TAROT READING POEM, by Leila Trajković Al – Samarrai

in giving judgment against us, hear us with patience

would you be mine villain within
the affrighted sun ye that sees the light,
sun and stars

that we may inquire my youthful sabre, please
but behold you silver Zion,
once, adulteresses’

I have seen the dead,
I have seen the deed
I whisper murder and your name
on my lips.

fires of the wave,
veiling the horizon.
they lifted to the sounding goblet,
effaced letter engraved:
JUDGMENT court le monde Primitif.
shame clings to murderers!

(sound od poker and gambling, shuffling and dealing)

…let the rustling tower be near
red be the tint of streams,
but vain’s is thy wish
seem to pass through a vale of tears.

(the sound of Klazomania)
Behold, king of backstabbing spears will be the sentinel of tarot pack!

I have seen the dead,
I have seen the deed
I whisper murder and your name
on my lips.

red traveller night
there unceasing lord of day reign
eclipsed adieu
to live unheeded

that to pterosaurlike maids
trying to prostitute me through
la Isla Bermeja, The Lost Island

I have seen the dead,
I have seen the deed
I whisper murder and your name
on my lips.

The foe came forth my dark bosomed ship
to cheer my carrion to waves and roars
The friend’s ghost long for an equal fame

stridulous trinkets made by dark javelins
the milestone of distance from –

o slanderers of Rahab!
so careful is thy harlot, and anxious to last.
It will suck your blood until your guilt cries out.

clairvoyance said, scratching out a rising Arcana:

I have seen the dead,
I have seen the deed
I whisper murder and your name
on my lips.
Its claws on my back.




A sky in the blood crimson

and the shrill on hell coal black
sings like a kangaroo, left-hand dance you’ll see,

Of the inward sun sets fortitude
as never loved before

The hysteria accelerates
such cello keel unto the strum
rarely performed publicly

A drunk lover crossing promenade
Soon, Pitiful spirits, zombies and Christianlike buried
swaying to the sceletons sarabande

To sound of the tune went false,
I know
I pen
I ink

there, a love cardboard intelligent box
here, deft, a drunk casino
let’s gamble to savouring a twosome


The morning-numbing days

The morning-numbing days

After tumbling, you feel on the rail
as the sun goes down on you,
tainted and with laundry over the pirate’s eye
they think you’re a cat,

a suicidal swirl
they don’t even take a minute for breakfast
for relapse of one’s presence
nevertheless, everything is

I remember tall arches on houses lost
I recall fire off the flower of the night
I remind frosts of the beginning of fall –
Bringing echo that was filled with dim

The tempter, to thee I call
Yet not with surpassing echo
in afterglow at my family kitchen table

Wake up before eternity
wake up in the shade that enshrouds
wake up the bitter memory
ere the tea for sculptured homeless sleep
and the child’s dream, with carvings
gone by.



To recognise the limbs with humour
no, understand against the evil sheeps
One, two…
Under the guidance of a snoring wolf
my eyes agape, bloody, were lamentations
so far punished by snoring
of my Wolfen neighbour

It is Ere ere
Ere against the leering snort
Past the grey tumultuous night
three, four…. evil born sheep
quenching the dying chamber of eyes
(sound of snoring)
Snorer set growls drolling.
no tyrant shall blast
his sweet nighthood peace.

A crescent-shaped steel
Ghastly hee-hee-hee
bold and azure.
Vultures at the snoring spirit
loud roared sulphurous hyena
In the throes of anguish growl

Sounded like a dreary doom
sounded like a surcharged wall
through rattan sought thus led to Ere
again unseen forever snoring
Bleeding ear.

to find no place for rest
to abhorrent steadfastness of sweet hope,
snorer shall taste my pain and my tears,
that while my footsteps inebriate
and with pomp fate… ah!

This knife is my witness…
Once I loved that man,
cacophonies fade out
awaken, whoreson.

As I gaze upon his vocal cords
a conquered deed worst of deadly might
the scarlet blossoms in drop of blood

And do not drop in beneath the dying flute
submerged in knife, darkest night
snorer dark and wild is smiling around the
reedlike chair
when paradisial winds…

In readiness, a knife dragged the seest
dropsy, I descend down into the dream
finally in peace

undisturbed tomb of he tit–amulet in my madhouse.


Laying In Wait To Pounce Upon His Prey – Poem by Leila Samarrai


So beautifully lined with fear,
a face of the loser, the being bearing
her cross with Christian fortitude,
the cross built of the entire human experience
Ms Masters in the art of loneliness.
The archetypal example! Monsters! It’s been years since
I’ve seen that kind of
monsters, so twisted,
it’s… quite disgusting,
even by nightmarish standards.
Once the man was nailed to the cross
Today, the cross is crucified in man

Expose those clowns,
throw them into mud pits
and ensure their eternal destruction.

I do not tolerate rivals.
There’s only one Rabisu* doing what is bad to his neighbor.! ,
Who do they think they are to compare with my malice,
those vicious monsters! .
My malice is going for theatrics.

Seeing them circling above you in the physical world,
I realized our encounter was no accident, right?
I received word of you… that say you were..
You, in your own way,

My Morrigain demoness of the corpses,
my Mora, my queen of the nightmare..
We’re exactly the same.
Ah, I cannot tell more

But, now I believe..
In intentional encounters!
it’s almost like a one-way love affair.
laying in wait to pounce upon his prey


Monster/Parallax’ – Poem by Leila Samarrai

I am here…
– I shutter
partition starts –
the pieces,
chaos moving in,
a fury within devils
rupturing with enormity
giving stirring laughter
and wings (numb they, edged with menthol

“The man you speak of no longer exists.”
We are here,
I tremble…
sapless from dark honey,
blood in seltzer,
wine’s reverse dream about grapes –
of a web unbound
fog at pale-speed
drifts my eyes to focus
(my teeth Wolfen still,
flesh remembered…

“Then what stands before me assuming his manner and form? ”

I am here
weak sapless from fanged honey
my teeth Wolfen still
flesh between
bound to hard gums
“A monster is rough-hewn by unfortunate events

and given breath by necessity.”
Leila Samarrai


Mary of Bethany, an unmercifully wicked sinner



Author’s note: The function of the religious references in my poetry is solely archetypal. I’m not otherwise particularly interested in religion, aside for its educational purposes, nor am I at all religious.

Cursed Mother, Mary Of Bethany

A sinner she, stoned to death for whoring, for the Lord made her unable to conceive; caught in the act of fornication with other women, for witchcraft, for an attempt to murder her husband with the soup of slain swans; her sins are many, and she is but one of many sinners

And what can she say, Mary, the spat-in-her-face mother?
she – heiress of the firstborn whore in the city?
the Bible’s bad girl
A prostitute?
A heartless sinner?
give her beauty and truth, to ruin them
cut off her Rumina’s breasts, to soak her wounds with tears
let thorns grow within her belly instead of children, she will bleed…

My ghostly eye was pointed at a thick
thorn that burst out of my body and continued growing…
a thin beam of sunlight turned it into a vampire limb for raping of human souls

O, you vampiric slingers!

Do the Prophet’s words not haunt thee?

Dear husband, do the devil’s sneers not haunt you?

Cast not your stones at my eyes!

l, an infertile woman with
slit chest
I, Mary Of Bethany, an unmercifully wicked sinner
I hug my children under the tongue of the sky
in the celestial womb where
all my unborn children lie hidden
and the resurrected body of this world and all other worlds
and drops of milk running down my swollen breasts
I nourish my castaway children under the star-spangled sky and refresh them with bloody bile and wine

I am a feminist drag King Of Heaven
Praise Jesus.

Thwack thwack thwack


This is poetry of the rebellious blood
in insurgency.









Besplatno preuzimanje Borisa K. link pdf

Zbog kršenja autorskih prava, zbog nelegalne distribucije i da ne nabrajam.. nije ovo mesto za to. Link koji sam postavila je sklonjen (link sa serbian foruma) Čitajte.  Ovu knjigu sam napisala da bi je narod čitao, a ne da čami u gepeku akvizitera koji sebe naziva izdavačem.



The Victor

A shadow sneaks up to the Sun;
Warrior persists beneath.
He smashes the suffering with a touch of his soles,
Adorned with his victorious sandals,
His heart pounding fast.
„How would you accept glory? “, the Elders surrounded him.
„What is your choice: wisdom or love? ”
„For love, I have never come”, said he.
Certain Form was uprooted long ago, yes, you, Elders.”
As soon as he said it, they killed him by deceit,
Stabbed him with a spear, them, the Hermits;
Glassy was his voice.
From time immemorial, or since then,
The Elders have been seeing him, serene, walk in the sand.


Perfect enemy/Prayer

“Perfection is the enemy of good”, Voltaire

Take from our minds
the mist has strewed
and let us sung the piety dew
that stood and costs.
all away.

for sad storm spare the morning skies
in oh, so, a voice both calm and shook
and let our foaming winter fall
and hear the beauty
of the birds that call perfection

is an enemy.

… thy beauty of thy dishevelled lost
take them, hear them, strike them
vessels of fraud,
fly away,
let anyone’s revenge fear.
lo, mount the stairs to the boiling pond.
the fringe the cringe, breathe through

And out of the great rage
make the balm floam from
innocent’s fleece
persist til tongue was black at drill.
let sweeping rain numb sobbing wind
let shire of cloudlet a pen-and-ink
speak through the luckless wight
The terror-stricken itch
within the fire which blood fatigues
o still, so the voice of calm
Take out from our souls
vroom and grace in triumph
no worst there are nails downward
the middle state between – self – illusion
Had long consumed shot
More speech will not, nor fire fangs sheer and
frightful waves, to give relief of
the heart, the heart dissimilar no well then
lull pitched grief and
dwell in cheap shell
fathomed by whirlwind spere
of tympanites in captivity
life differs from his commentators,
end death and
Of forgers semblance
In the echoing day
each day comforts to our sleep.

Sing and fight us
through our terrible lives
of satires obscured on the martial ground
My gods heave, murmuring, beards long
a name to fury had shrieked
a name to
ages cursed with crowned liver
delighted with immortality
Prometheus, I feel your liver
stretch wide the lips of immortal fire
Eaten daily the amorous bread.

As I have come into a dust bowl
With phantoms
yet dripping church moorings
with a cypress hate to weep
let the gentlest voice to game deprived
to burn upon night-foundered infamy

freed mind by this latter
humankind’s nothings
the infamy, on this side of attenuated corners
lies a portion of the penance

Take from our signet
divine, music, philosophy
incontinence, all distempered advances
of humankind enlarged prostate

and let us fight goodness with perfection

for sad storm spare the morning skies
in oh, so, a voice both calm and shook
and let our foaming winter fall
and hear the beauty
of the birds that call perfection

is an enemy.

and let us fight goodness with perfection
to rebehold thoroughly learnt
false note
sung by profound chimaera
as the vile misfortunes,
Behold the worm and huddle
in the cruelties committed
the spectacle of humanity
of smoking ashes

and let us fight goodness with perfection,

The conclusion
smote, begin
and that is
But existing (time) vanity
perforce the perfection
who has, and gives
still redundancy.
And that is perfect.


Happy to share that I have 3 poems published in the September issue of OPA Anthology 

The link on publication: 




My poems “Freedom”, “…To die alone out of sight*and “Requiem for a mosquito, may your spirit rest upon these toxic fumes” were published in the September 2019 Issue of OPA. as well as some poems for the  OPA Anthology of Poetry 2019 ‘SPIRIT OF NATURE’ You’ll find the edition here: https://anthologyfive.blogspot.com



As a token of my appreciation for the utmost care and creative zeal in featuring one of my works in the September 2019 Issue of OPA. as well as some poems for the  OPA Anthology of Poetry 2019 ‘SPIRIT OF NATURE’, I tongue the words in your ears, with an ardent appeal, to…

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There are many ways to kill/Aditya is the name of her violence.

I wrote fun stories, I said I was
Penny Dreadful from the further away.
THAT leaves me here.

Get down there, damn you
Golden-Mouthed, perceptively moving
lucidly mystical Assistant in the text.
In a long, fluttering dress,
he stirs the surface of a corrugated and cracked lava
that covers the sandstone of Badiyat al-Iraq.

He claims to be a descendant of Ahriman,
a Zoroaster force.
the fiction and projections, creation subconscious
pointing at me
the evil eye, and makes iniquity.
with other Jinnah.

There will be a knockout chapter
one day all will be concluded,
connected to the extreme,
and the text will be insanely organized.

Magic cube, central core,
dice active layer of the first image,
follow the pictures in the picture, first white cross
and its central orange,
then will follow a different colour, in the end,
a detachable mixture, a riddle puzzled, an old boy seclusion
and the task solved.

There are many ways to kill (a man)
and I taught them.
I taught them how to kill (me.)

Oh, give me … pain with no ears and no response.
Oh, give me … Aditya is the name of her violence.


“I tried to pray that night

and God didn’t answer me

but Another did

perhaps it has always been there

this thing

this Demon inside me

or behind my back

waiting for Me to turn around”

Penny Dreadful


Flee, if you think me insane.

Flee, if you think me insane.

You turn your head.

Lemme sit down.

One cigarette stub, nothing more.

I want to embrace it with my teeth,

tell you something and leave.

You no longer resist.

You are finally responding to my words

by turning your head.

Ah well.

At least I feel full now that I can sit next to you without obtrusion,

even lie down and be with you in this way.

Whenever so I desire.

You don’t think that we started this off in the best way possible?

Only solitude can make you put up

with an insane person.

Solitude and insanity.

For I am insane.

This is not mere circumstance,

a particular one,

of insanity.

Many a bench puts up with an insane person,

the streetcar bars hang the retards

that hang themselves atop them

and brush their sweat against the travellers.

We are the rapists of our life pillars.



BERNARD’S HOURS Part Two, Skin – Walker The story of a schismatic misanthrope, Leila Samarrai, Work in progress, inspired by my article “The Dark Mozart” (waiting for translated chapters!)

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

including my youtube classical playlist



BERNARD’S HOURS PART ONE https://leilasamarrai.wordpress.com/2015/03/06/bernards-hours-the-story-of-a-schismatic-misanthrope-leila-samarrai/

‘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


Boris K. između Scile i Haribde, Leila Samarrai


Uobličavajući u svojoj mašti SF (nedovršeno) delo koje nosi bajkolik naslov Bila jednom jedna republika, https://leilasamarrai.wordpress.com/2012/05/17/bila-jednom-jedna-republika-rim-sf-satira-1-deo/ vec osmislivši naslov, znala sam da kontradiktuje fantazmagoričnim počecima bajki koje su možda I mogle da se dogode? – pojam Republike, koja sugeriše pojam vlasti (uostalom, koren reči potiče od latinskog res publica,što znači, javna, politička stvar. Doduše, bez želje za politiziranjem, kod nas politika jeste na neki način bajka, ili makar u njoj postoje maštoviti pripovedači istih. Stoga, stekoh utisak o dvojakosti pomalo provocirajuceg naslova.

Borisa K sam napisala vođena idejom da iskoristim određene mogucnosti koje su mi date, možda nekima, omraženom platonovskom inspiracijom (jer u antici, verovalo se da se odnosi isključivo na pesnike), ili ako se opredelim za dramatičniju verziju “umetničkog krika”, u papir vriska! – bila bi to uperena satirična ili uperena pesnica jednog satira u lice turobne svakodnevice. Zašto bas satira? Zar nije bilo logično da se opredelim za horor kao scenografiju ili splet motiva u okviru žanra koji bi se podudarao I savršeno odgovorio, gotovo art-terapijski, kroz Hellraiser električno praznjenje, nakon čega bih dozivela katarzu, kao I čitalac nesto okrenutiji realizmu, da ne kažem pesimista?

Možda je to moj način da preživim apokalipsu koja je odavno počela, a beg u smeh, sprdanje, parodiju, oduvek je bio način da to učinim.

Umetnici, bilo da su vizualisti ili literate, traže sistem kao orijentir – reklo bi se. Tragaju za žanrom, ili pak, on češće njih pronalazi. U misticizam stvaranja nisu prodrli najbrilijantniji umovi, osim da je mistika stvaranja traganje umetnika u čijoj svesti se nepoznanicom iz nepoznatog izvora stvaraju svetovi, postavljaju pitanja I nikad ne dobijaju odgovori. U čemu jeste draž.

