedostojna..
„Ti možeš da poboljšaš tehniku, Leila.- Sve je stvar vežbe. Tek će biti svirke!“, tako je govorila profesorka klavira.
Začuo se zvuk nalik na zvižduk.
Bomba opremljena zviždaljkama. Ne pomeram se sa stolice ispred pijanina i nastavljam da sviram jer je već kasno. Bombe padaju brzo. Zvižduci su namerno priključeni na bombu, zarad oslabljivanja morala neprijatelja i poboljšanja strategije ronilačkog bombardovanja. Koju drugu svrhu mogu sirene imati?
Ako i nemaju pištaljke, uvek prave buku, makar zato što se vazduh pomera – prsti mi preleću po tastaturi. Bomba pogađa metu. Čuo se vrisak. Ili je to samo prsnulo staklo. Krv pada sa prstiju na dirke. Ne prekidam da sviram. Da.. bombe padaju brzo.
**** nastaviće se ****

Leila Samarrai, Dnevnici 2004 – 2017, Uskršnja priča na horor način


Kažu čak i mudriji od Imhotepa da postoje oni u kojima prebivaju izvorni svodovi i drugi elementi, od prve samoće, kroz zlokobje vekova,  do mene sada, u snu, dok besnim, a velik je bes moj, zapečaćen u grlu. Lome me slogovi strave ispod valova pljuvačke dok povraćam u slomljenu wc šolju svoju mržnju kao besno pseto.

Još jedna noćna mora, odvratan čin koji me pustoši kroz vožnju noći. U njima sam rob, a utvare i projekcije, kreacije podsvesti upiru u mene zlokobno oko i čine bezakonja.

Okolo mene, noćas, bejaše  praznina. Ispred mene put koji je vodio tragom smrti.  Ispod kapaka se smrt komeša u snu, besciljno me vodeći do kraja puta gde je klanica, tuku se robovi, taj bezvremeni esnaf, svedoci bezakonja, večna publika, oni tapšu dvojici gospodara  I pevaju:

Kad ono tvoja oba sina uđoše

U nevestine odaje… 

Jedan od njih beše levijatan.

Drugi – Abraksas.

I obojica stadoše ispred mene,  ali ne stajaše na zemlji, no lebdeše. I oko njih beše beskrajan krajolik. I obojica mi ponudiše ruku, da im budem nevesta i da im služim.  I govoraše mi da moj odgovor čekaju sa velikim nestrpljenjem.

Tad iskeziše očnjake i lica im posiveše. Abraksas me ošinu bičem, a Levijatan sevnu k njemu očima i zgrabi me za ruku da me vodi.

„Kuda idemo“

„ Svetovima nedostupnim“

Na to shvatih da mi zubi drhte, a kosa mi je seda. A Levijatan mi reče: „Ja ne marim za to. Utrimo, draga, zajedno, putevima tame”

I vodio me drevnim gradovima i letesmo zajedno, a ja hvalih njegovu mladost, zaboravivši ko je, jer mi je učinio počast. I svratismo u vrt u drevni grad Herakleon, na dnu mora gde on poprimi svoje obličje kita.  Ali, ne beše mu telo izduženo, niti je imao peraja, niti čeljusti, no beše otečeno, nalik na leteći, toplovazdušni balon.

„Bezbedna sam na dnu mora. On ima očnjake stvorene za ubadanje. I imaše silnu vojsku. Oko njega su marširale do zuba kopljima i štitovima naoružane žabe, a morski pas mu je lizao ruku u znak poštovanja, ljuspičav i jednook.  Tad Levijatanu naraste nos, usta mu se raširiše, a očnjaci probiše zenice. On isplazi jezik, po kojem su plesale pirane, krv šiknu dok je jezik nestajao, a nokti su mu rasli, post mortem, jer moj suprug beše umro na zlatnome tronu, u zlatnoj palati, na dnu mora.

„Mi smo ga ubile“ – ščepaše me nečije ruke. Osetih snažan bol. Bejah probodena oštrim, dugim bodljama morskih zvezda, kruna od trnja.

Tad kroz vodu zapliva Abraksas bičujući nevinog čoveka kome se na glavu sjatiše sve morske zvezde potopljenog Herakleona,  načinivši mu krunu od trnja. Ukočih se, spopadoše me grčevi, osetih sev i palež i celo telo mi prekriše pečati.

I iz svakog pečata zašiklja krv kao gejzir dok se Bičevani smešio, a morska čudovišta mu glodala glavu.

„Hristos se rodi, ‘ćero“, zaurla Čovek koga je Abraksas bičevao, dok su mu iz tela izrastala krila, na leđima i na rukama i krila behu prepuna očiju, nalik na Arga. Tad mu se i lice raščetvori ion mirno reče: „Ubij se. Pucaj sebi u glavu ili preseci vene. Nemaš zašta da živiš. Kasno je“, a ja odleteh iz dubina ka još nedostupnijim svetovima grozne crne beskonačnosti, prešavši okeane, pustinje, drevne gradove, zvezde, staru Zemlju, Veliku Pustinju po kojoj behu razbacana i raskomadana tela nomadskih plemena. Vodila sam drevne ratove,  na azijskim i afričkim granicama, sve do Kine, kao ratnik za dinastiju Tang i spoznah kako je biti muškarac. Nije mi se svidelo. U Indiji svedočih padu Gupta carstva, a dođoh i do Japana gde sam neko vreme u periodu Kamakura živeo  i radio (opet) u miru,  kao proslavljeni briljantni student keramičke tehnike, a zvao sam se Kato Shirozaemon Kagemasa (takođe poznat kao Toshiro)

Plutala sam haosom ne duže, činilo se od jedne sekunde, kad sam se, napokon, obrela, kao devetogodišnja devojčica u svojoj staroj porodičnoj kući, u Dragoljuba Milovanovića Bene – 58, u Kragujevcu, gde me je, blaženog osmeha, čekala mila baka.