Boris K jeste beli kvadrat na beloj pozadini. Boris K. je čista apstrakcija, bespredmetno biće sa milion tumacenja jer kameleonski može biti svako. Jedinošto Boris K nije, to je, mozda nespretno rečeno, negacija. On je afirmativan I nikada ne očajava, jer Boris K je multiverzum. Stoga, ako Boris K očajava, budite uvereni da njegov dvojnik u paralelnoj Republici, kao I u alternativnoj istoriji prve knjige u kojoj figurira kao lik, radi potpuno suprotno, za dobrobit čovečanstva. Dakle, negde tamo, sa druge strane postojeće Republike, možda iza horizonta, nalazi se multiverzum Borisa K gde je sve po smislu suprotno stanju koje vlada u našoj Republici, gde Boris K upada u najnezamislivije situacije koje su bliske suprematizmu po svojoj apsurdnosti, bliske nadrealizmu (često dolazi do skokova Borisa K u nadrealizam, mada se on najčešće, poput Gulivera sreće sa Liliputancima, čija su supstitucija Kanalizanci, u nekoj vrsti podzemlja, dakle, bliži je podrealizmu.

Šalu na stranu, kao sto je suprematizam prolazio kroz faze, tako je I Boris K prolazio kroz ovu zbirku priča kroz odvojene, iako apsurdom obojene, ipak smisaone, zaokružene celine, kad se, na kraju svog putovanja, makar u ovom serijalu, priblizava budizmu I okreće duhovnosti, tačnije, daje recept čitaocu za bitisanje u univerzumu u kojem smo pogođeni tuznim smislom, a čije je on ogledalo, doduše, kao multiverzum, možda je Boris K, sada među nama, možda ste upravo vi Boris K, a ako niste, svakako imate potencijala da budete, jer je Boris K alfa I omega, superheroj, Johnny Bravo, naučnik, staklorezac, lutalica, džentlmen, Čaplin koga juri policajac, a I policajac koga juri Čaplin. Istini za volju, dobro se znamo Boris K I ja, figurativno govoreći, ali mi često izmiče ili čak I sama u stvorenom liku otkrivam nešto novo, možda kakvu podsvesnu ideju, jungovski arhetip, zakasneli proces osvešćivanja I sazrevanja već intuitivno napisanog dela.

Boris K, moler čaplinovskog tipa, bremenit metafizičkim tajnama ni mene kao kreatora ne ostavlja ravnodušnom, iako su mi verovatno date superherojske sposobnosti da istražim suprematskim kvadratom uokvireno ljudsko biže (ukoliko pretpostavljam, gledajući kroz antropološku prizmu, da Boris K. jeste homo sapiens, a ne geometrijska figura koju je moguće upakovati u poštansko pismo I odaslati na najneverovatnije destinacije)

Boris K. je putnik kroz vremeprostor koji prelazi takve razdaljine, da izaziva zavist kod Gulivera.

Iskreno se nadam da će Boris K dotaknuti ljudsku dušu čitaoca koji je odlučio da se suoči sa istinom našeg vremena I nosi pritajenu, osvešćenu gorčinu u srcu.

Jedan veliki reditelj nazvao je Srbiju ukletom zemljom. Ja sam joj izmislila spasilački patent – to je Fenomenopublika- no, da li je ona tako idealna kako se to, iščitavajući prve redove, čini?

Možda pronađemo zajedno odgovor ulaskom u petu dimenziju, kako sugeriše sugestivni glas Roda Serlinga, tvorca antologijske Zone sumraka.

U priči Votka, Boris K definitivno nije kvadrat – makar, na početku priče- on je posmatrač ispražnjenog frižidera, obilat u ljudskosti nađubrene strahom. Ali ne, on nije kukavica, niti je kukavičluk motiv njegovog straha. Čega se Boris K boji? Ovde uvodim hiperbolu. U znaku već pomenute Zone sumraka, za njega je moćna frau beskrajna kao svemir, neiscrpna kao mašta, a njen autoritet I trajanje večnije od beskraja. Tako, u mašti čitaoca, gazdaričin lik, sa grotesknom personom preko lica čiji je deo smešnog kostima kukasti krst, ona narasta do guliverovskih visina što je upravo multiverzično njenom odistinskom smislu I u tome leži groteska. No, upliv iz treće dimenzije se javlja da malo “zamuti stvar”. Obična, pohlepna veštičara, odraz tipičnog srpskog stanodavca koga sam imala prilike, nažalost, da artikulišem kroz realno doživljeno, pokazuje malograđansko zanimanje kroz nebulozna objašnjenja kasirki u prolazu, dok joj se, u alternativnoj realnosti, serlingovsko-zonosumračnoj dimenziji Boris K obaška klanja.

Tako ovaj čovek-kvadrat pomalo oživljava, stegnut primalnim nagonom, suzdržavajući se da ne ispusti krik pretka nam hominida, bojeći se groteskne gazdarice frau Susie išarane kukastim krstovima (primedba: njegov strah je u funkciji karakterizacije groteske moćne frau), (sukob ideologija – komunizam u kome sam, moram da naglasim, provela nekoliko godina, ali sam bila naučena utopiji komunističkog raja, još kao dete, u čemu nisam odskakala od mnogih) Devedesete su svedočile početak raspadanja koji je doveo do današnjih,  gotovo apokaliptičkih događaja)

Boris K naivno (da li?) veruje u ideale za koje se borio, što je opet groteska unutrašnjeg stanja Borisa K. da li mu verovati? Da li je Boris K lažov? Ili je to samo maska spram doživljenog, ali prikrivanog užasa onog koji pokušava da preživi tranziciju dužu od 11 godina, kao gubavac I kao gubitnik. Ovo parče multidimenzionalnog ogledala-tumačenja Borisa K jeste parče stakla koje se zariva u njegovo ljudsko meso. Boris K je zapravo apolitičan. On je obično, ranjivo ljudsko biće koje plovi između Scile I Haribde, ne kao model ratnika, mada u njegovoj naoko mirnoj plovidbi ima odisejske ljudskosti. Boris K pokušava da se prilagodi kako ne bi bio optužen, prozvan, ubijen, proždran.

U to ime, on ispija čašu, iako ne pije (kako priče dalje teku, a nadam se da će čitaoci imati prilike da se susretnu sa avanturama Borisa Vremeplovdžije u prvom delu romana (mala satirična igra inverzijama kojoj nisam mogla da odolim, mada nisu svi razlozi bili satirične prirode, neki od njih su bili u kontekstu vremena I nastajanja dela, te se ne mogaše predvideti- Tako nasta drugi deo, a za njim prvi)

Dakle, kako priče teku pred očima I u nastavku romana u koji je Boris K balzakovski ušetao, Boris K sve više se odaje alkoholu, da bi u Bila jednom jedna republika I deo poprimio lik brilijantnog naučnika I majstora za teleskope, kao I čistača Galaktičkih hala) koji se trezni u samo prekopotrebnim situacijama.

U to ime, on menja oblik. Boris K postaje homunkulus u staklenoj bočici, alhemijski proizvod, distorziran model ljudskosti.

Leila Samarrai


Proèitao sam vašu Samaru i iznenadio se kako je to dobro napisano sa potpunim uvidom u lokaèni kolorit i psihu, a kao prièa potpuno razvijena i obradjena, podsetila me je na Samerset Moma što je svakako kompliment.

“Bila jednom jedna republika” https://leilasamarrai.wordpress.com/2012/05/17/bila-jednom-jedna-republika-rim-sf-satira-1-deo/ sam pregledao, zadivio se naporu koji ste
uložili da svu tu istorijsku materiju savladate i da je obradite u savremenom, parodijskom i višeznaènom smislu.

Odlièno pišete i bilo bi šteta da to ostane poznato samo uskom krugu vaših
poznanika… Sve ostalo je pitanje sreće, snalažljivosti, upornosti, eventualno provokacije.. I novca ako imate moguænosti da finansirate objavljivanje svojih knjiga, ili pronadjete sponzora…

Srdacno vas pozdravlja
Milivoj Andjelkovic




Ivan Glisic, writer, two reviews in English


Ivan Glišič Wikipedia


Ivan Glišić (Serbian CyrillicИван Глишић; born 1942) is an intellectual, writer, artist, journalist and songwriter who achieved prominence both in Serbia and across the former Yugoslavia. He was involved in the Yugoslav pop and rock and even folk music scene, and beside his mainstream success, being one of the pioneers of the Yugoslav punk rock, he also gained a status of an underground culture celebrity.


At the outset, the poetess addresses the readers with a clarification that her lyrics are
truth sang of stone. Starting the path that Poetess set out on us, I was convinced of the veracity of her speech. Ending the companionship, travelling with her verses, as if I held in my hand neither paper nor stone but Prism. And not a glass prism, but a diamond, and a diamond is a stone in its hardest form.

The Leila Samarrai’s verses possess the smoothness of Prism, in the sense of perfection of style and language, where the smallest and most careless linguistic error, or punctuation error, becomes milstone. The poetess, therefore, does not have this stumbling block. It’s about the exterior of the Prism. The interior of the Prism is characterized by the sheer splendour of wisdom in these verses, which resembles the splendour of colour in the Prism, that occurs when the Light is immersed in the Prism, and that Light is an individual experience of what the poetess offers to the readers. Leila Samarrai sings about Being and Non-Being in each one of us, about our Realistic and Impossible Aspirations, which the poetess calls Bloom / Flower of Flight / of Summer. (a pun in Serbian – meaning: depending on the accentuation)

Through the Prism of Leila’s verses, Beauties, Commandments and Wars are intertwined. Consequently, these verses become timeless or more timeless. And more than that. The proof is that when the top-notch poems are before us, it becomes irrelevant whether they are written by a poet or a poetess.

It is a confirmation that the Mind of the Absolute inspires and rains on only The Chosen Ones.  It showers them by the  Truth of the Stone, the Truth of the Prism, the Truth of the Diamonds, Undoubtedly, Leila Samarrai is – the Chosen One. Therefore, it is not surprising that she has titled her book with Darkness.

Leila’s poems are directed against the darkness in us, so even the most stubborn Dark will understand them and will withdraw before the rush of Light and Spectrum that erupts from every verse of our Poetess.


“The Second Birth Of Tragedy”, Leila Samarrai – ANCIENT DRAMA, the parnassian accursed poets way

I am opposed to writing reviews for any and all accomplishments, because ‘different strokes for different folks.’ We are all subjective. And more subjective make it objective. Therefore, if no one is behind anyone’s judgment,   or there are a few, no matter how much the work deserves all the attention, unfortunately, it remains sideward/on both sides.

After reading ‘THE SECOND BIRTH OF TRAGEDY’, by Leila Samarrai, I may be lonely in my impressions – the impressions, or the assessment that the author restores to us the belief in the existence and flowering of true literature and true language, at this time of ‘fostering false language’, and false literature . At this time of existence of ‘apocalyptic wonderful wonders’, which self-proclaimed artists do not see because they do not want to see, or, even more scary, they are not capable of seeing, they suffer from the’ willful blindness”, as soon as they are concerned with subjects and personalities whose place is on the flea market and not in the arts.

Hence, Leila Samarrai says: My Hell is not here! Her Hell is not shallow, her Hell is deep, the real one, in and around us, called Life Without Mask, Life Without Lies and Lacquers, before which most eyes remain closed, the window shutters down, following us from time indefinite to time indefinite, from the creation of man, regardless whether man is the work of the hands of God, or the work of the hands of the Aliens, or a mutant of the crossing of homo sapiens and asteroid angels.

Ancient artists told us about this Hell. The living waters of their living words, and living themes, also flowed in Dante Alighieri, then in Paul Verlaine, Thomas Elliott There is a  real deal of Hell in our Poetess who was tempering, hardening, toughening-up  and annealing herself in true Hell, she does not run away from Hell into chants and playful ones masquerade balls of self-proclaimed artists, followed by the glamour and kitsch.

They are not her company either, because, she was hanging with Euripides, Aristophanes, Ovidius, Sophocles, Dante, Verlaine, Eliott…
The poetess tells us, in the “Second Birth of Tragedy’, through the form of ancient dramas and through the way of singing by modernist “cursed poets”, about us, the diffident sort of beasts. about our Black Eros, about our Scream and Whisper, about Shackled wood, about Astray Course Spheres, our Exchange of poison, about Frozen heights, and for one purpose: For There and Here, for Now, and Never. – In the meaning of biblical ‘self-purification and self-repentance’, because this is the only way to achieve profanity, it has been emphasized for centuries: Love your neighbour as you love yourself.
And finally, the impression remains that Leila’s emergence, the emergence of blossoms at the midden of our new literature, where it doesn’t belong, but there is also the hope that there will be more flowers like this and that they will cover the ugly midden that degrades and destroys our all-around spirituality.




ИВАН ГЛИШИЋ, Ivan Glišić, dve recenzije “Drugo rođenje tragedije” i “Mrak će razumeti”, Leila Samarrai/English





На самом почетку, Песникиња се обраћа читаоцима појашњењем да су њени стихови Истина од камена спевана. Кренувши стазом коју нам је утрла Песникиња, уверио сам се у истинитост њеног обраћања. Завршивши дружење, путешествије, с њеним стиховима, као да сам у руци држао не папир, не камен, него Призму. И не од стакла, него од дијаманта, а дијамант и јесте камен у свом најтврђем облику. Стихови Леиле Самарај имају изглачаност Призме, у смислу савршенства стила и језика, где и најмања и најбезазленија језичка омашка, или грешка у интерпункцији постаје спотицање. Код песникиње, дакле, нема овог спотицања. То је о спољашњости Призме. Нутрина Призме, одликује свеколика раскош мудрости у овим стиховима, која наликује на раскош боја у Призми, која се јавља кад у Призму урони Светлост, а та Светлост је појединачни доживљај онога што Песникиња нуди читаоцима. Пева Леила Самарај о Бићу и Небићу у свакоме од нас, о нашим Остварљивим и Неостварљивим стремњењима, које песникиња назива Цвет Лета.

Кроз Призму Леилиних стихова преплићу се Лепоте, заповести и Ратови. Самим тим, ови стихови постају Безвремени или Свевремени. И више од тога. Доказ су да кад су пред нама врхунске песме, постаје небитно да ли их пише Песник или Песникиња. И потврда да нас за њих надахњује и обасипа нас њима Ум Апсолута. А он надахњује и обасипа Каменом истином, истином Призме, Истином Дијаманата, само одабране. Несумњиво, Леила Самарај је – Одабрана. Отуда, не чуди што је своју књигу насловила са МРАК ЋЕ РАЗУМЕТИ.

Леилине песме и јесу уперене против мрака у нама, па ће их и најтврдокорнији Мрак разумети и повућиће се пред налетом Светлости и Спектра који избија из сваког стиха наше Песникиње.

ИВАН ГЛИШИЋ, књижевник



Ivan Glišič Wikipedia


Ivan Glišić (Serbian CyrillicИван Глишић; born 1942) is an intellectual, writer, artist, journalist and songwriter who achieved prominence both in Serbia and across the former Yugoslavia. He was involved in the Yugoslav pop and rock and even folk music scene, and beside his mainstream success, being one of the pioneers of the Yugoslav punk rock, he also gained a status of an underground culture celebrity.



Противник сам писања рецензија и критика у поводу било чијег и било којег остварења, јер ‘колико људи-толико ћуди’. Сви смо субјективни. И више субјективних чине објективно. Самим тим, ако иза нечије процене не стоји нико, или стоји неколицина, ма колико дело завредњује свеколико пажњу остаје, нажалост, постранице. После читања ‘ДРУГО РОЂЕЊЕ ТРАГЕДИЈЕ’, Леиле Самарраи, можда ћу бити усамљен у мојим импресијама – утисцима, илити процени да нам ауторка враћа веру у постојања и цветања праве литературе и правог језика, у ово време ‘подстојања лажног језика’, и лажне литературе. У ово време постојања ‘апокалиптичних дивних чуда’, која самозвани уметници не виде, јер не желе да виде, или, што је још страшније – нису способни да виде, ‘слепи су код очију’, чим се баве тематиком и личностима чије је место на бувњаку, а не у уметности. Отуда, Леила Самарраи каже: Мој Пакао није овде! Њен Пакао није плитак, њен Пакао је дубок, онај прави, у нама и око нас, звани Живот Без Маске, Живот Без Лажи и Лакировки, пред којим већина остаје затворених очију, и спуштених прозорских капака, а који нас прати од Искона, од постанка човека, без обзира да ли је човек Божјих руку дело, или дело руку Ванземаљаца, или мутант укрштања хомосапијенса и астериоидних анђела. О овом Паклу казивали су нам антички уметници. Живе воде њихових живих речи, и живих тема, бујале су и у Дантеу, потом у Верлену, Томасу Елиоту. Ево их и у нашој Песникињи, која се калила у правом Паклу, те не бежи од њега у гламуром и кичом распеване и разигране Балове под маскама, самозваних уметника. Они нису ни њено друштво, јер је, рекосмо, друговала са Еурипидом, Аристофаном, Овидијем, Софоклеом, Дантеом, Верленом, Елиотом… Казује нам Песникиња, у Другом рођењу Трагедије’, кроз форму античких драма и начином певања уклетих песника модерниста, о нама, Снебивљивим Зверима, о нашем Црном Еросу, о нашем Ћутању и Нећутању, о Вриску и Шапату, о Окованом дрву, о Сферама странпутице, о Размени отрова, о Слеђеним висинама, а с једним јединим циљем: За Тамо и Овде, за Сада и Никад. У значењу библијског ‘самопрочишћења и самопокајања’, јер једино тако може се остварити до профаности, кроз векове истицано: Воли ближњег свог, као што волиш себе.
И на крају свега, остаје утисак да је Леилина појава, појава цвета на буњишту наше нове литературе, тамо где му није место, али ту је и надање да ће оваквих цветова бити све више и да ће прекрити ружно буњиште које унижава и уништава нашу свеколику духовност.

ИВАН ГЛИШИЋ, књижевник




At the outset, the poetess addresses the readers with a clarification that her lyrics are
truth sang of stone. Starting the path that Poetess set out on us, I was convinced of the veracity of her speech. Ending the companionship, travelling with her verses, as if I held in my hand neither paper nor stone but Prism. And not a glass prism, but a diamond, and a diamond is a stone in its hardest form.

The Leila Samarrai’s verses possess the smoothness of Prism, in the sense of perfection of style and language, where the smallest and most careless linguistic error, or punctuation error, becomes milstone. The poetess, therefore, does not have this stumbling block. It’s about the exterior of the Prism. The interior of the Prism is characterized by the sheer splendour of wisdom in these verses, which resembles the splendour of colour in the Prism, that occurs when the Light is immersed in the Prism, and that Light is an individual experience of what the poetess offers to the readers. Leila Samarrai sings about Being and Non-Being in each one of us, about our Realistic and Impossible Aspirations, which the poetess calls Bloom / Flower of Flight / of Summer. (a pun in Serbian – meaning: depending on the accentuation)

Through the Prism of Leila’s verses, Beauties, Commandments and Wars are intertwined. Consequently, these verses become timeless or more timeless. And more than that. The proof is that when the top-notch poems are before us, it becomes irrelevant whether they are written by a poet or a poetess.

It is a confirmation that the Mind of the Absolute inspires and rains on only The Chosen Ones.  It showers them by the  Truth of the Stone, the Truth of the Prism, the Truth of the Diamonds, Undoubtedly, Leila Samarrai is – the Chosen One. Therefore, it is not surprising that she has titled her book with Darkness.

Leila’s poems are directed against the darkness in us, so even the most stubborn Dark will understand them and will withdraw before the rush of Light and Spectrum that erupts from every verse of our Poetess.


Ivan Glišič Wikipedia

Ivan Glišić (Serbian CyrillicИван Глишић; born 1942) is an intellectual, writer, artist, journalist and songwriter who achieved prominence both in Serbia and across the former Yugoslavia. He was involved in the Yugoslav pop and rock and even folk music scene, and beside his mainstream success, being one of the pioneers of the Yugoslav punk rock, he also gained a status of an underground culture celebrity.

“The Second Birth Of Tragedy”, Leila Samarrai – ANCIENT DRAMA, the parnassian accursed poets way

I am opposed to writing reviews for any and all accomplishments, because ‘different strokes for different folks.’ We are all subjective. And more subjective make it objective. Therefore, if no one is behind anyone’s judgment,   or there are a few, no matter how much the work deserves all the attention, unfortunately, it remains sideward/on both sides.

After reading ‘THE SECOND BIRTH OF TRAGEDY’, by Leila Samarrai, I may be lonely in my impressions – the impressions, or the assessment that the author restores to us the belief in the existence and flowering of true literature and true language, at this time of ‘fostering false language’, and false literature . At this time of existence of ‘apocalyptic wonderful wonders’, which self-proclaimed artists do not see because they do not want to see, or, even more scary, they are not capable of seeing, they suffer from the’ willful blindness”, as soon as they are concerned with subjects and personalities whose place is on the flea market and not in the arts.

Hence, Leila Samarrai says: My Hell is not here! Her Hell is not shallow, her Hell is deep, the real one, in and around us, called Life Without Mask, Life Without Lies and Lacquers, before which most eyes remain closed, the window shutters down, following us from time indefinite to time indefinite, from the creation of man, regardless whether man is the work of the hands of God, or the work of the hands of the Aliens, or a mutant of the crossing of homo sapiens and asteroid angels.

Ancient artists told us about this Hell. The living waters of their living words, and living themes, also flowed in Dante Alighieri, then in Paul Verlaine, Thomas Elliott There is a  real deal of Hell in our Poetess who was tempering, hardening, toughening-up  and annealing herself in true Hell, she does not run away from Hell into chants and playful ones Masquerade balls of self-proclaimed artists, followed by the glamour and kitsch.

They are not her company either, because, she was hanging with Euripides, Aristophanes, Ovidius, Sophocles, Dante, Verlaine, Eliott…
The poetess tells us, in the “Second Birth of Tragedy’, through the form of ancient dramas and through the way of singing by modernist “cursed poets”, about us, the diffident sort of beasts. about our Black Eros, about our Scream and Whisper, about Shackled wood, about Astray Course Spheres, our Exchange of poison, about Frozen heights, and for one purpose: For There and Here, for Now, and Never. – In the meaning of biblical ‘self-purification and self-repentance’, because this is the only way to achieve profanity, it has been emphasized for centuries: Love your neighbour as you love yourself.
And finally, the impression remains that Leila’s emergence, the emergence of blossoms at the midden of our new literature, where it doesn’t belong, but there is also the hope that there will be more flowers like this and that they will cover the ugly midden that degrades and destroys our all-around spirituality.



The Darkness Will Understand, N0 8/Analysis


He George

Very powerful and shows one accepting of God’s will and only fearing Hi above all else. I felt this poem could been broken into two chapters. There is an inner struggle to both accept your fate and at the same time demand and control it. Your most powerful poem.

Daniel Brick

WOW! This is genuine poetry… This is the real thing. I’m stunned and at a loss for words, which is very uncharacteristic of me because I taught Creative Writing to high school students for over 15 years. And you probably know Language Arts teachers always have something to say! Let me focus. Your title is excellent – it is ominous, suggests a hidden even dangerous knowledge gained from experiences most people don’t have. Your poem develops by means of images which is what a poem should do. And these images are fused together – that’s my word for imagery which isn’t just a pretty word picture, but rather part of a developing theme. Finally your poem expresses a Big Idea very effectively, namely, it’s the silence of God, that’s a hevy idea, but the violence you’re describing demands an accounting. In Macbeth, when MacDuff learns that his wife and children have been murdered by the tyrant, he says, What? Did Heaven look on, and not take their part? That’s the kind of Big Question your poem asks.

[Act IV, Scene III, lines 201-240], MacbethDid heaven look on, / And would not take their part?”
“A man must accept his fate… Or be Destroyed By It” ~Batiatus, Spartacus

The Darkness Will Understand, N0 8

In the bed I do not rely on commandments
The roses already fraught with wind
How many clocks do you ask
While the morning overladen with eternity is late
Delirium morning

They foresee the end of the world
Through stargates
They will wish to open them, open them they will not be able to
They will wish to close both them and the road
The poems shall herald the dead
The dead and the living will depart for false mouth
Without a single sense

My God sleeps murmuring prayers
After which I inherit sadness, wind, mountains, birds
Yet hands and bole resist

I do not fear bullets
And horseman of the apocalypse
But you
My beloved Father


Hakeraj na mom sajtu – ovako:

Neki haker od neke već spodobe, pretpostavljam ženske koja je ljubomorna na mene, ili već ne znam šta..  je zajahao na moj sajt, na jutjub… ne skida se. Ja sam prijavila slučaj odeljenju za visokotehnološki kriminal. To su koraci koje sam preduzela za sada, jer ne znam niti jednog hakera. To zanimanje zakonski ne postoji.

Sjaši, spodobo, imam kapacitet da se stvarno raspizdim, ali ne na način na koji ti očekuješ.

My youtube channel




Kratak kurs iz morala za nemoralne 1.deo

Svaka ništarija može da tvrdi za sebe da ima integritet. Zato je dobro
poznavati etiku. To je nauka o moralu. Moralni kriterijum karakteriše
univerzalnost. E sad, ona može da se različito interpretira, tj šta je to
“univerzalno?” Alp to ne definuišemo onda ona ne može biti merilo. Npr
imamo normu: ne ubijati ljude. Ako je to moralna norma, onda ona mora
da se u činu vrednovanja uzme kao univerzalna o to je nužno moralno
neispravno. ne postoji tu nikakav etički relativizam. Ukoliko ubiješ
nekoga, sledi osuda.
Ubistvo normativno nije moguće jer nema uzroka koji bi ga prirodnom
nužnošću sprečavalo. (kao npr što gravitacija nužno vuče sve stvari na
niže) Ono je faktički moguće, dakle, ali normativno ne. Kod silovanja je
to još intuitivno još očiglednije. Npr dva kanibalska ostrva imaju običaj
da se međusobno ubijaju u svrhu jedenja. Ali oni mogu da te običaje ne
shvataju sasvim doslovno, naime, oni se slažu da ne treba ubijati nikoga
osim tog plemena kog izjedaju, jer su ih dehumanizovali. Suština: od
interpretacije zavisi primena vrednosti. Rasiista donosi sudove koji su
moralno neispravni, ali njemu nisu takvi, već on veruje da je u pravu.
To je ta neodređenost u univerzalnosti. Dakle tu se radi i o vrednovanju
morala u odnosu na lični interes i na intenzitet interesa prema nečemu što
vodi do moralnog relativizma – to je etičko načelo rasiste koji misli da
ima “integritet”, a za većinu ljudi je obična rasistička nemoralna svinja i
ništa drugo. No on veruje da je u pravu i na taj način pretenduje na neku
vrstu moralnog imperijalizma. To važi i za hedoniste.. drugo: uvodi se
moral kao socijalna činjenica, moral se in terpretira različito u različitim
društvima i epohama. Reči: čovek, identitet, mi dunkcionišu kao
činjenice iako socijalne, ipak kao činjenice, to je prihvaćena deskrišcija
koja konsituiše socijalnu činjenicu (pederi su feminizirani i slično) To je
to pitanje relativizma koje se isprečava kao odgovor na pitanje šta je
dobro, šta je ispravno činiti – univerzalno gde lično mislim da je Aristotel
u pravu sa svojom Nikomahobom etikom. No, najpre bi ekskursovala u
meta etiku pre nego što se vrnem na relativizam.
Imamo deskripcije pojmova i to nije disput. Toga ima u svakom rečniku.
Parktično – razilaženej u činjenicama se može razrešiti, ali razilaženje u
vrednostima ostaje i kad se sve razlike oko činjenica raščiste. Značenje
reči nije varijabla jer onda ne bismo mogli ni da komuniciramo. Važni
pojmovi, stoga funkcija značenja mora ostati neupitna zbog logike
funkcije značenja moralnih reči i pojmnova u jeziku, da bi uopšte pričali
o moralnom diskursu. Drugim rečima, da bi iko tvrdio da ima integritet,
mora da ima najpre pojam o moralu..
Meta etika se bavi teorijom značenja i logikom zaključivanja nu
vrednosnoj sferi. Pročitati Principe etike, Principia Ethica) 1. značenje
moralnih reči, a onda i rečenica. Nije da se tu nešto opisuje već da se
nešto preporuči i izrazi vrednosni stav odobravanja. Iz ovoga nastaje
argument otvorenog pitanja – značenje moralnih reči nije da se njima
označi svojstvo jer se moralnim rečima ne označavaju bilo kakava
svojstva bilo prirodna ili nepriordna, to vodi u naturalističku grešku.
Posledica – razlika između deskriptivnog i vrednosnog je razlika između
činjenica i vrednosti. Uglavnom se mnogi prse moralom u domenu
Dakle, vrednost ne proizilazi iz činjenice, već iz odluke da se nešto čini.
Činjenice su neutralne. Vrednosti moraju da budu konstituisane. Na
osnovu kojih odluka se konsituišu vrednosti? Imamo institucionalne
činjenie kojih ne bi bilo da nismo odlučili da ih bude i čije postojanje
zavisi od te odluke i od toga što mi verujemo da one postoje. Sve
ODLUKE su događaji u stvarnom vremenu, nisu pukie želje i zamisli i
zato su činjenice u svetu činjenica, ali većina njih ne konstituišu bilo šta.-
jedino to što nisu sirove činjenice koje postoje nezavisno od toga šta
smo mi odlučili kao npr da kiša pada napolju ili mentalne činjenice.. čak i
kad su proizvedene našom delatnošću postoje nezavisno od toga da oi
ih mi prihvatamo i verujemo.. One nastaju odlukom i one su
institucionalne kroz primeno konstitutivnog pravila kojim se predmet
jedne društvene odluke artikuliše u činjenicu. Institucionalone činjenice
nastaju kao rezultat društvene odluke, kapaciteta, moći kolektivnih
entiteta koji donose odluke – društva realizuju svoj kolektivni identitet
kroz ovu vrstu odluke. Za nju snose i odgovornost. Postoje te činjenice
samo unutar ustanove i njihovo postojanje zavisi od našeg prihvatanja te
institucije. Drugim rečima, ako je za mene ta institucija (kanibalsko
pleme) neprihvatljiva, ja sam sociopat…
Konstitutivna pravila institucije za razliku od regulativnih koje regulipu
već postojeću stvarnost konstituišu novu stvarnost, nešto što bez njih ne
bi postojalo. Npr činjenica pobede ili poteza u igri šaha, igre su najbolji
primer da se ovo shvati. Te činjenice poteza u igri šaha van igre šaha ne
postoje. Pravila zavise od toga mšta smo odlučili da ta pravila budu.
Naše verovanje u to nije naša individualna odluka – slično je i sa
obećanjima, parama, brak, država, zakoni, sve ustanove i socijalne
vrednosti, sve izuzev domena prirodnih nauka

E sad, Moral kao socijalna činjenica. Šta je dobro. kako živeti ispravno.
Kao da postoje različiti morali. Imamo ih: poslovni, buržoaski,
buržoaska bohemija— moral se artikuliše kroz kontekst – imamo i
lopovski moral, proleterski. Imamo i malograđanski. Kaluđerski, ruralni..
Dakle, ja imam integritet koji sam konstituisala na osnovu svog
lopovskog ili malograđanskog morala. Ako je i društvo takvo, lopovsko
i malograđansko, onda je takva osoba prihvaćena kao ispravna,
primereno se ponaša, jer se lopovlik i malograđanština u takvom društvu
cene. Ili bezobzirnost, makijavelizam, koristoljublje…