„Kurvo mala! – iz usta joj je bazdilo na džibru, brutalnog sastava. Rakijčina od koje svaka ispičutura koja drži do sebe načisto pobrljavi.

„Hristos se rodi, bako!“

„Hristos! – preteći se približavala u slow motion maniru, gotovo dosadno usporenih pokreta, ne kršeči Njutnov zakon, jer kao i Godzila, moja baka beše pozamašna…

Ugledah vlastitu smrt, dok su me oko grla stezale  ogromne, mesnate ruke i ja ne mogoh da se oduprem njenoj strašnoj moći dok je vrištala:
„Gde je bio Hristos kad se šaputalo o izdaji i zloći! Muškarci, muškarci! Kolju ženu i čereče! I stoka se bolje tretira pre klanja! Mnnnnnmmnn…  Uzgajaju ženu da pere sudove i raširi noge za seks! Kurci im k’o noževi, zabada dok se ne istroši! Prljave prljave… Svinja je to! A i on, Milisav, bio je svinja, jedna svinja na ženu (mene!) još prošlog proleća, kad me je pokupio na dogovorenom mestu tamo ispod prodavnice.. mnnnnnmmmnn….  Gadilo mi se! Jeste, jeste! Ali, šta sam mogla, kada moram moram! Teraju ženu na to! Na gadni seks! Odkada se rodi!“

Sledeći kadar bio je statičan. San se opredelio za tehniku produženog kadra da bi moja baka mogla da recituje kao Pindar, dok su joj zubi strugali moje ručne zglobove još uvek natopljene krvlju od prethodne stigmate.  Umrtvljena scena. Umirem u teskobi, dok me pluća peku. Utapam se u ponoru smrti koja ne prestaje.

„Ubij me više“

„Ne mogu, ne mogu, nemam kad, moram da slikam! A ne mogu da slikam! Čeka me gomila sudova da ih operem!“

„Da ih opere! – nasmeja se neko – baba pusti malu, zvaću KONTRAPOLICIJU!“

„Gde je Zeleni venac?“

Ulice udaraju o ulice, o zidove koji traže nove zidove. Vijugam lavirintom. Nalazim se u Beogradu i polako idem ulicom, sudarajući se sa bolničarima koji istrčavaju iz zapaljene bolničke zgrade:

„Ameri“ – nakezio se prolaznik.

„Ma kakvi Ameri, reci mi kako da nađem Zeleni Venac!“

„Ne deri se na mene – oči su krvavo blistaju na nejasnom liku – rekao sam ti, zvaću KONTRAPOLICIJU!“

U tom trenu, Beograd i Kragujevac su se stopili u jedno.

Dah više ne stiže do pluća.

„Mislila sam da me je voleo..  Za čerečenje, da!“, stisak biva jači.


Osetih drhtaj ispod grudnog koša dok sam se borila da udahnem vazduh. Usne poseduju hitnost dok izgovaraju poslednje reči…

„Ne ne ne ne! Niko mene neće silovati!“

Budim se.

„Ne zanosi se. Nisi mrdnula iz Kragujevca. Još uvek ležiš tu.. sa nama… „, ispred sebe vidim raskomadano lice Kontrapolicajca stradalog na poslu, moje bake u strastvenom zagrljaju sa Milisavom, i silan narod iđaše iza njih, i Pikti, i saraceni, Sirijci, Babilonci i Lidijci i svako od njih nosaše na ramenima svog kralja, a najjači od svih beše zlatni Levijatan, u originalnom obličju kita, mašući sretno perajama kad me vide, dok njegove reči: „Vaistinu se rodih, draga“, nije ispratio moj vatreni urlik…


I, Franz Kafka, He who is versatile with light sentences, as well as everyday lexicon, have in regards to finishing all of my novels found a way out by writing this Code of Law, through Kafkaesque De Sade- von Masoch Code- KDSVMC statutes which have a final, totalitarian order, with a well-rounded meaning  and significance which can serve as solace to Kafkaesque characters, suggesting to them and providing them with the materials to conduct independent research as a hobby which will cut their dark days in half and preoccupy their sinful thoughts.

As I read these lines written in a neutral eerie tone and engraved by means of bloody knife into history,

  1. I, Franz Kafka, have permanently relinquished myself of the guilt which haunted me and heavily obstructed me in performing my government job, and have done so by adopting the following Kafkaesque De Sade- von Masoch Code- KDSVMC statute:
  • All of the trials are limited to a Castle of your own choice.
  • All trials are to be conducted solely in the Castle – and we will select what castle it is via fixed lottery.

    2. I, Franz Kafka, oppose die Autorität, the Scourge and Saint Attila, by flogging myself. I do not need the Scourge – I will carry out my own justice.

  • 3.Slanderers are not to be flogged but slandered because they are above the law, and he who feels no guilt is the biggest sinner of all. He is to be flogged but exclusively by a three-wire quirt.


This Code was discovered by a washed up actor Simon Culpeper, who was working at a quarry. He found it right next to a bloody dagger.[1]