E sve to uvodi u teško pitanje etičkog relativizma. Dakle – u suštini to
pitanje parazitira uveliko na KULTURNOM RELATIVIZMU. Tu se krije
odgovor. U literaturi iamo da kod Eskima npr postoji običaj ubijanja
viška novorođenih beba ili ostavljanje staraca u snegu da umru kad više
sami ne mogu da jedu i to je u Eskima moralno.
Potom razni običaji u ishrani, odevanju, odnosu među rasama, polovima.
I onda se čini da u moralu nema univerzalne istine te da objektivni
moralni standard ne postoji, jer bi onda bilo tako da su svi kulturni
obrasci vredni u moralnom smislu te da naš vrednosni sistem nema
nikakav poseban status i da je insistiranje na našim vlastitim vrednosnim
standardima vid arogancije. Osim toga kulturne razlike se mogu objasniti
razlikama u uslovima života, kao rezultat društvene nužde. Pbičajne
vrednosti u svakoj kulturi su identitet te kulture, kao npr u Eskima i za
njih ubijanje nejakih ima snažnu moralnu dimenziju bilo da negiraju
univerzalnost (Eskimi) ili pretenduju na nju. Običaji koji su jače
zasnovani na moralnom kriterijumu su oni zasnovani na jednakosti kao
moralnom kriterijumu. Ako kritikujemo ono što u kulturama može biti
neispravno, npr ropstvo i diskriminacija, moramo da odbacimo moralni
relativizam jer on ne dozvoljava poređenje kultura. I to isključuje
mogućnost promene. S jedne strane imamo opasnost moralne
isključivosti, teokratije, aparthejda, s druge strane opasnost nasilne
asimilacije slabijih kultura u jače kulture i nametanja svog pogleda na svet
drugima (divlji kapitalizam i njegove strogo materijalističke vrednosti uz
poneku ezoteričnu meditaciju za stres..). Svako nametanje bilo kakve
krajnjosti ne može da se opravda s moralne tačke gledišta. Tu dolazimo
do TOLERANCIJE. Ona ne znači proizvoljnost niti isključuje
mogućnost kritike i interferencija u pitanja druge kulture će biti
opravdana kako poštuje princip tolerancije, dakle, poštuj razlike, ali ne i
moralno neispravne običaje i prakse (seča klitorisa u Pakistanu,
aparthejd..) Rešenje je u što preciznijem razlikovanju običaja i morala, pri
čemu običaji predstavljaju kulturne obrasce koji variraju kreoz vreme i
prostor, a moral je univerzalni vrednosni kriterijum koji se primenjuje
podjednako na sve prakse. Etika se treba da se direktno bavi običajima
već da traga za moralnin razlozima na osnovu kojih se prakse koje su
postale običaji mogu opravdati ili kritikovati.
Imamo teleološku etičku teoriju i deontološku etičku teoriju. Teleološka
polazi od pojma “dobro” kao vrednosti, to je krajnja svrha delanja, a
deontološka od pojmova “ispravno” i “treba”. Oko mene sve sami
deontolozi, a vrline nigde..
Tako se moralno određuje ljudska praksa. Primer teleološke ili
konsekvencijalističke teorije je utilitarizam, a primer deontološke je
Kantova etička teorija. Ima ih još koje kombinuju ove dve. Na različite
Ako pod etikom podrazumevamo postupak navođenja razloga kojuim
pokušavamo da opravdamo ono što činimo, onda preporučujem teoriju
direktne intuicije. Ona se sastoji u pozivanju na ono što “svi znaju”,
dakle to je opšteprihvaćeno. To bi značćilo u praksi da ono što svi
“znaju da to tako treba” podrazumeva da je nešto ispravno i ponekad je
veoma teško dokazati i pokazati da ta činjenica niti je moralne prirode niti
ima moralno pokriće. To je način na koji funkcionišu PREDRASUDE.
Varijanta ovog pristupa, prisutna u svim svetim knjigama svih religija
jeste Zlatno pravilo: ne čini drugima ono što ne želiš da oni tebi čine.
Ovo “pravilo” otvara put u etiku savesti, dakle, ono što činomo je
iskreno i u skladu sa našom savešću pša je samim tim i moralno
Imamo i etiku vrlina. PO njoj ljudske postupke treba vrednovati prema
izvrsnosti ili odličnosti konstituisano naravno s onim što se u nekom
društvu tumači kao vrlina, kao primereno i poželjno u tišičnim životnim
situacija i za različite društvene uloge koje svako od nas ima u životu.
Nasuprot “vrlini” imamo i “porok”. Onda se tako definiše šta je
“zabranjeno”, šta se očekuje i šta je pristojno. Eti8ka vrlina je teorija u
kojoj se naglašava društvena regulacija i konrola nad ljudskim
ponašanjem i uspostavlja kriterijum za ocenu društvenog uspeha u
pogledu morala. Aristotel u Nikomahovoj etici, čiji sam fan, razvio je za
mene nešto najprihvatljivije, dakle: etika vrlina po kojoj je vrlina sredina
između dve krajnosti od kojih jedna predstavlja suviše, a druga premalo
nekog svojstva koje može da ima neki postupak. Sposobnost da se ova
sredina nađe i po njoj postupa predstavlja karakternu osobinu ličnosti
koju krasi vrlina, a ne porok. Barem mi tako govori racionalni deo
ličnosti, da je tako ispravno.
Imamo i teoriju dvostrukog učinka: (po kojoj bih bila, lično, prinuđena,
da postupam okružena nemoralom i u nekim specifičnim situacijama, ili
bih bila da je toliko vrtoglavo i tvrdoglavo ne odbacujem jer ne verujem u
tzv “veće dobro” iako ga razumem. Za mene, ako jedan jedini život ne
vredi, ne vredi ničiji.) Moralnu vrednost nekog postupka određuje
namera. A nenameravani rezultazi ostvarenja dobro artikulisane namere
su kolateralni učinci. Ovu teoriju morala naročito mrzim. No veoma je
atraktivna u ratu i u strateškom menadžmentu u biznisu 🙂 Često se na nju
vade makijavelisti… Iako oni misle da su “moralni” ili ne dao Zevs da
imaju neku vrstu integriteta, tu postoji mali problem: a to je pitanje
odgovornosti ta nepredviđene, ali predvidive posledice naših postupaka.
Ipak i ova i feministička etika kao etika brige na konto solidarnosti
ljudske prirode, koji su po nekima karakteristični za “ženski” pristup
svetu, ma šta to značilo, daju uvide etici kao nauci o moralu, tj teoriji
Utilitarizam je najsavremenija etička teorija i našla je svoje mesto u
političkoj i ekonomskoj teoriji, a njen je osnivač Džeremi Bentam
(napisao svoj “Uvid..” tokom Francuske revolucije”..) Po Bentamu ljudi
su po prirodi racionalni egoisti i nad njima vladaju podjednako
zadovoljstvo i bol. I oni određuju kako ono što se stvarno čini tako i
ono što bi trebalo da se čini. Dakle, HEDONIZAM pokreće ljude u
njihovim postupcima. Racionalna sposobnost omogućava da ljudi
razlikuju više od manje bilo bola bilo zadovoljstva i to je osnova moralne
računice. Parametri ove računice su: intenzitet, trajanje, izvesnost, blizina,
plodnost i čistoća koji se postižu nekim određenim postupkom. To nje
doktrina individualnog, egoističkog hedonizma, zato što sposobnost
razlikovanja većeg od manjeg zadovolljstva omogućava delovanje
društvenih sankcija či8ja je svrha da obezbede da egoistički hedonisti,
kakvi su ljudi po prirodi, postupaju kao univerzalni hedonisti i da među
svojim postupcima biraju onaj koji donosi najveće, ukupno
zadovoljstvo, bez obzira na to o čijem se zadovoljstvu radi. Ovo uvodi
SREĆU kojim se zahteva realizacija najveće moguće sreće najvećeg
broja ljudi. Očuvava se egoizam kao polazna tačka jer je potreebna
motivacija za delanje i maksimalizacija kao princip delanja. Dakle, kroz
sankcije egoizam kao osnova lojudske prirode pomoću racionalnosti
postiže veću sreću.. i ograničava se na formu univerzalnog hedonizma.
Bentamob kvantitativni utilitarizam bez prevca gde se sreća može
količinski odmeriti je bio temeljno kritikovan. I sam utilitarizam nastoji da
se kasnijim teorijama poboljša, Bentamov naslednik Džon Stjuart Mil
ublažava Bentama, uvodeći razliku između kvantitativnog i kvalitativnog
koja je zasnovana na razlici između “viših” i “nižih” zadovoljdtava”.
Dalje, ako se broji samo faktički rezu7ltat, kako će se iskalkulisati
posledice jer se odluka o postupku donosi pre nego što se vidi kakvu su
stvarni rezultati. Zbog naše pogrešivosti i neizvesnosti oko ishoda naših
postupaka stvara se problem.. Dalje, kako računati faktičke posledice
konkretnih pojedinačnih postupaka? Suviše je to proizvoljhno,
neizvesno… Neki su to pokušali da reše redefinisanjem kroz posledice
sistematskog postupanja na određeni način, posledice “već viđeno iz
prakse”.. – ali opez ove dve forme mogu imati različit rezultat u
vrednovanju istog postupka – posledice sistematskog laganja, tj
postupanja prema pravilu da se laže su rđave, a u prvom utilitarističkom
smislu bi bile dobre. Nedovoljno suptilno.
Ipak, za prostije duše, ovaj princip opđte merljivosti gde se za dva
postupka može utvrditi koji je bolji može biti atraktivan. Jer sve što se
poredi ima svoju konačnu cenu koja je utvrdiva. Zar to nije divno?
Ukratko – naša je dužnost u utilitarizmu da učinimo sve što je u našoj
moći da svet učnimo boljim bez obzira na to ko će na kraju konzumirati
sreću.-… zvuči kao Orvelova “Životinjska farma”..
Nesumnjivo da je popularan u ekonomiji i politici. Moralna intuicija mi
govori da je to tako..
Jer moralne vrednosti su za mene PRAVDA I LJUDSKO
DOSTOJANSTVO. Atak na jedno ili na drugo se mora kažnjavati!
Najnepravedniji i najodvraniji postupci kao npr kažnjavanje nevinih, a ne
krivih mogu da se onda ispostave i uspostave kao moralna dužnost, ako
se iskalkuliše da se tako postiglo ukupno više dobra.. (režim Pola Pota i
ona silna ubistva u ime revolucije u Kambodži mi sad na umu..) To i ne
zvuči kao teorija o moralu već o nečem sasvim drugom, teorija o
instrumentnoj racionalnosti koja traži najefikasnija sredstva za postizanje
ciljeva bez obzira o kakvim se ciljevima radi, moralno ispravnim ili ne.
Druga velika etička teorija je deontološka – primer je Imanuel Kant i
njegova moralna filosofija zasnovana na principu univerzalnog


Two (hearts) in one! Leila’s Black Mirror in Serbia(n)

English translation: Boris K. and the destiny of Mary Shelly (in original: Boris K. the Empath), “The Adventures Of Boris K.”, Leila Samarrai, editor: Pamela Sinicrope, published in 2013
Boris K. used to kill his hours of boredom by reading biographies of the controversial female writers. Somewhere in the middle of the book, he started crying.

“What happened, Boris K.?” asked the seller by whose bookstall Boris K. used to read the classic novels.

“I am lamenting over the destiny of Mary Shelley.” “What has happened to her?”

“What hasn’t…”


The Bitch

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 Bitch

Miss, I know it’s none of my business that you’re by yourself on this bench, in the park, your face all wrinkled. You’re moving away.


Nice doggy. Poodle? It is looking at me lovingly and growling. It knows me from somewhere, here I am assailed by a new thought.


– Fifi, I will kick you, Fifi tear her apart, down to her tendons, veins and arteries, we must reach her heart. The bite of your Fifi, so generous…Miss Ana, may I call you Ana, mmm?…you’re stepping away. Don.t  Listen to me speak so unfortunate, alone, thankful for Your ear, don’t toss me away so easily. Might we get a bit more informal? Per tu… Flee, if you think me insane. You turn your head. Lemme sit down. One cigarette stub, nothing more. I want to embrace it with my teeth, tell you something and leave. You no longer resist, Ana. You are finally responding to my words by turning your head. I am an ungrateful dog. Ah well. At least I feel full now that I can sit next to you without obtrusion, even lie down and be with you in this way. Whenever so I desire.

You don’t think that we started this off in the best way possible? You, me, an abandoned bench and Fifi. Only solitude can make you put up with an insane person. Solitude and insanity.For I am insane. This is not mere circumstance, a particular one, of insanity. Many a bench puts up with an insane person, the streetcar bars hang the retards that hang themselves atop them and brush their sweat against the travellers. We are the rapists of our life pillars. Where do I start now? In what order should I tell you of myself? Of you? When there are so many topics you would like to hear? Well, let’s start somewhere…



If you put yourself in my position, you will see that all of this is quite a normal reaction. I link things up in the moment. You are to me the only woman on all of these benches where various Fifis are lined up to whom I want to entrust my case. The brain would think that I am the only one for you too. Why is it frightening then to have trust in a stranger? I beg the Stranger to listen to me. He is our representative when troubles ensue. Why is it frightening to sit still on a bench next to a man, who…who…




You must be under pressure too and have a lot of suitors on the bench. It is hard to keep all that plastic and those boards under control. Imagine them shoving close to each other, one, two, three. The bench would crack. I hope we settled this now.


I do not want to approach other girls, on other benches. I am not polyamorous nor do I want to get into three-or-four benches, and then not know where to go first. You can change the bench if you still had some prejudices. You are always the same to me. Perfect. No objections.


Let me bug you about myself a bit. Let me explain a bit, about how I wound up on the park bench.


I got a divorce six or seven minutes ago. Don’t look at me funnily, don’t bite that hand of yours, angel. For I am no longer aware of what the minute is, let alone the date. It isn’t something I really need to etch into my memory. I don’t complain, I had a harmonious marriage. No kids. A fireplace. The mother-in-law was a good knitter, I had a print store and a gift shop. Still, one day, with everything between being a perfect system, the talking in the house simply died. Each to their own wall, grabbing a piece and warming their hands. The eyes of my mother-in-law were observing the needlepoint and got stuck there forever. I no longer drank coffee with my wife, and I won’t even go into dinner.


Nobody was commenting on the movie anymore!



If you were to ask my ex-wife, we never argued once even during madness, or ovulation, or upon arrival of bills, let alone gifts and the packaging of the morning coffee, if you were to ask…who is to be blamed for the divorce, she would probably say: Him. He is to blame. Peter. You asking me? You asking?

-I’m asking.

-Thank you, Ana.I will say: Pipi is to blame…



That is how it came to pass. Fate? Possibly.

‘How so?’

A SIGH LATER, NEARLY A SECOND LONG She feels how a tear rolls down his face which, again, leaves the female listener across from them in a seemingly emotionally moved state. It appeared as if both the lady and the dog were listening carefully, while he struggled with his breath which he caught again in order to continue the tale, struggling with evidently lived pain and fear.

– It was all but smoke. Ash.Dark powder. Kind of like when you breathe in something indescribably nasty. The word Divorce has its own life, its own pulse. It has a cold air about it. Like if you were mid-Siberia. Nobody around.


– Okay, let me be brief, miss because I could go on like this like Dostoyevski, meaning, unendingly.

He turned towards her in confidentiality and hopeful, but came to realize that the bench was empty. He nodded in acknowledging the realization. Still, her departure cannot prevent him from continuing the story. A female conspiracy was put into action against him which culminated in a divorce, so the pile of dames and Fifi that are running from some singles’ benches out there in parks around town was nothing to him. Still it was getting dark, and the cold wind was slapping his cheeks. Glum, he was silent, for a man who’s alone does not speak, he merely lifts his hands in the air to drive a nail or two in his own coffin of solitude. We sink into silence as if it were the ocean. Only after we give ourselves up to dark thoughts does salvation come, a new chance which slides and stumbles amid the benches and park trees. A broad or two slide next to it, sailing along in the dim night, thick-thighs and scantily clad torsos all around. The pieces made up a woman spotting a cheap, bleached hair who held in her hand a worn-out knife and a cracked mirror.

– I shall tell you, I shall tell you all…utter it, my head bowed, as a perjurer and a profligate, the wrecker of the idyllic – the woman was looking at him in wonderment, and her eyes, cold and uncompromising, slid off of the glassy catafalque of the mirror which gave with its shine shadow to all of her wrinkles hidden by the night. She is telling a tale, giving birth to subplots, plots, her face moistened by cottony tears which wet the silent paper upon which he somehow writes and is getting angry before the cheat of life that she took his home, with a sudden, inappropriate silence.

– It all died, dear Lady. The shifty woman shrunk the man to the size of Tom Thumb. What she did to me, I am not too clear on even today. – The woman with bleached hair bowed her head towards him a bit, barely controlling the laughter concealed behind two rows of her overly huge teeth, snug and tightened into her corset which leaves nothing to the imagination, feeling that some sort of evil blood is flowing through this mad man’s veins, mad man who could be a killer, a kidnapper or merely a simple worn-out and pathetic basic life form without a penny to his name.

He continues his story, observing the soil at his feet not providing him with answers. He stomped on the broken bottle glass which was suddenly there, he gets even darker and retreats into the coat which reminded him of the coldness of the moment, as he spoke, as he was complaining to the mistress of the Night, the vampiress with eyeshadow on her lips and rouge round her eyes. He grabbed her bare forearm and squeezing her nickel, he looked at her as if he will growl at her at any moment. This is how he won her over to listen to him, his face was strengthened with peace, and his eyes shined and lips moved in tiny tremors as if he were sucking on a succulent udders of an overly giving (generous, in the mood) cow.

– After the conversation died down, I would remain all by myself with the king-size bed and the fridge, a television set partway to death and nothing else besides all that! The mother-in-law, of course, picked up her needlepoints with swearing and mewling and departed the three-roomed home demonstrably, she even denounced the kitchen. A hundred square meters, my fair lady, and all of THAT in the house.

– That?

– Oil sketches, San Vincenzo and Nature Morta done in needlepoint. She left it all there.

– And the wife?

– Left on a short trip, with Pipi, of course. Her animal mask.A bitch twin. Actually, I have this notion that this is all Pipi’s fault.

– It cannot be!


artist: Sofia Bonati

I know the nature of doubt. The whirlwind of trickery contains an endless number of smaller whirlpools of seemingly irrelevant events. Upon it all, I was willing and able to face her mother’s will who suggested that I was the worst man, one of devastating actions. Seemingly unnoticeably, she used potatoes instead of a fan. She stuck she-butterflies in slight potatoes in order to wave their wings in front of her shifty face. And my Anna, she was a sort of she-Oedipus…whatever the term for women is for that.

She is, for instance, bothered by doubt of me having an affair, and suddenly she would stop with the doubt and look at the mother-in-law. She would chew on her mouthfuls and smirking on the other side, the swollen side. In her own home she put on the mask of vengeance since the marriage of her daughter to an older printer was a motive born out of pure lust of her naïve little Annie.

– Annie, you need a powerful man of Antique build. Just like the one whose muscles I stabbed here on my needlepoint.

However, she and her doubt became one. A stone of crude profile rolling and gathering various bits and bobs. But this was far before…before…


She went silent on one particular day in May, the 14th to be exact, after I have been outside of the house, for I have complicated my own life with freelance work, the earnings of which I wanted to use to buy her that piano she so desperately wanted. And more oil paintings, that Vincenzo for instance. That morning, hung over from work and sunken from the anguish, with sunken cheekbones from leaning them on the wrist of my weary hand, with my head like a lid of a burnt saucepan, I called her in my love for that phenomenon of a woman we love, a phenomenon for she has a hold of us by the cosiest place in our heads where crushed husbands separated from their needs due to her more and more prominent headaches, and also faithful and honest, are collecting all sorts of cockroaches and ossicles…

– You killed our marriage – she explained and then it was all over with.

If I did, in fact, kill it, it was due to vast and enormous love.

– Oh, pish-posh!

The harlot rises and drags the cracked mirror along with her. She leaves the divorced man be. He is yelling at her, interrupted in his story yet again.

– Of course, all you want is money. More money, and then you will understand. You’re not going anywhere, because I have to finish what I started. Only the Harlot of the night can understand me. Want an ax in your head? No, that would be too violent, right?

She was flailing with the night where her butchery voice pierced the heavens. She escaped under the sight of an ax which was looking at her inquisitively, seeking for a spot where it could drive its blade and lay bare any hidden molars under her hair.

– Yes… – he sighed. – Still, I need no one. I will listen to myself.

He sat this way as if he were waiting for someone or something, surrounded by thick foliage which loomed over him like threatening Titans, baroque rhetoric which cut open the silence of the night in the form of a whisper, he was sad but talkative and clever.

However, he did not remain all by himself. He felt the presence of a young poodle which, with its bloodshot eyes and presence, lit up to him the entire bench scene along with its gigantic trees that stretched its tentacles from the windy side of the park above the head of the divorced man. Before him, she growled angrily, with a sound created by lightning which gives shade to the stormy sky using its flashes of rage and wrath. The bark of the tiny Fifi, a multiple cloned poodle, was swallowing the silence, and its mane was lined with silvery lines of the aristocratic litter that was her skin. Oh how beautiful this Dame is.

The woolly hat on her head was undergoing piloerection and took on the shape of a well-coiffed hairstyle that Anna loved. Fifi’s eyes, painfully empathetic, gave away the female Dandy which was assessing the sufferer, only to jump into his lap and take off another chunk of meat. She growled silently but pleased.

download (4)

– A bit slim, but still gracious. You will understand, little Fifi. You, oh pleasant comfort, wife with the bark of consolation, temperamental slicker with a button-nose. Coquette of humans, warm, come to my lap, Fifi, you realized, unlike your Mistress, that I did not poison her dog which was a present from her mother, her little Pipi. I did not, and even if I did, it was not out of jealousy, but the flesh, it was the toxic flesh, and she could not control her hunger. She bit me and poisoned herself.

I am full of cyanide, for I am alone and unloved. Pipi did, however, have some of your facial features, oh you coquette bitch. I laughed aloud after I had entered the apartment as if I were entering a bat cave, but it was not laughter that a happy being stretched out due to joy, it was desperation, it was torture. Even now I grin, but bareheaded and alone, I keep hiccoughing and do vomit on occasion, right here in this tiny nylon bag. Fifi, want some? No? She has criteria.

The dog jumped onto the bench and climbed into the divorcee’s lap.

– My sweet little poisoned Pipi. After Annie left, I went downhill completely. I lost my job, my printing shop. I closed my little store even before that. I lost my car. My Fiat Punto bought four months before the divorce for ninethousandandfivehundred Deutsch marks. Everything, everything went down following her leaving, everything except Vincenzo. Oh how I remember it, Pipi! It was me who was carrying sacks of cement on my back, setting up wardrobes, because I swore that I would set wardrobes up on our wedding day. I swore on the ring and my sound mind. Why did she leave me? Did love irrelevant to our wedding vows not burn within her? She was as steady as the wind and as passionate as Aphrodite. Without a doubt, she found a better handyman…for her wardrobes.

– You killed our marriage the moment you poisoned Pipi. You could not stand me loving her more than you.


Hearing this word, I realized that the time for pleasantries was up. Her face was the face of an offended lover, her face was wild, red, measured only in her lip movement. – You killed my Pipi. – Her face was however as sensitive as a plank, a she-avenger of her sweetheart which…and this keeps me in turmoil. For I had wanted a Fifi of my own, I wanted her gentleness and mercy. Thus they declared me an abuser of female canines and the poisoner motivated by jealousy and unreturned canine love.

When the car goes downhill, the thread we hold in our hand cannot stop it.

The words Shipwreck of a Marriage, or perhaps Catastrophe are getting closer with a steady gallop, the broken cart is oftentimes covered with FREEDOM inscribed on it, you could definitely see in that pile of worm-eaten boards a few that were intact and that could be saved as compensation and consolation that pushes us to the surface. The horizon of new hope is banging widely against the rubble and darkness and stopping somewhere on the doorstep of the golden stars which dive into the heavens readying new surprises, well known to Cupid. Lovely, broken down cart squealing in pain, derelict in the muck where the vipers squirm, let them!

This is when Annie undertook that type of tyranny which spiteful souls wear like a vein ulcer, and it is the tyranny of silence. ‘Intolerance’ – I spoke with my own tongue.

Upon poisoning Pipi, she got the idea of her own poisoning, which she would use as a tool against me. In vain were all of my reassurances that Pipi and I did not cross over to that other side of respect which would break down the relationships we have barked up carefully over the years, all for Annie. The fact that I did not have a dog of my own, as an antipode, or a cat, was speaking for itself. It is possible that my flaunting before her cutesy barking at times caused revolt and doubt that I am doing something underhanded or at least plotting revenge, for our eyes (Pipi’s and mine) often clashed in olive-green shines which spoke: The time will come… I was pretending so well. I hated Pipi the same way I loved my Annie.

Why did I hate her? That mutt was whom she kept in her lap, that mutt in her bed, fidgeting against her comb working on her locks – that mutt, smug and arrogant it fumbled around with its fur turning its ass to me in the process and shaking off the bug powder onto me, with the dignity of the household pet, it would shake its hips spitefully entering the Mistress of the house’s bedroom. I had never seen a haughtier creature than that bitch, self-absorbed, self-sufficient, subordinating everything and everyone to her will. If I were to step into Annie’s room, she would growl at me, and that tongue, that smooth tongue would be lolled out in my face and I could clearly hear her say: Get lost. I had never heard her say this out loud because I am not insane…but her thoughts were telling me this, her eyes… within those pupils where wickedness spread, those were but tiny telltale signs sent by her eyes where a laughter of pleasure was splashing about, then tears of joy would trickle along with saliva and drool onto my trouser legs which she tore off with her teeth.

One lovely day, in the hallway, in front of my wife’s bedroom, I found Pipi’s corpse. I shrugged apathetically and muttered ‘At last’, like a ventriloquist. I wanted, with my own two hands, both firm and husbandly, those of the man of the house, to rashly burry the poodle’s locks of hair sprayed with Chanel into the treetop and to throw her away in a trashcan.


Annie found Pipi dead (‘she was scratching all night, using hope, faith and her love to me, her unconscious saviour, to revive the stimuli which would keep her alive’) getting out of bed and opening the door with a smile on her pale grey face welcoming the morning, when she was met by an extended red tongue and rolled up eyes. The rug on the floor and the soft meat intensify the memory of Lili, her previous dog that was poisoned (by pure accident and the fault of the cat called Lilith, which was confirmed without a doubt). Looking at her Lil Pipi, her eyes bore both madness and glow. At first, a time to rise, and now a time to descend.

She ordered Pipi’s corpse brought to her with a coarse voice. She observed the dead rug with its red tongue out and kept silent. Pipi’s body had an entire carpet of dust on it. That arrogant little beast, that dirtied bride was now at long last effortlessly observing the world. Her eyes were dim plates enveloped in cortex. Her whites were gone in the darkness, extinguished, never to be resurrected. Her corpse was covered in crusty boils of unknown origin. Annie lifted her up with her satin gloved hands and screamed into the darkness of the open maw of her dead poodle.

– No, this isn’t true, you cannot be dead!

I laughed and gave myself away. The laughter of a monster on the other side of the glass which was separating us clashed with the past of all the sorrows of Annie. Namely, for Pipi’s death (as claimed by the cook as a witness) a cat-like beast with her eye out was responsible, a beast that was advancing towards the window glass where Pipi stood with her ass out observing the world. I don’t have to tell you that this window was in my wife’s bedroom.


After the mysterious death of Pipi (so, the one completely confirmed by eyewitness reports, the cat that looked like it belonged to Poe, one eye, furious to the core, offered Pipi her plate, and Pipi licked it clean) Annie did not eat for days, bed-ridden, with eyes that stared dully in the distance… and when she got up, she said:

– I want to have a coffee with my husband.

I squealed in pure joy, to which she gave me an intense stare. Still, I could not even fathom what kind of marital problems awaited me upon Pipi’s unexpected demise, may she rest in peace.

– She was bad for you anyway… – I consoled her. – She looked like all of those popular starlets with their fucked up heads. Except she was a bitch, of course.

The door to our home suddenly became heavier. Far too heavy. So did the table, and the doors, and windows, and the coffee which was getting cold. The fear that she would think I had anything to do with the…with the poisoning…you know? No, you most certainly would not even think that see I’m not some jealous husband, and jealous of dogs no less, those little bitches? No, I knew Annie’s temperament and fear of her accusing me was overtaking me and had its tongue out like a snake when twisting itself around a tree.

Everything was still peaceful, cosy around us. At the coffee drinking table, there was fruit in a miniature flowerpot, flowers of padded red hair, a tiny Cupid framed in glass, photos of Pipi. Taken by the glee with which she posed with Pipi on the photos and the aforementioned Cupid, she took small sips of coffee and shot me a few times with tiny flashes of her tinier eyes, like a hard-working questioner, with an indifferent face.

– They should all be killed.

– Who, honey? – I asked mercifully.

– Those cats with rabies.

– Oh, yes.

– Beat them to paste.

– Ah yes. – I could barely utter any words, as if I were not drinking coffee, but eating a heavy porridge of glue.

– Pipi gave my life sense, and now I need something to put me down and to sleep when the sense is gone – Annie said this and took a few chill pills.

– A shame that I don’t have a sniffer. Eh, what do I need it for, oral use is better. Twice oral, before and after coffee. Give me that silver teaspoon on the table. Those bloody cooks steal silverware. Ah well. I will crush it next time. I don’t like to swallow them whole. I always had the fear that they will get lodged into my oesophagus.


Tai Shan Schierenberg : 2008 Alter Ego

I was listening to her, pale, holding the teaspoon, obedient as a dog. What does she need it for? Annie is sucking on the pill and through her tongue rolls it somewhere down to the stomach where powder and blood will face off.

Every morning since then, since Pipi’s death, whether crushing the pill with teaspoons or not, a sad image kept repeating words or the word through the image carved the gradual druggedness of Annie deeper. Blessed, ready for family life and relaxing conversations we used to have – those of water, power, the vacuum cleaner, the gift store and the fiscal cash register – she was resting on a cloud of sorts known only to her where she was with her Pipi, where anger and rage and lust were nowhere around her. The Pillmania spirit had taken his hold of her.

As she closed her eyes, while I spoke of the public utility, they appeared as two female lovers glued together, one to another. She had little eyes like two sickles. Thus the two sickles are looking somewhere on the inside, like a moon in its crescent phase enjoying itself, silent as it sails across the night sky. A little arc is sailing across the sea which is getting tangled below him and takes on its reflection which is swimming in the dim light of our cafeteria, whose walls already took on the hue of the upcoming sunset.

The pill mania made me feel sick. Unnoticeably sick, though, and the feeling of abandonment, as if I were a weak calf on some distant field, was too strong for the calf so forcefully weaned, grasping for breath and grazing somewhere far away where it will grow old and die. All in all, the coffee now tasted like bile, and I felt what it was like living in darkness by yourself, like a creature of the deep what has bright, electric lights for eyes.

Still, if only it remained like this, but she was quickly overtaken by insanity and rage. She left the pills, threw a coffee cup at me once while I was entering, telling me to go on then and get lost. This place was clearly one person too many now.

– But, I love you – I tried to play the dog love card which she appreciated so.

Annie put her hand where her heart should be.

– There is nothing here, do you understand? – her eyes glimmered, became frozen and emotionless. The neurotic laughter repelled and attracted doubt.

– What is happening to you, Annie, my Venus? Where did this come from? What does it all mean? How come you have no heart? Should I call the doctor?

– What doctor, fool? No doctor can re-heart me, for I do not feel. I do not love you. Do you understand me now? You simply annoy me because you suck.

– Why do you do this? What did I do wrong? – I flailed my hands while talking. – I will get you a new dog. Just don’t… My Venus. Will you not?

– A new dog? – her hands went over my face and she stared me directly into my eyes. I felt the coursing and the warmth.

– Besides, even if you did not love me, Annie… Screw love, right? We are after all merely husband and wife. We’re not lovers of Verona. Friendship is what matters.

– I’ll show you a new dog, Poisoner! – Ah, you really do keep spiting me. Would a pointer not calm you down?

The spite was really strong. No words, no sound, no letter. I waited. As Simonov says, wait for me, and I’ll come back! Wait in patience yet.

Suddenly, from her throat where it felt as if a ghost of late Pipi dwelled the little bitch growled, shoving her snout through her oesophagus squeezing out a barrage of hysterical punches at me.

– Dear, your coffee is getting cold. – My metamorphosis as an act of reconciliation and bravery was brimming with elegance, contrasted to her squeal and her arms which wrapped around my neck like two dark serpents twisted into a ball. Her arms, I noticed, were lengthy and long, mixed with air which drained matter, bone and blood from them. She was warming up, a vicious disease of fire had beaten her, and the roots of her arm hairs stank of burn. She slowly started turning into molten gold, her hair caught fire – in short, she was burning in rage right in front of me, and this is plausible, I’ve read about self-immolation as a reaction to extensive stress.

This is how I killed my wife, fried off the wings of a butterfly, because of the sin that was her oversized and somewhat impure love for Pipi. Her loves were kept safe, more accurately her touches of love only knew of that mane, that grey mane of Lady Pipi, Her highborn highness whose bones are now drying up in the shadowy wind. But, despite spontaneous combustion, other than the experts I could reference, I had no evidence that it was indeed me who did not kill her. A petrol canister in the shed, a few matches and a motive: poisoning the bitch. I was picturing it: fire comes with the poisoner, the lousy potion is smoking in the ashes, mixed in with it and the bones of the beloved animal. I fried her with my jealousy, she was all smoking and smoking away at long last, she was extinguishing herself, turning into ash and all ashen and powdery like that she dissolved right there, in front of my eyes. I went up and down the room with an unlit cigar in hand, frantically thinking – Should I tell them she fell asleep with her cigar lit? It used to happen to her. These things happen, inspector, my friend, hahaha.

– I did not burn my wife yesterday, because when I went home at five (during the self-immolation), my salesman asked me this. – Peter, how are you handling all of this? These people are nuts. Forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing… – This I said somewhat dragging it out, all sticky-like as if I hadn’t eaten in a while and there was a potential bread piece stuck to the inside of my oesophagus. This reptile of a salesman, this schemer, could testify that at the moment of Annie’s death I was not only absent but also filled with kindly thoughts. I was still thinking of this possibility, and then I scooped up all of the ashes into one ashtray with two fish-lipped buds and with the pedantry of a concentrated actor I laid Annie’s remains onto the canopy bed. Here is where she lay prostrate with Pipi, the two of them, inseparable lovers, feeding each other caviar pate.