KDSVMC 1. If the defendant chooses to defend him/herself with silence, and is intoxicated, he/she shall drink until he/she regurgitates and begins summoning his/her mother. Upon this his/her mother is to be called to testify in his/her stead. If the mother is passed on, her spirit is to be summoned.
KDSVMC 2. If the defendant chooses to defend him/herself with silence,  and is well versed in more than a few foreign languages the indictment is to be read in Swahili, and the trial-less verdict declared in Welch.
KDSVMC 3. If the defendant chooses to defend him/herself with silence,  and is also as sober and aware as rarely anyone else in the country he/she is to be sent on a course of opiate habituation and then returned to the Courtroom.
KDSVMC 4. If the Guilty party admits to the most gruesome of deeds with zero remorse, he/she is to be set free, because the society needs psychopaths to one day reach seats of power. If we eliminate the psychopaths who is it that remains?
KDSVMC 5. If the defendant has committed criminal acts before he/she is to be set free for the criminal world needs experts in the field, since it is an industry experiencing constant growth.
KDSVMC 6. If the defendant has a college degree acquired through string pulling, even if all evidence speaks to the contrary he/she is to be released since there are too many wiseguys pretending to be better than everyone, and worst of all, they really are.
KDSVMC 7. If the defendant voted on the elections he/she is to be sentenced to presidency of the homeroom class in the prison school for the illiterate.
KDSVMC 8. If the defendant did not vote he/she is to be declared president of the electoral commision to make him hate voting all the more.
KDSVMC 9. If the defendant turns out not to be among the living exhume his/her body and declare him/her alive, and then execute him/her by firing squad and put him/her back because then he/she would, legally, be dead.
KDSVMC 10. If the defendant is a politician who embezzled money from the national treasury he/she is to be given a loan and is to repay it, from the national treasury of course as well as via the stocks of a country-owned firm of his/her choosing for he/she will never steal again if rewarded for theft.
KDSVMC 11. If a member of the clergy blessed the criminals he/she is to be sent to a good will mission into the neighboring lands wherein he/she can bless war criminals on state budget as well. You never know which war criminal will seize power.
KDSVMC 12. If upon questioning the Guilty party should take the wrong turn, left of the door where he/she was questioned, and not the right one, he/she is to be fined because he/she is running away from the Trial for free, and the Trial takes place in the Courtroom and he/she will have to be brought back sooner or later, especially because of the Punishment.
KDSVMC 13. He who sues the one who errs should think whether he had not erred himself before. Had he done so, he should report himself.
KDSVMC 14. Who despite this sues the man who withheld money from him shall undergo questioning until something is pulled out.
KDSVMC 15. He out of whom nothing is pulled out is either not alive or a saint, and there are no saints nor the living dead.
KDSVMC 16. Should you be proven to have damaged the criminal while he did his deed you must recompense him monetarily.
KDSVMC 17. If you have complaints regarding eavesdropping this means that:
A. We do not eavesdrop good enough and we shall punish the people from the Security Department.
B. You are obstructing a public official following you and for this you will be fined.
KDSVMC 18. Those sentenced to death are only allowed to die once.
KDSVMC 19. Public floggings are forbidden unless the people decide otherwise in a poll within one of the tabloid magazines.
KDSVMC 20. All those who paid their legal expenses must keep silent about it – so that they wouldn’t brag as if they were rich.
KDSVMC 21. He who brags about being rich will be sent to Court.
KDSVMC 22. He who does not prove to have paid the legal expenses will again be sent to Court.
The Forefather is a Scourge since Attila is the Scourge of God. The Forefather is, therefore, Attila who later in life decided to take monastic vows and become Saint Attila.

Respect thy Father and thy Mother by having them whip you.


  1. Whipping is to be executed exclusively with a sterilized whip, dipped in a hydrogen solution.
  2. Whipping is sponsored by tanner shops and salt factories.
  3. Salt is a necessary element to be rubbed into the post-whipping wounds.
  4. Whipping is the same as whipkrieg and is not to be permormed without the blessings of the church.
  5. The church is obliged to bless both the convict and the whip with holy water before the execution is to take place.
  6. Whipping in BDSM establishments is forbidden.
  7. Whipping must not be performed with an old Avarian quirt.
  8. The whip must not be manufactured from horse skin, which would work for nomads. 


  1. The libelous person accused of libel is to be set free for honor is defended by dueling.
  2. Duels are forbidden.
  3. Should both duelists die – duels are permitted.
  4. Citizens are not to be arrested nor killed at night but during the day, mid-day, in the open.
Plagiarism is protected philosophically: according to Plato, all of art is imitation, and an incompetent one at that, especially the theater and poetry. Hence, when someone plagiarizes both he who plagiarizes a piece and the one who wrote the plagiarized piece are to be exhiled because both are imitating reality.
Men are, at the core, evil. Hence why being faithful to someone is forbidden – be they faithful politically or sexually – for longer than five years. Adultery or backstabbing is a natural occurrence because it is natural to be at war with everyone. Those who remain faithful to others shall be hung under the suspicion that they want an organized, conspiratorial takedown of the government.
Priests who are objectors to conscience and do not want to bless the weapons of paramilitary formations are to be employed in gay brothels as punishment.
Only corrupt coalitions are allowed in politics – see 3.
Who does not know of other man’s secrets and does not deal with cancellations and blackmail is lazy because he isn’t trying to work 25 hours per day but thinks it’s enough to come to work at 8 and return home at 5. As punishment he is to wear the same diaper for three days, without changing it. A cloth one, at that.
This way, my characters have, rather like myself, found their way out of the situation they were knee-deep in. Some of them live today, some not so much, but I have managed to finish, by way of this Code of Law, my novels ‘The Trial’ and ‘The Castle’, for it was only this Code that I was lacking to feel complete and to rest in peace.
And not only did I finish them, I’m contemplating a book series.The Trial continues!*


 *Persequendum est! *This thing must be continued!

[1] A subtle refference to Serbian protests to the 2017 Election results.