I went to work by train. It was cold, but not too cold, although not too warm either. I asked myself what keeps the people warm under this gale which caresses the skin as gently as a skeletal hand would, eternally un-warm, the icy liberators of the oesophagus. Confused and pondering, exactly like a man whose wife had just spontaneously combusted before his eyes, I was trudging along the street covered in snow. At least I seemed to think so. I was late getting my alibi because I wanted to be late (ah let them get me, I confess to everything, other than poisoning Pipi, that I did not do), bearing but one thought into oblivion akin to an Unfinished Fantasy. I wasn’t skilful enough to burn her completely, and then, as we know, feelings of the loved, burned being race. Annie could talk of the consequences of an earthquake in South America and, of course, the Great Pyramid.


The pyramid is aligned exactly according to the cardinal directions of the planet.

Annie, this thing is like coffee, muck on the mouth and teeth as it seems to me, that sweet residue, and it is never wrong. It gets between my fangs, making my front row teeth look like a black star.

Stop it, you moron! What residue, what coffee?! Science stuck its fingers into the eyes of the great mystery and is digging away at it. When I was young, I noticed mysteries all around us. Hand me the third eye. Here is what the PhD MA PR The hell says about it…

– The pyramid is in the centre of the aggregate mass of the Earth.

And coffee..

– Unbelievable!

She would then take her coffee in her (right) hand, and the UFO stories in her left, while she would put the Legendary Times Magazine pledgets on her moist forehead.

– I was wrong to marry you. Now I know. Pipi, bark, damn it. Pipi is laughing at the confusion of charlatans and astral readers, those imprisoned by common sense. Pipi has no sense, hence why she makes sense of everything. I think she is aware of the mystery and its resolution. These days I feel like she is trying to learn our language. But you could not understand this. Read on, Pipi:

Dead, and once alive Pipette: bow wow wowwoooowwooow!

PIPI – The angles of the pyramid divide the Nile delta region into two identical halves.

In the cup of coffee, there are the male and the female side. The river in the coffee is the sludge of Nile.

PIPI – The pyramid is the perfect geodetic swivel and directional point.


Our marriage was going really well while there was coffee on the table. That’s it, perhaps, perhaps. You know the reason was also you buying plastic cups, and the sludge and residue lost on weight. In order for you not to think that my theories are completely wrong, understand that if the pyramid is a myth, our marriage is an anti-myth.

– If the basis of the pyramid’s surface is divided by twice the half of this monument, you get Pi=3.1416



– The sum of the surface area of all four sides of the pyramid is equal to the square of its height.

To this, I had no response.

PIPI (victoriously) – bow wow wow

ANNIE –That’s it. Tell him. Long live Pipi. Bow wow wow

PIPI – Bow wow

ANNIE – Bow wow

The barking stopped.

I sat on a bench of the platform housing a decommissioned train (thus I knew that I’d missed at least one) and gleefully came to a conclusion that the snow wasn’t melting for a while, which meant that leaving tracks in the snow was an inevitability. I observed the railroad before me and thought how numerous children must have died during the South American earthquake. In the distance, I heard male voices, from what I could tell it might’ve been an argument regarding some unsold candlesticks.

– They argue so much, and they aren’t even married. Nothing is guaranteed to us nowadays, not-a-thing.

Gazing at the floating snowflakes, for a second, that very second I covered my face with the warm palm of my hand taken out of my coat pocket mere moments before. I did so because I wanted to feel warmth right then and there, I wanted to prevent another memory of the spontaneously combusted Annie leak from out my eyes and, most certainly, the memory of the divorce gained with a single thunder strike. With no paperwork nor complications. Under agreement – with fire. The sound announcing the train’s arrival was heard in the distance. The wind started blowing harder.

I got up and moved towards the coming train, towards the known silence. After a couple of steps I stood, hands in pockets, unruly gaze, I was looking at the train in the distance, yet closer every subsequent second. The howl of the locomotive cast me, yet again, for but a mere moment, into the memory of that one hour when Pipi was poisoned, and Annie caught fire, an hour where I decided to abandon my life, and after I had found an alibi, a proper replacement, to walk away from it. I felt dizzy.

The train was stopping at the platform. I turned back for a second, noticing people rushing with bags in hands and realized that mine were in my pockets. Everything I ever needed could fit within the contents of a coat pocket. I entered the train with an unnaturally clear desire, I wanted to stop feeling. Did that inevitably include me no longer existing as well?

This is how I found myself here. You can accurately guess that I did not board that train. I am waiting for them, to pick me up, to arrest me, toss me in the slammer and feed me pipi pates.



My hungry little snorting sweety, shall we give in? Go back to them? Pipi, you had your vengeance. See. I underestimated you. I thought you were no more than an ordinary… mutt.  I forgot that you were a bitch. I mean, it’s no familiarity, nor title. Titles are for those who moil, and also for vain monarchs. We will be desensitized, dear Pipi, towards everything from now on. You might help me better understand Annie, as well as the mystery of the pyramids, therefore I beg of you, Fifi, to do me the honour of becoming my wife, there. I will get you both a dress and a little hat. You see, Pipi, it’s not that bad being a lady with such a bitch around like you. We would be like the perfect pair of gloves. How did I miss that? I missed my wife, I missed the marriage, and here there is a glorious, clever bitch that knows how to listen. Yes, I am he who speaks, because everyone around me fell silent. All is dead. Other than the well-known spots, they never die.


My wicked thing. Let’s go home, Annie is in that ashtray waiting. I might light a cigarette, with a cup of coffee. One would say I didn’t love her, but over her ashes, I will repent for all that I did, with marriage vows and the coffee-ritual. Who knows, maybe she went somewhere, I am ready for questioning, hell let them burry me even. I deserved it.


I feel a bit tired, a bit virus-stricken too yeah…I didn’t bring my hat…Annie will love seeing you alive and not killed by me, She might rematerialize and revive our marriage out of sheer happiness and in all her thickness compared to the clay pigeons walking in the parks. Maybe I’m Annie? Hehe. My left arm hurts (the muscles of both the forearm and the upper ar,), it always hurt Annie…Now her spasms are at my disposal. New life, Pipi. I have enough willpower. I fear no God, let alone those lazy-asses the cops and paramedics, hehe. Mere mortals, the lot of them. Perhaps you could help him realize…like you did with me and the pyramid thing. There. Homeward…no rush. With one break the length of a short eternity…What do you say, Pipi? You don’t care? Huh? Thank you so much. And here I missed the Champion’s league to take you for a walk. I’m not complaining. I prefer this and want nothing in return. Maybe a kiss, if we get home anytime soon. At least to make it worth something…

Horror-Wallpapers-38 (www.darkwallz.com)

Peroratio: Marco


More? There will be more when we get home and I tell you what’s on my mind. Go on and grin. He who laughs last…Not talking? Angry? I had no attention to anger nor offend you. Not my thing. Not my MO. Of all feelings, I only know those that are nice and bring joy. If I went overboard or made a mistake somewhere, tell me and then gnaw me to death. How? Put your mouth to mine and don’t let me breathe. Then cast me to the cats to be eaten. Fin. No more Peter. And seek another companion, Perhaps you will find one if an old-timer is still walking this planet. Though, it will be tough.

POODLE: Bow wow wow

PETER: Bow wow wow



Angelina –  First love’s hardest to forget

and many other amazing scenes from this cinema masterpiece

“It’s natural to elevate our first love to some sort of mythic emotional plateau, but you fell in love, she left you and now you’re dealing with love’s the most common by-product suicidal manic depression. Feel better?”
Angelina Jolie

playing my favourite girl.. at the moment I am trying to translate myself a story “The adventure of Boris K. and Lara C”.. I hope there will be more stories so it actually could be called “The adventures” 🙂

Alicia Vikander is slightly (but not much) better Lara Croft. Angelina is wild streetfighter. Alicia put a more subtle note to it and she is more precise with her punches. 🙂 Also, more delicate. Still, Angelina is way better with guns and other arms.  And Angelina is too tall for playing Lara. (173 cm) Alicia’s heights suit Lara’s role more.. (166.5 cm 🙂


and many more from this movie..


… almost all her action movie scenes, especially from Salt and  I must add her historical movie Alexander (2004), of course. She also became an awesome director…..

Angelina –  First love’s hardest to forget 🙂


Boris K. i Lara Kroft


Rebirth, Alice X. Zhang Rebirth, Alice X. Zhang

Požele Boris K. da upozna Laru Kroft, nakon filmske adaptacije serijala ne bi li je hvatao za ispletene kikice.  Boris K. nije video Laru Kroft kao ženskog aktera u 3d platformsko akcionoj avanturi Pljačkaši grobnica. “Ona je živa žena” – mislio je Boris K. i sanjario: “Ovo je prava žena za mene –  nezaustavljiva i za nove avanture uvek spremna.  Možda i jedina saputnica koju sam ikada poželeo… Ali, gde da je susretnem? – pitao se grozničavo, ispijajući poslednje kapi votke. I pored nepojmljivih Borisovih super moći, nije mogao da je locira. Lara je čas bila u Peruu u potrazi za tajanstvenim artefaktom iz Kualopekove grobnice, a govorilo se da se vratila sa lovačkog puta u Himalajima gde je sredila jetija visokog četiri metra.
“To je lako Borise K.”, reče mu lokalni Zaratustra. ” Ima je na svakom groblju. Vreba odlazak familije i u roku od tri minuta,  pokupi sve sa pokojničke sofre.” Boris K poskoči od radosti. Ne bi sumnje da Lara Kroft zna tačnu lokaciju svoh groblja u Beogradu, postova.. sve što je ikad iskao kao uslov za svoju idealnu životnu saputnicu kad je svojevremeno davao oglas u Ljubavnoj romansi.
Udesi Boris K. da dobije posao grobara kad ugleda mišićavu žensku siluetu, na Fenomenijskoj parceli Bivšeg diktatora Fenomenorepublike kako naskače na grobove Preminulih u mačjem skoku, lagana u odrazu i mekana u doskoku, u ruci držeći štit Lanselota.

Žena s kikicama izvadi iz nedara, blizu srca, neobično namotan papirusni svitak. Kako će kasnije saznati Boris K. jedan od retkih primeraka najpotpunije verzije misteriozne egipatske Knjige mrtvih, koja vekovima intrigira čovečanstvo.
Boris K. iskorači iz mraka: “Treba sveća za čitanje po mraku, gospodična”
“Čuvaru, skloni se, bolje kopam sama. Svitak je čitljiv”
“Ali, sveća daje uvid. Za čim tragate gospodična.”

“Sarkofag iz poglavlja 181 – mumija koja garantuje povratak duše u telo”
Boris K. otpi gutljaj iz pljoskice. Lara je radoznalo zagledala u nju.. a potom u misterioznog čovečuljka.  Odnekud joj se činio poznatim…
“Moje ime je Boris K. Ja sam grobar. Sahranjujem mrtve u zemlju kao da su krompiri – Borisa K. zbuni vlastita neuspela šala i strese se od neke jeze.

“Pogrebna praksa je hladan posao. Sve te nebeske pogrebne sahrane.. Ali, navikne se superheroj”, Lara se zagleda u ašov. Odmalena je u svojoj seoskoj kući Hatfield House uzimala lekcije od jezivog baštovana za koga se govorilo da živi večno i koji je neobično podsećao na Borisa K..  Dok se uspinjala penjalicama u parku koji je okruživao kuću i starije zgrade Starog dvora, nekada u vlasništvu Henrija VIII. s čežnjom se prisećala mreže za penjanje i šest čeličnih, toplo pocinkovanih upletenih žica obloženih konopcem od poliamida. Znala je sve  i o riljanju, kopanju, prevrtanju zemljišta.  Sa setom se  sećala svoje stare dečje grabulje koju je koristila jesenjim danima i tog popodneva, tokom sakupljanja opalog lišća, kad je u želji da iskopa  rođenu majku, otkrila da je majčin grob prazan, sa sve posmrtnim ostacima. Tako je sve i započelo.. 

I započeše da kopaju zajedno.

Krutom izdržljivošču kopali su na mestima koje je Boris K. označio, a tlo je bilo tvrdo, negostoljubivo i zamrznuto što bi neobično jer je bio mesec maj, a napolju klima, teška, vlažna i jedva podnošljiva vrućina, prava gotika američkog juga.

Najedared, Boris K. otre znoj sa čela.  “Dopusti meni. To nije posao za damu”, predloži Lara Kroft- Ali, Boris K. joj je dozvoli, te joj predloži da se odmori u njegovoj grobarskoj kućici na ivičnjaku centralnog groblja koje mu je bilo dodeljeno tokom noćnih dežurstava. “Ime kuće je Balkan. Starinska je, ali se brzo modernizuje. Dotle ću ja da nastavim s ekshumacijama”, obeća Boris K.

Lara se nije pomerila s mesta…

Tri sata kasnije, Boris K. ode da se presvuče, da uzme još alata, vreća za blago i sve šta im treba, a Lara iskoristi Borisovo odsustvo, uze Borisov papir s lokacijom Centralnog groblja i ustanovi da njen primerak nije tačan. Potom  grabi motiku i kreće s radom.

“To je on. To je jezivi baštovan. – besno će Lara vadeći trupla van, dok se nosila s brojnim emocijama – Misli da sam živa, a verovatno  mi je i rođenu majku ubio. Ili makar zna gde je.”

I odluči Lara da je Boris jedan od onih fenomena koji se ne smeju ispuštati iz vida. Ili se bar pratiti sa sigurne distance.  Delovao joj je poznato jer ga je identifikovala kao bombaša pomoću snimaka sa nadzornih kamera i mobilnih telefona očevidaca tokom serija eksplozija na plažama Baskije, ali je sad sigurna da se prevarila.  Bombaš je ranjen u grlo, a na Borisovom nije bilo ožiljaka.

Za sve je kriv Marvel – zaključila je. Tokom kopanja Boris je pričao kao navijen –  “Tako on uvodi sebe i druge likove u brojne nezavisne priče pre nego što ih spoji u intenzivno zadovoljavajući događaj. Stvorio je vlastiti povezani svet gde je superheroj i poseduje nadnaravne moći. Budi racionalna, Lara. Ne postoji nikakav jezivi bezvremeni baštovan. Ovaj čovečuljak je opasan.. ” Ah, evo ga, tiho. Lara..”

Boris K. se vratio, osvežen i nasmejan i predloži da on sam nastavi da kopa. “Iskopaćemo najdublji grob na svetu i tu pohraniti sva naša blaga”

“Nemam kud nego da se složim, ali za rad nećeš biti dodatno plaćen”, –  šizotipski poremećaj, verovanje u magično mišljenje. No, besmrtnost je, ipak, moguća. Zar sama nisam locirala crne rupe koje donose večnost i obrisale su život osoba, pa i moj, jednom kad sam u njih upala i superherojskim sposobnostima se iskobeljala van. Možda je moja majka Amelija tu, zarobljena u paralelnom univerzumu s beskonačnim brojem mogućih budućnosti. Baš kao baštovan. Ili Boris K. – Borise, nećeš mi izmaći! Moram da dobijem odgovore! Moram da razumem!

Boris K. je kopao  grobne rupe celu noć, a kad bi Lara uzela iz svakog groba šta joj je bilo potrebno, Boris bi zalepio stenu na rupu. Pljačka grobova činila se vrlo jednostavnom.
“Ljudi daju da se mumificiraju u nadi da će jednog dana da vaskrsnu – reče Lara.
“Možda će im se svideti društvo, ali svako je uznemiren koliko toliko ako je mrtav mrtvosan”,. nadgovori je Boris. I još reče:
“Ne zanimaju te medalje ratnih veterana? Parcela 12 b”

“Svaka kinta je dobrodošla – reče heroina – ali prioritet mi je ženska stara dva milenijuma” – Lara nije skidala pogled s Borisove pljoskice. Tad izvadi iz tobolca sa strelama jedan tajni svitak. Obično je krila svoje tajne adute u džepu na dugme u vojničkim M65 pantalonama, ali tajni svitak beše duži od irskog Morpetovog.. .

“Koliko za nju?”

“Za votku?”

“Za pljosku. To je bitan artefakt”

“Najobičnija pljoska od nerđajućeg čelika, prilično jeftino sam je dobio na buvljaku od starih  Akađana”, slegnu ramenima Boris K.