*Kafka’s writing has inspired the term “Kafkaesque”, used to describe concepts and situations reminiscent of his work, particularly Der Process (The Trial) and “Die Verwandlung” (The Metamorphosis). Examples include instances in which bureaucracies overpower people, often in a surreal, nightmarish milieu which evokes feelings of senselessness, disorientation, and helplessness. Characters in a Kafkaesque setting often lack a clear course of action to escape a labyrinthine situation. Kafkaesque elements often appear in existential works, but the term has transcended the literary realm to apply to real-life occurrences and situations that are incomprehensibly complex, bizarre, or illogical. (source:Wikipedia)

A Poem About a Crocodile

In the dreadful crocodile land

Something odd is always at hand
Quickly, swift, a non-stop jerk
Is this bold dragons’ constant smirk

They’re strongest with bellies filled
Drunk on blood of men they’ve killed
Out of Nile’s vast delta here
Three dreaded crocs did appear

Through an Adriatic slit
Two more whales came, via Split.
Two Siberian beasts more
Reared out of Mulyanka’s shore

From Mulyanka of Perm Krai
Russian, then Italian sky
Crocs their freedom do not lack
Down the Sava-Danube track

Gathered ‘low a bridge’s bend
Suicidals near their end
These beasts roam about the town
One fierce bite has me pinned down

As they swim and float around
Pin-like their eyes I have found
Meaty prey sniffed by their noses
Sharp-toothed jaw said prey encloses

I’ve a deal with them worthwhile
Cro co do co lo do rile
May their trio boldly hop
And on horny scuta drop

May blood-showers flow like ale
Lubricating our scales
One life but one Euro’s worth
Our words but empty pits

Hollow caves our stomachs sit
More cash for twos we commit
I’ve a deal with them worthwhile

Cro co do co lo do rile

Down their shoulders I descend
Embracing them with my arms
My tummy is going nuts
Hunger dancing in my guts

Already they’re set to drop
Already by waves they’re called
Why waste thought? Use this dilemma
To toss this human Kinema

To the current evergoing
Hell-way they gave, full well knowing,
Dreams that they had all perceived
It’s quite gruesome, this whole plot

Now life has it, then has not
What does my arm small and lean
Embracing their waistlines mean
Even killers feel depressed

Post doing what they do best
I meandered into titles
Which I find to be mere trifle
But who’s bloody all the while

Moreso than a crocodile
Who will pay the deal enisled
Other than the crocodile
Watch thyself oh murderer

Suitable and pick-of-litter
Are cutwaters none the fitter,
Windshields and the lightning rods
Are but desperate roughneck sods

And their circle-natured days
As they float livid and dreamy
One drunk sailor, brave and scheme-y,
Swims across the river’s dirt

Two oars tied around his skirt
Sings away the filthy Beast
Bathed in the light of East
With a fiery yelling slope

Right then he sang: “I give hope.”
Golden wings upon his back.
My deal is rendered futile
From my present crocodile.

Come another chilling morrow
I will seek a new tomorrow
Past the bridge and midst of branches
Where tangles a wrinkly road

Rage about my gold grows hot
Which I withdrew from the slots
This strange body, livid, frail
Chisels open this whole pail

Living dead man lets out shrieks
Mercy is what this one seeks
We vomited from the bridges
Till at twilight what we knew

Was a perfect scenic view
One whole city at our palms.
Belgrade cracks before our eyes
Statue-shadowed, it’s alight

Eternal is this vignette
Of a fiery townsman’stête
Under Victor’s statuette.
Our deal, though, is most worthwhile

Ro co do co cro co file

Gentle mom frightens her child
With a carcass most reviled
They rend those who cannot swim
New age jumpers, wretches dim

Slime and lees the water sweeps
One life, joyless, Death doth reap
In the slimy croc-filled dip
The beast took my blood’s turbid sip

One black freckle graced my leg
Their three lids are snow-filled kegs
Two icicles slipped mid-stream
From agape, cold Nile, it seemed

Wherein formed an iceberg vast
Empty trash can, of crocs past
Wicked that have fled erstwhile
No more delta formed by Nile

All its force now in exile
Emigrants on nightly mission
Clatter on with sharp dentitions
And their bodies slither slow

Pays up, then comes to me quick
To get my whole body licked
There’s no flight, no submarines
Nemo quisquam captain-like

Nor a sailor, one whose looks
Dwell in Jules Verne’s famous book
Nor hope in the light of day
Which mid-hearts doth lives and stays

While we were so full, nubile
Prior to the crocodiles…
Prior to the crocodiles…

Cap’tayneNemo, come to us
Up close comes the Nautilus
Maybe there is hope, I chime
To engender a new rhyme

And while beasts all roar and flail
Let’s elope towards a new tale

Do come closer, do come closer
Worry not, worry not
You are but a child, you are
Squeal and weep and spew some snot

Even though a child you’re not
Trudge, step all over the valley
For your shepherd follows by
Should I try and throw the die?

But, that number falsify
For the croc doubts aught and low
Taken by his mighty stench
That the killer up and went

Boat amid the night blood fled
With it filled the riverbed
And exchanged the Euric lead
Guate’s cute asylum spiel

Now I must break our deal
Cro co do co lo do reel
Do co cro co ro do KILL!



The Artists

‘I’ve carefully gone through your text of Wagner, madam. Quite passionate, a tour de force. This is precisely why I don’t call myself a Wagnerian, you will permit me (I hope) to provide some of my critical input.’

Mary Lynne allowed herself a minute smile and crossed her legs at the table.

The man tried his hardest not to look at her lovely, thin legs.

‘You start the text off strong, with a title that cuts to the chase, that doesn’t wander. The readers thinks that you will…that you’ll…’ His frowning face softened. ‘As early as the first, then the second paragraph to expand upon, to provide arguments to the qualification you laid…laid out, oh dear, I’m losing myself…in the title, yeah, that’s the word, IN THE TITLE! He gathered his wits for a second and started banging his head on the table – and yet nothing.’


Vincent D’Onofrio (Cholo) with Mathilda May (Stephanie) in the movie Naked Tango the end of the film.

‘You say that he bullied his colleagues, and also that you cannot cite a single example, because there is nothing written, or disclosed. Funny, one would wonder: where did the daring claim come from that the man was a witnessed sadist when there are neither examples nor evidence of this? ’

The man extended his hands towards her. ‘Oh, Maryyyy…I will strangle youuuuu! With a wire string, dude!’

The man panicked. He grabbed her throat. He screamed. ‘I’m panicking! I’m panicking! I have to jump!’

And he jumped at her mumbling how truly unhappy he is.

‘Look at her, how easily she gives herself to me! You are no longer so prideful! Get yourself up you low-browed dunce! Oh if only a wind could blow right now to lift your skirt up, and here I am having to put up the effort, they’ll even call this rape!’

‘And it would’ve been romantic’ Mary Lynne said coquettishly.

‘Right, like in Tannhäuser. Sing to me, sing to me, be my…Wilhelmina Schroeder!’

‘Is that like Venus?’

He lifted her leg in lieu of responding, as if he were plowing a field. He flung it over his left shoulder.

Venus sang.

‘Do forgive me never more will IIIIIIIII

Come to me if fortune’s what you seeeeeeeek’


Sophie Koch as Venus in Tannhäuser

‘My fortune…’ He uttered between heavy panting and then flung her left leg over his right shoulder (where the other one went, he wasn’t sure). ‘My fortune lies in Mary!’

And he added:

‘I also think that the text would have had more impact if Hitler hadn’t been mentioned. What, there’s no bloody way that Stalin, who was none the lesser a monster and a murderer than Hitler, didn’t love Glinka or Borodin, or more likely Mussorgsky. That does not mean that these composers were vile men. There is a sizable possibility that Idi Amin loved Tartini or Paganini, why not. There are counterexamples as well. Beethoven loved Napoleon for years, he even devoted ‘Eroica’  to him, after which he got disappointed, gave up on Bonaparte.’

‘There.’ Mary said, after an explosive finish a la Eroica. ‘Now, will we do some Wilhelm Friedman for me, sweet lover?’

‘Start!’ With Mary’s dress at an arm’s reach, he quickly put on a dress and made-up and groomed in a manga style he lifted his hairy legs up high, swearing that the Cliven depilatory cream was not handy.

‘You know how much I care for hygiene!’ He wept.

‘Cold waxing is the best with the Tiger tire glue.’ She smiled. ‘Now have a listen…’


Between Expressions by Hamish Blakely

‘Wilhelm Friedman was spat upon to the point of pain. A boozehound, died poor…(SIGHING) They then admit that he was the greatest instrumentalist of his age. The dude hit the clavier, not a single person could challenge him. A biography that on the surface looks like the buckish bios of notable rock musicians. Oy vey, there was a movie as well, I think the title of it is in fact Wilhelm Friedman, where he, apparently, suffers and struggles (SHE SIGHS LOUDER AND MORE PASSIONATELY) as a gifted son of a well-known father. The catch is that his father was nowhere near as noteworthy when Friedman was playing, and his problem was neither living in his father’s nor in his brother’s shadow (Mozart said about Carl Philip Emanuel: ‘He is the father, we are all his children’ (OH GOD!!!!), which reckless historians transposed as Mozart talking about Bach, and he didn’t.) (BOTH SIGH AND MOAN), but with all those flies, fleas and planktons that make up life and make up us humans, like a living organism, dead center in that life itself. Leopold Mozart, Wolfgang’s pops, picturesquely and colloquially described the habitus of Friedman Bach. ‘A remarkable musician, an unrivaled composer, but a heavy, heavy drinker.’’

He was panting. ‘I love Händel a lot. I have some undocumented version of his Water Music, therefore I do not know either who performed it or when, and the version is, just, it’s the balls, it tears ass… I listened to various different versions, but most of them are shit, can’t even come close to what I have. Händel and Telemann, by the way, I view as bigger composers than Bach. ’

Lars von Trier’s Antichrist was playing in the background during all of this. An erect phallus added to the magic and romance of the two. Candles were too much with all of these other stimuli. At the peak of arousal, they were slapping each other, arguing which composer is better.


‘Boozehound, spendthrift, died poor, boozehound, spe…e…eh, dear husband, I think that will do for the evening.’

And while he was putting on man’s clothing, Mary Lynne sang Messiaen: Turangalîla-Symphonie (Joie du sang des étoiles) in front of the mirror, the director of the Artist’s Trilogy Ron Gabe Bonester went upsy-daisy and with a ‘Camera, cut!’ he marked the end of the shoot.

‘I gave you too much freedom! None of that was in the script!’ He paused for thought. ‘Now you, kid, get Mary a gun to blow your brains out!’

The actress went upstart. ‘That wasn’t the deal!’

Bonester shouted in response to this. ‘Nobody questions my authority! For two hours behind that there…glass compartment…the Australian minister of culture is sitting and waiting for the script which will present his arduous devotions at the Art Conference focusing on non-profit management. Our country cannot develop economically without innovation in that particular field. And education! Who do you think you are? Who bought me this Canon EOS 6D to shoot you guys? Get serious, woman, and continue the oral, along with Chopin and your husband.’

‘But…we are ARTISTS!’


‘An overrated term. I do not exchange my ideas with the personnel. We directors laud a vibrant and growing creative economy!’

Then both He and She approached him and pounded him into the ground, while Bonester slid on the floor in his oversized suit.

‘Shall we continue where we left off?’

‘You mean…while the Minister Behind the Compartment observes?’

‘And then a gun to the head, like Romeo and Juliet. Or was it poison? But let’s not split hairs.’

‘That would probably be a mistake, but…as I said… we are artists, dear colleague, and a happy couple in Art. We cannot live on without the drama.’

‘And voyeurs,’ someone whispered, sat in a chair where the now unconscious director lay and followed this up with a thunderous applause.

Then the trio continued the show agreeing that the Husband should be given any old name.

Mary’s gaze flew up and she said: ‘He will be named Frederic. Like our unborn son.’

Nobody objected, therefore Frederic could begin.

The Minister, who physically reminded one of the head electrician, would record something with an expensive video camera. But under the condition that he played Chopin.

‘Bah bah, the Best Boy.’ Both send passionate kisses to him. Then, with an erotic play, they embraced.

‘Artists, such artists,’ mumbled the Mysterious Traveler, the Spectator, the Third Without Whom You Can’t Go On, from the artistic Kingdom of Heaven.