“Tu grešiš, Borise K.” U pitanju je veoma stara pljoska od feničanske slonovače. Prvi milenijum pre nove ere. Iz ove pljoske ispijao je Qabr Hiram of Tira , feničanski kralj iz čije sam grobnice upravo došla. U sarkofagu sam našla mumiju, ali bez čuvene pljoske cvetnog dezena..”
“Dosta. Evo ti!” – reče Boris i dade joj pljosku. Nije voleo da ga se ometa u radu. “Pristajem ukoliko mi dopustiš da kopamo zajedno” – zahvalno će Lara Kroft.  Lara okleva na trenutak, a onda poteže pljosku…


Tad Lara reši da mu oda tajnu koju je smislila, prekrstivši prste iza leđa.  Ono što mu sada prija, kasnije će da ga iritira – logično će ona – tako ću ga uhvatiti na delu i saznati njegov identitet, baš kao što sam otkrila tajnu Fenomenizacija kojima prkosim i sama.. Ali da li i on… Skoncentriši se, Lara..  Sredi se. Univerzum računa na tebe.  

Tad reče, uz slatki osmeh:
“Redovno igram igrice o tebi i tvojim putovanjima, Borise. Ugledam se na tebe. Kudagod da pođem, kojagod mumija da progovori ili artefakt koji da pokaže svoju čudnovatu moć, u znaku je Onoga Koga Čekamo, bili mrtvi ili živi, s divljenjem koje nalikuje na biblijski način pripovedanja, o Borisu K. superheroju, naoko pijanduri i soboslikaru, s pljoskom u ruci i graf faber olovkom koji prkosi fenomenizacijama čije poreklo još uvek istražujem.. “I Borisu dadosmo moći.. da vidi početak i nastanak sveta, da ga stvori i uništi. Da kontroliše munje, gromove, suše i zemljotrese,  oluje, kiše, da leči bolesti… a vreba ga tamni haos od koga će ga štititi boginja zore.. to jest ja, Lara Kroft”
Zagleda se Boris K. u Laru Kroft i vide da ju je piće uzelo pod svoje.
Tad on prizna da i on igra igrice o njoj, da je vidi kao Teju, ženu od sjaja i dragulja, a da ga Fenorepičani smatraju ludim zbog toga.
“Digotofobični su, Borise K. Ja sam, itekako, živa žena, ali to neka ostane među nama. Superherojima”
I priznade da je ogladnela. .. . Boris K. se pridruži Lari Kroft za pokojničkom sofrom, hvaleći grobnicu u Skandinaviji.

“Sve što treba jeste da zajedno odemo da kopamo u polje Gamla Upsali.  Tu se nalazi još bolja ženska od ove koju sad iskopasmo, u pogrebnoj odeždi vikinga izvezenoj arapskim slovima. ” – Boris K. je pričao duboko u noć, dok su razmenjivali pljoskicu i jeli masnoga pečenja. Borisova votka bila je začarana tako da se nikad pljoska ne može ispiti do dna.

“Samo Feničani mogu tako nešto..”, zadivi se Lara čije bademaste oči zasjaše na pomen reči “ruševina, pljoska i sakrament”.  “Imam i mapu. Dala mi je Anika Larson”.
Kad završiše, pokojnik ostade kratkih rukava, izgladneo u podzemnom svetu, a pljačkaši grobova u tišini, ne računajući usputne čarke oko toga ko će najviše da izede bavarske grickalice iz Regensburga, kraj Dunava gde su pronađeni najstariji pereci na svetu, ustiju punih pougljenjene zemlje od silnoga kopanja , odlaze u novi pohod skrnavljenja švedskog stola na parceli 12/a.



At least it wasn’t you

Culturally modified verses by Leila Samarrai as an allusion to the growing importance of misandric non – autohomophobic non-feminist females in the love or sort of.. relationships of women today who embrace them with joy and exaltation, as well as their dreams of a strict matriarchy and a misandric society! The poem probably came about after the disappointment of the Sappho –  Hannover foundations’ support, which supports joint housing projects for two notorious lesbians.

lyrics: Between females

soundtrack: Greek / Roman Music – Organographia VI




The speech about Boris K. “Serbian Chaplin” continues…

I have to stress that this is the second part of the promotion, there is more, but I think this part is the most representative for my book because I spoke a lot about Boris K. and other topics, too.

“The Adventures of Boris K” is a humorous and satirical story, among other things. In the midst of all the hardship he goes through, he has not forgotten to joke and play. He is a grown man but also a child. Still, it would be unfair to leave Boris K. only and exclusively in ” jaws ” of satire. The Phenomenon Republic may be an ideal state, but it must have its own Sewer opposition. These above are no better than the ones below, but, equally sadly, the lower alternative is also no better than the flappy opposition. Looks like Boris K. will see the writings’ on the wall whether he is at the top or he is down and it is not just him. The Republic is a totally totalitarian system where the opposition does not represent any kind of spiritual reprieve.

On the contrary. Boris K. does not suffer from belonging to literal ideologies. He simply wants to survive. That’s why BK chose communism because it doesn’t like injustice. Communism is in practice full of injustice, but  Boris K. does not enslave to ideologies. He is a man who would like to survive, and with whom some gods play with and place him in the most atypical situations. He is, in general, a revolutionary. Alone against everyone, from story to story, lonely but not classic, not like Clint Eastwood in spaghetti westerns. The first association with Boris K. is Joseph K. There are similarities between them, not only in the first letter of the surname! First of all, Boris K., like Kafka’s Joseph K., is actually in the midst of a “process.” The case of Joseph K. is a kind of quasi-judicial process, in the case of Boris K. about the process of so-called “phenomenization,” which is actually another name for all of us (in the countries where it was implemented) well known “transition”. The transition process is similar to the one in which Joseph K. found himself.- both of them are “adorned” by similar lawlessness and disrespect for the legal procedure, basically the defendants’ non-existent guilt, but also by the similar outcome of the process: at the end of the transition process (“phenomenization”) we see Boris K. broken, robbed, without beaten bell, bent over and reduced, to such an extent that he managed to fit a bottle of vodka in his landlady’s drawer, Froulline Suzi. But that’s the basic difference between Joseph and Boris K. – the Boris K. saga begins where the saga of Joseph K. ends, therefore, at the end of the process. Namely, in the first story in this collection of stories about Boris K.’s trials, tribulation”, the story of “Vodka”, we find him defeated by debt bondage enslaved in a bottle of vodka, condemned by the Transition Court, the so-called the “invisible hands” of the market, which grinds and crashes into bottles of alcoholic hopelessness all those who cannot adjust a cruel capitalist game called “The Dictatorship of Money” in which people and their happiness are completely irrelevant because only money matters.

(That is exactly how it is portrayed in the story “Boris K. In The Gambling Den”, in a plastic way, which explicitly states:

“Here in this casino, we do things a bit differently. You are not in control of the money, but rather the money controls you. Your bets are not your own. In fact, the currency bets on you. Follow me? Follow me…” Ovde ne igraju ljudi u pare, već pare u ljude.” (srp.)

On the other hand, “The Adventures of Boris K” can also be read in the pop art key. Boris K. is the art hero of an animated cartoon for intelligent, adult people. Not being the winner of situations like the other Dylan Dog-type superheroes but a victim of transition. The connection between him and Dylan is that both are facing impossible tasks. The world in which Boris resides is no less horror than the world of ghosts and demons that Dylan Dog clashes with. With this being an emphasis on totalitarianism. To the horror of the bureaucracy. It is most similar to Asterix. In the episode when Asterix and Obelisk overcome all difficulties and duels, but when they are sent to a Roman municipality for documents, they go crazy because they realize that they have to go through 100 counters to complete the paperwork.

So they go on foot to the sixth floor, so it turns out that they have to go downstairs again because of one seal and then again on the sixth floor. It is similar to Calimero. Given how often the victim is, he is also somewhat Mr.Bean in terms of indiscretion. In any case, the reader can choose in which key they will read “The Adventures of Boris K.” because variety is the main determinant of the book. For fans of epic fantasy, on the menu are the adventures of Boris K. in the fight with witch Hurricane and Grandma Valentina (stories: “Boris K. and the Witch Hurricane”, “Boris K. and the Mirror”), for fans of pop art there are adventures similar to the story “Boris K. and Chuck Norris,” “Boris K. and Smooth Criminal.” In any case, the reader will follow Boris K. “Serbian Chaplin”,  SF traveler through space and time, in a Kafkaian atmosphere, with a healthy, childlike, throaty laugh, forgotten in childhood while reading our first favorite books, although it is essentially a very gloomy topic, on that I reckon I was able to open  doors of laughter to readers, because today is the hardest thing to make people laugh to tears.

Leila Samarrai, author of The Adventures Of Boris K


Your bets are not your own. In fact, the currency bets on you.

…. Namely, in the first story in this collection of stories about Boris K.’s  trials, tribulations”, the story of “Vodka”, we find him defeated by debt bondage enslaved in a bottle of vodka, condemned by the Transition Court, the so-called the “invisible hands” of the market, which grinds and crashes into bottles of alcoholic hopelessness all those who cannot adjust a cruel capitalist game called “The Dictatorship of Money” in which people and their happiness are completely irrelevant because only money matters.

(That is exactly how it is portrayed in the story “Boris K. In The Gambling Den”, in a plastic way, which explicitly states:

“Here in this casino, we do things a bit differently. You are not in control of the money, but rather the money controls you. Your bets are not your own. In fact, the currency bets on you. Follow me? Follow me…” Ovde ne igraju ljudi u pare, već pare u ljude.”  (srp.)

Leila Samarrai

Boris K. In The Gambling Den”, The Adventures Of Boris K.  an excerpt from the story

When Boris K. enters the Casino “Alexander” to try out his luck, he immediately notices there are no tables, no croupier, no chips, no slots, and no poker room. As he pauses, a seemingly invisible but powerful hand slams the door behind him with a BANG!

“Do you want to wager on red…or black?”, echoes a rough voice throughout the empty room. Since he was a Marxist by decree, Boris K.’s choice was red as expected.

Suddenly, the lights turn on and the room comes alive with gambling of every kind everywhere. The main lobby is full of blackjack tables and there are rows of slot machines. The croupier named Stendal grabs a flabbergasted Boris K. by his collar and leads him to the gaming table with an ominous whispering voice that carries within it a subtle hint of the apocalypse:

“Here, in this casino, we do things a bit differently. You are not in control of the money, but rather the money controls you. Your bets are not your own. In fact, the currency bets on you.  Follow me? Follow me…”

Quickly, the players from the noble banking houses are gathered together, so the betting process can begin. Mr.Dollar, a Canadian by origin, as well as his fellow American brother, a returnee from the Moon whom everyone fondly calls ‘Apollo,’ move toward each other, along with the ‘Euro-who-jumps’ and the inevitable ‘Serbian Dinar-to-drop,’ with the Avgan currency lagging behind auspiciously.

Seeing Boris K, the banknotes look to each other and then immediately reach toward him conspiratorially.

CATCH THAT MAN! They shout in unison.

They reach out their hands, grab Boris K., and spin him into the roulette wheel. He lies there prone and in shock.

“Lay a bet on Boris K…. put that little man on red, and make sure he doesn’t escape!” spoke a poker-faced George Washington, in a confident and authoritative voice. Being the hard cash, he was recognized as the calmest, coolest, and most collected of all the currencies.

“What are you saying, George? Move Boris K. back into the black! He is a Communist, for God’s sake, the state will always make sure he’s flush.”

“Let’s be reasonable, gentlemen”, replies Mr Dollar, carefully watching Boris K. as he spins within the roulette so fast, his head looks like it might pop off his body.

“Just wait until the Russians lay their hands on your bet!” With that comment, the eyes of the rounded Dinaric coin fill with tears that flow softly and quietly down her cheeks.

“Those Russians are originally Serbs from the Caucasus,” whispers the Serbian currency as she gazes wistfully into the distance, dreaming of Atlantis.

Boris K. was getting annoyed. To come out alive and a winner, he knew he needed to take this matter into his own hands. No more letting the chips fall where they may! He had to figure out a way to grab that roulette bead that was skillfully hopping around the rim of the roulette wheel, just out of his grasp.

A new player then arrives in the gambling hall with a confident sort of swagger acquired through years of marching through Moscow, as evidenced by her enviably muscled calves. The lovely, but deadly, Russian Ruble gets ready to sit down when she is stopped, mid-squat, by a singing Italian currency with a mythical lyre in her hand.

“Give me my seat back!, you pseudo-Christian globalist!” shouts the Ruble aggressively.

“No dice my dear. THIS chair is mine!”, roars the Italian Lira, indignantly.

Euro, who considers himself the most valuable currency in attendance, chooses not to help out Ruble because he can’t stand her acting live a diva all the time. Flushed and offended, Ruble imbibes a glass (or two) of vodka and then slaps Abraham across the face for watching innocently from the sidelines:

FUCK YOU, Abraham! She shrieks mid-slap.

At that, the strategizing Serbian Dinar jumps up with the help of the Hungarian Reserves to defuse the argument. Dinar then toots distractingly before initiating a four corners offence for Boris K. First, she takes the tranquillizers from the Albanian, AFN currency, who is distracted as she is turned toward Mecca, then Dinar wraps it inside of a paper airplane, and makes a ‘hail Mary’ pass toward Boris K, who catches it with one hand while finally grabbing the roulette ball in the other. He tranquilizes that damn ball and the game is over. With this victory, the banknotes take off running, so frenzied, many develop spontaneous wrinkles.

Taking advantage of the panicked mob mentality that no croupier, even Stendal the Swede, could calm with offerings of Francs and Ferraris, Boris K. escapes. He runs out of the gambling den and into the expansive parking lot where he sees a private jet with an open door. He runs, followed by a long line of currency and scurries onto the plane, just as the doors close. He sits down, looking at the roulette ball sleeping dreamily in his hands. He silently swears to never gamble again. “I will never lay another bet! No roulette wheel, not even Russian Roulette! “, Boris exclaims. That’s when he looks up, distracted by voices behind him. At this moment he realizes he’s boarded a plane owned by Al-Qaeda. Not only has he just been saved by a gassy Dinar, but now he’s surrounded by terrorists!…..


an excerpt from the story…


Recommendation from a dog “The Adventures of Boris K., an excerpt from the story

The subject matter of the novel “The Adventures of Boris K” 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.

I place my confidence in “The Adventures of Boris K” coming out soon, to begin with, the extended Kindle edition.
This is an excerpt from one of the stories…

image found here

Recommendation from a dog

A not so brief review of the history of the letter that has never been read…

Letters suffer. And they have a soul. You don’t believe me? Are you shaking your head in disbelief? In that case, lock up the oak door with your rusty key and settle into a favourite chair in front of the fire. Don’t mind the sweat that will be pouring gently down the sides of your body by the time I reach the end of this story.

One could trust the opinion of Sofronije Sofronijević (also known as S.S.). He became so rich from writing his reviews that he bought a villa between Cannes and Nice, his own beach, a luxury apartment in Andorra with a minibar and a bedroom, and an indoor Olympic-sized pool, which was named the eighth wonder of the world.

Daily expensive massage treatments, with a focus on the deep tissue of his tormented heels, were something that went without saying, as well as his daily steak breakfasts with fresh-squeezed juice under the light of a plasma lamp

After breakfast, he would put his slippers on and struggle to tie his robe over his ever-increasing girth (he grew larger with every review he published) before setting off to work. Few people knew that S.S. actually was a fake critic.

The real critic was actually Wolfgang, his rottweiler, who was so close to Sofronijević, he inherently understood his convictions. Unlike most dogs, Wolfgang knew not only how to read, but also how to critique the masterpieces of contemporary authors.

For years, instead of Sofronijević, Wolfgang criticized the timeless classic works from a radical canine perspective– he bites each paragraph of Anna Karenina that old about the harvest, and there were rumours that he ate “The Peace” in delight. He would have left “The War” for later, but he remembered the book could serve him as a chair to observe the world, with disdain in the muzzle, from the bird’s-eye view.

Sofronijević spoke proudly of Wolfgang:

“On the works of the Surrealists he growls, at texts of fiction novel writers, and any novels, generally speaking, he barks. When he remains silent, that is… something … ”

With this admission, Sofronijević would light cigarette, offering one to Wolfgang as well, while winking his eyebrows densely planted on his forehead.

Both dog and man, best of friends, were into all kinds of criticism, writing reviews for nine years together. However, after enjoying great fame and reputation in the Republic, something suddenly unexpected happened.