But Mary Lynne and Frederic were in their own world, wreathed in music and gifted with a gift worthy of the Gods.

The camera buzzed. Reflectors flashed.



‘I’ve carefully gone through your text of Bach, madam. Quite passionate, a tour de force. This is precisely why I don’t call myself a Bachian, you will permit me (I hope) to provide some of my critical input.’


‘…as far as the Bach family is concerned, I love Wilhelm Friedman and Carl Philip Emanuel, they rule, each in their own way, but I dug up some other guys as well – for instance, Johann Bernhardt Bach is also excellent. In the classical era Johann Christian Bach stood out. Imagine that wondrous family tree, this beast of a family, which branched out during a good hundred-and-so-year period, and bore nothing but interesting musical fruit. Crazy.’ (SCREAM)


Don’t miss my poem published by The Woman Inc. magazine!


A compelling rape poem from Serbia.


So I mature like a corpse flower
My pulchritudinous petals reach up for light
And they come to me like flies to rotting meat.

This is the world of lies
Of thirsty angels who die
While still appearing angelic
They’ve lost their shine

Have you ever been raped?
You should join me like a vampire
You’ll be bitten for a limitless life
For a never ending night of screeching sodomy…


Read more:



You love me in this dress

You love me in this dress
and you don’t see my full lips nor a shirt wherein my breasts seem safer
neither eyes but a moment before succumbing
you love me in this dress
and you don’t see my bleary-eyed and yellow gaunt face
neither pieces of broken statue or pieces of paper scattered around…
you are not wonder – struck with my scream nor with my attempt to get you to escape

I am taking it off tieing it around my waist
my movements are alternately feminine and rough
I love being a woman because my body moves to the beat of music more easily
but my boyish view that you don’t see slaps the spirits of the past
frozen on the other side…
still immersed in the coloring of the unfinished image

You would do anything for me when I’m in this dress, don’t you?
don’t you see I’m naked, pursued and burned?
don’t you see my old clothes
in the blemished closet loaded with garments as barrel shotguns
a talking picture has turned into a point..
in the background was a poorly dressed wake-up call.

You love me in this dress
perhaps I could remember and arrange any piece for you.
Maybe cabaret.
Maybe to play it in a new dress?


From the Quill of Chaplain Larsen, Sleeping Mathilde, excerpt from the novel by Leila Samarrai

From the Quill of Chaplain Larsen, Sleeping Mathilde, excerpt from the novel by Leila Samarrai


Mathilde confided in me often (which I hid from Amerongen like a Jew hides his gold) while alone or while we walked together along the garden tile path

‘Why are you so unhappy, mistress Mathilde? The master is trying…’, I coughed, ‘He seems to indulge you in everything, and yet…’
‘And yet…’
‘Confide in me, oh Mistress.’
‘There is no need for formalities, Larsen.’
‘Okay’, I nodded. ‘Do you suffer too much?’
‘It upsets me, it gets on my nerves.’
‘Break the silence and open your heart to me’, I said, fatherly.
‘This morning I recollected the life in Denmark… And my mother. Make a note, Larsen, and let the world see it! If the prison door ever open up for me and Hässe burns to the ground, I swear that…for something like that, I will rise from my grave!’
‘I will make a note, but I do not know what happened… Tell me the tale> is it the truth that Johana the Monster, as the locals called your mother…’
‘And the noblemen,’ the Mathilde declared fiercely.
‘…Yes…patience for the old man, young lady.’
Mathilde shot a smile back to him.
‘…she lived, as they say, in utter poverty?’
‘No,’ she stated simply.
‘Amerongen…’, I turned around and saw him fumbling around the stables – he was etching something into the ground with his knife and chanted… The guards were lazing around in front of the castle. A portion of the army, being bored on the roof of the castle and leaning onto the towers, under the Hässe sun, was taking a nap.
‘You could run away right now. I am reading your mind.’
‘And where would I go?’ I felt rage engulf her, a cold, suppressed rage, thus I fell silent in discomfort and decided to return to the topic at hand.
‘You know I always treated you like you were my own daughter.’
‘You are my solace in this home of the mad’, she responded gently, moving to caress me on the cheek but stopping midway through.
We entered the great Hall and sat on a bench one next to the other, tracked by the vile gaze of Orian von Amerongen.
‘Dearest Mathilde, the introduction is the most problematic to me. I can never seem to pin it down…Your words are sung with a lion’s strength, but I cannot discern whether you’ve written a novel of your mother and your real father,’ I started while looking at the scroll, ‘a made up story, or are these facts?’
She smiled somewhat tensely.
‘Tell me how you married Amerongen’, I prepped my quill and a parchment under my cassock.
Mathilde tensed up her body. Her countenance became brutally firm.
‘It was in Denmark. On that day, and what a dim day it was, Father, the Regenstein door opened with a bang. Seeing Amerongen, I thought the entire castle shivered and squealed, as if dying from a horrible disease.
‘The castle was founded in the second half of the ninth century on a steep cliff, from which I felt like ending my life in the endless abyss numerous times. It was a dark, aristocratic dwelling. Since I was a tyke I likened it to a monster. Toothy towers reminiscent of fangs, and dark windowpanes reminding of the eyes of Erebus.[1] Regenstein had spread venom around itself since those days.
‘Amerongen got his eye on me, tall and threatening. I stood in the middle of the hallway frozen by his gaze. I pressed the parchments I was carrying to the library against my chest. He looked at me like a bloodthirsty animal. He looked like a rustler.
‘ ‘Is this ever a beauty!’, he shouted and touched Johanna’s heart to tears, while joy glistened in Otto’s wrinkly eyes.
He suddenly averted his eyes, and his face calmed, as if the monstrous strength waned in him.
‘ ‘In the name of Yambe-Akka’, he yelled. ‘Did someone die in here? Give ale to horses first, then the serfs!’
‘ ‘Mathilde, you should be honored that this charming nobleman chose you for his bride’, the moment she said this the parchments dropped from my hands, and Amerongen looked at me curiously. I replied with a smile which surprised him and he told me: ‘Do you perchance like me? Truly it cannot be so!’, he pouted like a child and winked at me, which made me feel sick to my stomach. I assume he just wanted to make me feel better.’
[1] Greek god of eternal darkness.






The odds are back!

Don’t miss my poem “Are You Mad, Ovid” published in the pro-resistance and anti-douche issue14 The Odd Magazine

You can read my poem here:

The odds are back!

avLeila Samarrai uses absurdist and the elements of farce in her plays. She favors surreal short stories, horror fiction, satire and humoresque, enjoying the vaudeville style of structure interwoven with the style of “Pythonesque” stories. She has had her work published in numerous local magazines, both in print and electronic form and been variously awarded. She currently lives in Belgrade with her five cats.

BERNARD’S HOURS, The story of a schismatic misanthrope, Leila Samarrai, Part Two, Skin – Walker (excerpt from the novel)


‘A smuggler, and yet so knowledgeable of Mozart?’, she giggled.

I took one good look at her again… She took one of me as well, giggling, but confused now. Behind the deep confusion I detected that along her face, like a bugger in the night or a snake dragging her belly across the red-hot rocks, slithered and crept a shadow of disgust.

Am I so vile, so unbearable to everyone?

True, I hold nothing against whores. If I did, it would mean that I maintain a rage against civilization as a whole within me. Ever since culture existed, whores existed. And every single society has its whores. If it did not, it lacked culture. Does the word “cultus” nor remind one of coitus? Who am I to moralize or change anything? Who cares for the virgin Ishtar under the fertile crescent moon of Mesopotamia who goluptiously sucked Marduk’s dick in the hot Arabian nights? And thus it went by in history… an endless vastness of whoring – and the Japanese kind is somewhat dearest to me – I was unaware that I was saying all of this out loud.

And everything else, reduced to the point of being invisible. A fount of artistic fire, a poetic flame, a superspiritual beauty, no!

‘For you, madam, I have a book… A whore through the centuries. It might be of interest to you.’


excerpt from the novel


Kitty Kisses, to my beloved tomcat Spartacus

.12605331_173741199648543_3422781219120191768_oFluffy, curly-headed, looney ball!
He jumps upward and bounces off the walls.
Thwack! (Kerplunk)
Then he curls up, snoring in his sleep.
(Huuuuuuuhh. guhrrrrrrr huuuu grrrr grrrgrrr…..siiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii…)
He is such a such a noble cat!

Sometimes I call him Gerard Erickson.
Sometimes I call him Sanders Pennington.
He speaks, cat, dog, human:
‘Tomcat, are you going to eat the dog’s leg, perhaps? ‘ (rub, rub, up-tail)
‘Sspurr -ior! But.. I would paw – fer beef steak.’
(Huuuuuuuhh. guhrrrrrrr huuuu grrrrr)
‘Are the chicken wings too bad for you? ‘
A roasted mouse in the microwave?
‘Disa-purr-! , slave! ”

Before that, scratch my elevator – butt!
Then he turns, in Dead Mousie pose, and clumsily mumbles orders:
‘Open My door’
‘Close My Window’
‘No, do some ‘Prairie-Doggin”!
‘Do some Cat – Dance! ‘
Both left feet moving
Both right feet moving
‘Walk like a cat, you, clumsy camel!
Think like a cat!
More kitty – like! That’s it.
More kitty – like.
More more cattitude!
You have no style, let’s get you to ballet! ‘
He sings soprano (Mrrrowwww. Mrrowwww. mrrrrrowwwww.)

‘Merry Meow Birthday, my Batler, where are you?
Happy Meow, too you, too!
Fetch me my slippers!
Pass on my reading glasses!
I have to get my higher degree.
Heeeeeeere kittykitttykittikitttykitty!
Heeeeeeere kittykitttykittikitttykitty!
Heeeeeeere kittykitttykittikitttykitty!
Go kitty! …Off’

Winding Up
Digging In
Revving Up
Once he is in his cat – cradle
I am telling him tales to his fluffy tail
He is my, fur real, Claw-some friend
He is my dearest and purrrr-fect son
Arm to paw
Cheek to cheek
Heart to heart
Lips to muzzle (mwahhhh)
(Lub-dub…lubdub….lub-dub… Lubdub….)

I highly recommend Leila Samarrai’s novel “Sleeping Mathilde” for publication

I highly recommend Leila Samarrai’s novel “Sleeping Mathilde” for publication.

This work is inspired by gothic fiction and it possesses elements of horror as well as science fiction. Considering we know how popular and trendy both genres are with a subset of the general readership audience, regardless whether it’s foreign authors or domestic ones I believe that “Sleeping Mathilde” will also find its place in our publishing line. The last sentence was not based merely on the genre itself but also on the fact that Samarrai, who graduated from the Faculty of Philology, is well versed in literature and has also been present on our literary scene for a good while and in this piece, as in her previous works, the best of her qualities as a writer come to fruition: a vivid imagination, an original, somewhat baroque expression and authentic characters lead by their passions and their hatreds. All of the above constitutes the most important ingredients for a good novel.

This medieval intrigue, that can with its eeriness and multiple plotlines compare to George R. R. Martin’s “A Game of Thrones” is set in the Nordic Europe. The curse of an aristocratic house which, derelict as it is, reminds the reader of “The Fall of the House of Usher” by Edgar Allan Poe, the shifting interests and master-vassal relations reminiscent of “cloak and dagger” drama, all of this gives a special flavor to this work of fiction which, fortunately, has a universal character therefore it need not necessarily take place in the North of Europe but anywhere where people believed (or still believe) in kings, mages, ghosts, and fantastic creatures.

Leila Samarrai is an author capable of transforming her expression, of moving between satire, humor and eeriness. This is a rare capability clearly illustrated in this novel which should not be retold but read. I would note one very interesting novel “The Adventures of Boris K.” (published by “Everest Media”) which, I hope, will see a reprint soon. This piece of satire, set in a dystopian state is, it seems, on the opposite side of the planet “Sleeping Mathilde” is on but it possesses the same trait – the quality of an author who is worth your attention.

dr Aleksandar Novaković, author and playwright

Aleksandar Novakovic Wikipedia

Shopping Mall

Stack on a hanger next to each other

Skintight heads, throbbing with pain

In hangman’s loop are warmly tucked

A memorial plaque burst into tears

Madmen wailing over it

Soft is crystal glass from which

Reflexions are pouring down

Reflexions of the consumers

Aglow with a fervent rumour

The shop window turned its back

Its cheek cheeky and superior

For this vaguish market longing

And a couple of known guests

Head winked to the executioner

For today enough, let’s rest

But East from Eden, there’s a sign :

Clearance sale! Alas, roaring


There’s no line

Street dogs hustling in the shrine

Crystal mechanisms drool

Dripping from them mirrors are

Is that loony or a fool

Narcissus that lost ideals

Pooches running to the shelving

That is, it seems, never ending…

Fields of boots and shirts lie there

Clock is ticking

One more second

Unsuspected revolutions

Until the final closing

Even pigs are crying now.


Leila Samarrai, A poem about a crocodile

In the dreadful crocodile land
Something odd is always at hand
Quickly, swift, a non-stop jerk
Is this bold dragons’ constant smirk

They’re strongest with bellies filled
Drunk on blood of men they’ve killed
Out of Nile’s vast delta here
Three dreaded crocs did appear

Through an Adriatic slit
Two more whales came, via Split.
Two Siberian beasts more
Reared out of Mulyanka’s shore

From Mulyanka of Perm Krai
Russian, then Italian sky
Crocs their freedom do not lack
Down the Sava-Danube track

Gathered ‘low a bridge’s bend
Suicidals near their end
These beasts roam about the town
One fierce bite has me pinned down

As they swim and float around
Pin-like their eyes I have found
Meaty prey sniffed by their noses
Sharp-toothed jaw said prey encloses

I’ve a deal with them worthwhile
Cro co do co lo do rile
May their trio boldly hop
And on horny scuta drop

May blood-showers flow like ale
Lubricating our scales
One life but one Euro’s worth
Our words but empty pits

Hollow caves our stomachs sit
More cash for twos we commit
I’ve a deal with them worthwhile

Cro co do co lo do rile

Down their shoulders I descend
Embracing them with my arms
My tummy is going nuts
Hunger dancing in my guts

Already they’re set to drop
Already by waves they’re called
Why waste thought? Use this dilemma
To toss this human Kinema

To the current evergoing
Hell-way they gave, full well knowing,
Dreams that they had all perceived
It’s quite gruesome, this whole plot

Now life has it, then has not
What does my arm small and lean
Embracing their waistlines mean
Even killers feel depressed

Post doing what they do best
I meandered into titles
Which I find to be mere trifle
But who’s bloody all the while

Moreso than a crocodile
Who will pay the deal enisled
Other than the crocodile
Watch thyself oh murderer

Suitable and pick-of-litter
Are cutwaters none the fitter,
Windshields and the lightning rods
Are but desperate roughneck sods

And their circle-natured days
As they float livid and dreamy
One drunk sailor, brave and scheme-y,
Swims across the river’s dirt

Two oars tied around his skirt
Sings away the filthy Beast
Bathed in the light of East
With a fiery yelling slope

Right then he sang: “I give hope.”
Golden wings upon his back.
My deal is rendered futile
From my present crocodile.

Come another chilling morrow
I will seek a new tomorrow
Past the bridge and midst of branches
Where tangles a wrinkly road

Rage about my gold grows hot
Which I withdrew from the slots
This strange body, livid, frail
Chisels open this whole pail

Living dead man lets out shrieks
Mercy is what this one seeks
We vomited from the bridges
Till at twilight what we knew

Was a perfect scenic view
One whole city at our palms.
Belgrade cracks before our eyes
Statue-shadowed, it’s alight

Eternal is this vignette
Of a fiery townsman’stête
Under Victor’s statuette.
Our deal, though, is most worthwhile

Ro co do co cro co file

Gentle mom frightens her child
With a carcass most reviled
They rend those who cannot swim
New age jumpers, wretches dim

Slime and lees the water sweeps
One life, joyless, Death doth reap
In the slimy croc-filled dip
The beast took my blood’s turbid sip

One black freckle graced my leg
Their three lids are snow-filled kegs
Two icicles slipped mid-stream
From agape, cold Nile, it seemed

Wherein formed an iceberg vast
Empty trash can, of crocs past
Wicked that have fled erstwhile
No more delta formed by Nile

All its force now in exile
Emigrants on nightly mission
Clatter on with sharp dentitions
And their bodies slither slow

Pays up, then comes to me quick
To get my whole body licked
There’s no flight, no submarines
Nemo quisquam captain-like

Nor a sailor, one whose looks
Dwell in Jules Verne’s famous book
Nor hope in the light of day
Which mid-hearts doth lives and stays

While we were so full, nubile
Prior to the crocodiles…
Prior to the crocodiles…

Cap’tayneNemo, come to us
Up close comes the Nautilus
Maybe there is hope, I chime
To engender a new rhyme

And while beasts all roar and flail
Let’s elope towards a new tale

Do come closer, do come closer
Worry not, worry not
You are but a child, you are
Squeal and weep and spew some snot

Even though a child you’re not
Trudge, step all over the valley
For your shepherd follows by
Should I try and throw the die?

But, that number falsify
For the croc doubts aught and low
Taken by his mighty stench
That the killer up and went

Boat amid the night blood fled
With it filled the riverbed
And exchanged the Euric lead
Guate’s cute asylum spiel

Now I must break our deal
Cro co do co lo do reel
Do co cro co ro do KILL!