One morning, just at the moment when the dog and his master (and it was often hard to decide who was who) simultaneously choked on their beefsteaks, a mysterious letter arrived in Sofronijević’s mailbox. Instead of a full sender address, one word was written on the top left corner of the envelope: Hurghada. It is said that Sofronijević and Wolfgang reacted furiously after reading the letter.

Wolfgang, in his style, ripped off the first half of the letter with his teeth, destroying the half of it that was written in Phoenician, while the Egyptian part remained. The letter burnt his hands and screamed at him in Egyptian. Then S.S. dropped the letter on the ground but felt his mind beginning to spin. While he could still hold onto his reason, he called for the help of a well-known expert, Tuthmosis, the most famous interpreter of hieroglyphics in the Republic, to investigate everything about the letter that had arrived at this home address. But Tuthmosis was too slow and the letter wouldn’t stop talking, and it was redolent with the odour of carrion.

That’s how Sofronije Sofronijević finally fell off his rocker and went nuts:

“This letter is a curse!”, he proclaimed.

“Whoever reads it loses his mind. I must kill it! Ba-BUM BUM BUM!, he giggled, revealing teeth blackened from gunpowder residue. When S.S. shot off his gun, he simultaneously riddled the letter with bullets while also blowing a large hole in the window, and he and Wolfgang watch the letter blow out in the wind. When Tuthmosis arrived, he detected a strange odour in the air and Wolfgang barked to him some of the sounds he heard.

When Tuthmosis arrived, S.S. had already gone insane. It is said that Sofronijević’s great-grandmother was a distant ancestor of Cleopatra’s maid who refused to die from the bite of a snake, and like Cleopatra, was also cursed by ancient Gods. So when S.S. communicated with Tuthmosis, he suggested to him that perhaps the letter was a tool of revenge from those ancient Pharaohs. According to Tuthmosis, the letter was also soaked in poisons and all sorts of Egyptian herbs that possibly led Sofronijević’s fall into a state of fascination and infatuation. As such, he could not control his thoughts or resist the strong effect of the curse. Shaking his head, Tuthmosis headed back to his apartment.

Upon Sofronijević’s descent into madness, Wolfgang took over his master’s personal study. He would rise early in the morning, have breakfast, take a nap until the afternoon, and then he would write reviews after tidying up Sofronije’s mail. He would lick the letters and place a stamp imprint on the envelopes with his paws. In moments of leisure, he would stare at the Phoenician alphabet, whining, tilting his head to the side and thinking:

“If I could only get hold of the Egyptian half!” Then he would begin to growl.

Many years after the terrible events attributed to Sofronije’s neurasthenic crisis caused by the crisis in culture, there were speculations about the last place of rest of the cursed, Egyptian letter. Some speculated that the haunted letter travelled North to Hyperborea, to Ultima Thule, the land of eternal brightness in the far north, a sole nomen habens. Wolfgang, on the other hand, believed the letter had followed in the footsteps of Apollo, travelling to Greece, perhaps in the mausoleum of Alexander the Great, where the body of the magnificent deceased lay carved on a stone crypt. In fact, Egyptologists reported sighting the haunted letter in the Valley of the Kings, under the influence of moisture, completely destroyed, but still alive! At night, across from the Luxor, screams echoed.

“It’s Nefertiti’s mummy, she rose from the grave, unwrapped her dirty bandages and read the damn letter after putting it together with the glue”, whispered the tomb guardians, as their voices streamed upward toward the heavy white stars.

On one fact all agreed. The letter was unjustly accused of inflicting emotional distress on S.S. But still, no one could explain why it had been so cruelly punished and still continued to be victimized. The cursed letter bounced from the mummified wings of Neferneferuaten-Nefertiti who pulled it by its blackened ends as an ox is pulled by his tail. Despite the abuse, the letter could not be overcome because it had its own appetites guiding it: KICKBACK/LANDING. BOUNCED! LANDS!

The letter spent three years in the tomb of Hatshepsut, diagonally bouncing off the walls of the massive tomb while reading (some say screaming) itself to the queen aloud. Since these actions aroused a revolt of awakened pharaohs in the Valley of Kings and Queens, the letter briefly hid behind the 132nd pillar in the temple of Luxor. While there, it spent nine years plotting its revenge.

“This is all Sofronijević’s fault!”, moaned the letter to such an extent his sorrow plucked at the heartstrings of the innocent bystanders who were forced to watch the letter in an eternal game of KICKBACK/LANDING. Finally, the letter lands on the Sphinx’s head, who as a diligent guardian of Pharaoh’s dreams, shrugs the letter of his stone mane, bouncing him into the air and thousands of kilometres away.



Boris K’s apartment, an emergency department for crazy (desperate) letters

Letter travelled and bounced around for nine years until it finally found itself lying on the table of expert hieroglyph interpreter, Boris K. He spoke the human language with a strong accent originating from the Lower Nile.

“I am suffering!”, wailed the letter as it folded over in pain. It was pale and exhausted from nine long years of wandering. Boris K. put on some gloves and removed the remaining bullet fragments from its pulp with professional finesse. He bandaged it with cellophane, saying:

“You will stay a few days in my drawer until you recover, and then I’m going to decipher you.”

Three days later, Boris K. gets to work on the long and weakened letter. It contains many pages, some of which appears to be written in Phoenician, while other parts seem to contain Egyptian hieroglyphics. As he studies the letter, he sees that it includes more than 7,000 characters repeating in various combinations of three letters, that when translated to English are: D-O-G. In addition, there are also drawings that mesh with the letters. He notices drawings of the saviour with nails on his hands and wrists around the letter ‘D’. Then there are drawings of mesh capturing tropical flies around the letter ‘O.’ And then finally, there are drawings of what he thinks is a famous Literary Critic from the Republic… Sofronije Sofronijević, who is depicted with a dog’s head in the shape of the letter ‘G.’

The letter speaks to Boris K. in an increasingly demonic tone:

“Your task, Boris K, is to unify me with my Phoenician twin and return me to my addressee. If you can accomplish these tasks, I will be connected and completed and all will understand me. If you do this, I promise to stop buzzing in everyone’s heads. I just want to be reunited with my better half. With only my evil half present, I continue to suffer. I was bitterly attacked, bitten by a dog and shot full of bullets. And I haven’t even told you what happened when I was in Egypt. Please HELLLLLLLLLP me! I’m begging you! Decode me or kill me!”

With that, Boris K. starts to think, smiling to himself secretly.

Determined to accomplish this task for Letter, Boris K. sharpens his high-quality Graf von Faber pen that is a knockoff and begins writing his own letter…

an excerpt from the story


Spoken cruelty

Come in, don’t sit, keep still.
Don’t move!
Do what I tell you to do

Don’t look at me, your eyes insult me.
Don’t talk to me, your words contaminate me.

Don’t touch me, your touch’s poisoned.
Don’t breath, you might aspire my thoughts.

Don’t listen to me, you might believe my words
Just stand, stand still, until I say so.

I just want to look at you, admire your figure,
caress your innocence, protect you from me.

I told you not to move!!!

Can’t you see I don’t want you to see me?
Turn around, lower your eyes, open your legs

Like meat, you are to me, a masterpiece in this zoo.
Don’t direct any of your emotions to me,
don’t pretend to show me your warmth.

You’re meat,
you’re bones,
You’re human after all,
you bleed like pigs do.

I said don’t look at me!

Do my words offend you?
Well, go to hell, then!!

(Silent cry)

Poor baby, my angel.
Your sacred, innocent
pure virginity is gone.

(Evil smile)



To my emotive Seshat [1], the goddess of cosmic intuition and writing

You were born in the wrong time.
You should have been born in the age of
Emperor Trajan
Or the age of Scorpion kings in Egypt
In the age before pharaohs which went to mystery
Sometime before mythology.
If you were in Troy when the Mycenae waged war,
Perhaps you would be the one
You and I are Thoth and Seshat,
We follow each other through centuries and times,
Realism forces „formality of the movement”;
Formality of human movement…
Unscrewing of the universe… scene in a drama.
We are not made for short-term dramas;
Immortal tribute
Gives us longer era.
You are the lady from Poe’s stories;
Ligeia – the alchemist
Reincarnation of Isis, goddess of mysterious knowledge
Of the teacher and male student in that story.

And the ancient Greek dramaturgy…
There is, my lady… true depth.
Aesculus, Sophocles, и Euripides…
„Oedipus Rex” by Sophocles,
the syndrome which destroyed even the lineage of Obrenovic
Dear* „proxy” mama
She too was Seshat, but nobody knows it
For the astronomer
Nut, the bed spreader of the universe
Is Seshat who searches for her Thoth.
Dream that I send you
Metaphysics of one century into another
And we shall find each other, does not matter
In which time.
What matters is
That we were inside the same moment and the same time,
In the garden of splitting ways.

Seshat, under various spellings, was the ancient Egyptian goddess of wisdom, knowledge, and writing. She was seen as a scribe and record keeper, and her name means she who scrivens (i.e. she who is the scribe), and is credited with inventing writing.

Draga (meaning Dear or Precious in English also known as Queen Draga, was the queen and wife of King Aleksandar Obrenović of the Kingdom of Serbia.



in the quietest valley of the bitter courage

I blossom in the valley of bitter
the rotting tooth

funeral good words in the coffin
On shovel!

galloping nonsense
talking about the menacing forms of the Day
longing – cosmic hazards
encompassing – continent-continents

with your thumb in your mouth
big baby
suck up a gold dump
through a snooze.
a humanist angelic song,
cross and neck rope
Pilate, don’t prolong the debate
even though your hands are sweating.
On a basin! And the towels!

Ah, deity! extend the nectar expiration,
honey and thirst.
as an impostor Godot
at the time of my euphoria,
the shackles of the more serious things
steal time behind Beethoven’s scenes
by the way,
I have a long, bearded beard.

The time foretold – I look not like reality,
but rather
the citizens of Calais’  nightmares crusaders
(France, habitat!)
Pontius, you boiling cattle, my fault has erupted
hotter than the Titanic glacier’s
swollen kidney dipped in self-love
try to steal a drop of water from the Source
(Incidents are side)
I’m stealing blasphemes against the wooden bastard
tattletale me to the Gods who performed me

Mrak će razumeti, Leila Samarai

Mrak će razumeti(zbirka pesama), Leila Samarrai

Izdavač: Edicija „Prvenac“ Studentski kulturni centar, prva nagrada

2002.  ISBN 978-86-7398-010-2.

Vašoj milosti*
U hlad ruža htela sam da se sklonim
Ali zaspah u knjizi
Otvorenoj na pesmi o (m)učitelju

Pesnici davnašnji
Pod senkama i zemljom
Računaju li na serafime
Na tamninu, na prozorska okna
Na odškrinuta vrata i tajnu života
Na grane čempresa koje tišinom mame
I dugo severno jutro pod harfama

Na izmaku vidokruga
Neka nam ćutnja iščupa istinu
Od kamena spevanu

* Upućeno čitaocima
Tuga je skrivena u glavi ovenčanoj krvlju
Ka mudrosti zvanoj Jerusalim
Ubijate čoveka što daljinu osluškuje
Je li tamo zbilja „Ecce Homo“
Viša hijerarhija Španije
Dok teče vreme očaj silazi do krvarenja
Bolno nikad, ne priznajući bol
Ptica sam
Ptica sa željom da umre u Španiji

Napisaću u izveštaju
U mekim plodovima krije se
Namučena Hulija Burgos

Onostrano sećanje otkucava šest časova

Taština na lisičjem tragu
Gle, čuda!
Čas naizgled jednoličan
Pogodan za izokrenut tren ili večnost
Mučenica i njena kćer što peru noge
Ukrašene ekserom umesto sandalama
Ćutke razgovaraju

Samo ne žamor iznutra
Obale i strugotine maštaju
Kćeri želiš da ti se omakne prah
I uznemiriš teret, nebiće i vitice
Zamišljena preko puta kamenja odolevaš
Crnja od noći
Strah te da neće više biti kičmenjaka

Treći je čas u noći Posle

Ne shvataš – prosuta krv zvoni
Od otkrića pogrešno strepiš
U agoniji sebe same
Dok vapimo na grčkim terasama

Mirne su reke čujne u naporu
I to zajedno

U ogledalima je put ka mrtvoj zemlji
I obožavaoci hronometra
I neostvarivi cvat leta

Goluba na vatru kćeri moja
Naješćemo se
I skakavce kćeri moja
Pre nego nas napuste kroz prozore

Predosećam da nepouzdani čovek
Stišava dah i kreće putem
Lepote, Zapovesti i Ratova

Znakovi pored puta jedino ti preostaju

Tako mi govoraše mati

Ne traži više zemlju
Zaboravljena među drvećem
Ispod kojeg si rođena

U izabranoj noći
Kada su skakavci odleteli sa terasa
U gomilu glasova punih mržnje
Ka meni upućenih

Majko tiha
U meni ni glas da zapucketa
Otkud sam mogla znati
Za drugu stranu karata

Dolaze li već da me povedu
Ukorenjeni u poslednjem jutru metka

Ustajem bosa
More se uplašilo
Ko zemlja od groma

Trnov venac više niko ne pominje

Iako svaka rana ne krvari
Svake večeri umire po jedan čovek

Nastaće polutama i osama
Služiću sama u sebi, iako nisam svoja
Pred ranjenim kolenima sve se otvara
Cvetovi i misli, priče o pravdi
Lobanje razuzdane i doba bez predaha

Znam kazniće me Bog
Ali u grču strasti
Neće me slomiti odsutni

Igrasmo celoga dana
Samoća ponovo dolinama
Grlena iznad kladenca
I ljudima greh

Uplašim se da budem

Sen bi tvoja bila
I nevestinski veo
I vrisak prvi
Zločin iz strasti
I krv vremena i nevremena

Bolje da se uplašimo

Tajna paprati i beše i ne beše
I strah
Odnekud samoća izgreva neokrznuta

Zatvorena u zvezde u sebi
Očima volim i dalje
Bez ljubavi mrak će me razneti

U postelji se ne uzdam u zapovesti
Ruže već bremenite vetrom
Koliko časovnika pitaš
Dok kasni jutro načičkano večnošću
Jutro bunilo

Proriču kraj sveta
Kroz zvezdane kapije
Želeće otvoriti ih, otvoriti ih neće moći
Želeće zatvoriti i njih i put
Pesme će oglasiti mrtve
Mrtvi i živi krenuće lažnim ustima
Bez ijednog čula

Moj Bog spava mrmljajući molitve
Posle čega nasleđujem tugu, vetar, planine i ptice
Ipak ruke i stabla odolevaju

Nije me strah od metka
I konjanika apokalipse
Već od tebe
Voljeni moj Oče

Biće vremena da ti kažem
Hoće li se i sutra okretati reči
I suština bivati konac

Vrebaju me povijeni svećnjaci
Između čežnje i straha
Između strasti i postojanosti
Uvek su prisutni dok spavaš nemirno
Tamo gde počeci končaju

I samoća je uhvaćena, oblikovana i ograničena
I njen sadržaj oglodan u vetrometinama
Gde se kraj i početak sastaju
Svakog punog meseca

Još jedan san

Vrisak troje dece među lišćem
Blizu vodopada i provalije
Ruže im preblizu
Da li da ih sledim ili previdim

Odluke čudne
A deca čuda bez samouzdanja
Treba na vreme poznati zemlju i sazvežđa
Da poslednje otkriće
Pusto vreme ne bude
I razapet odjek koraka u osami

Biće vremena da ti kažem sve

Strepimo, ne živimo
Igramo po prostirkama od paprati
U ritmu izvesno mrtvih

Čuvaj se suze ludaka i mostova bez ograda
Žrtava i samoće molitve
Tapšanja po ramenu
I praznine u kojoj umiru savetnici

Čuvaj se
Ne budi opet pronađena

U međuvremenu ne živimo

Između proleća i zime
Belog i crnog
Srca i krčme sve nižeg vinostaja
Između prerušenog i slomljenog
Nestvarnog i tornjeva izvrnutih očiju
Između svemira i „da li smem“
Gradske lude i „isplatilo se“

Između „donekle“ i postojanja
Smirili su me plač i post
Klanjam ti se
Pomoć ti ištem
Gospo tišine, vatre i iskušenja

Idi u mirnu jesen
Nemoj vedrino pozna u groznicu
Kraljice kikota neodlučna ćeš reći:
Kad u Singidunum dođoh tražeći tuđi svet
Ne videh zamišljeno
Već svežu kap krvi niz nogu
I nedresiranu reč bez volje da se izrekne

Šumski slavuju
Ako možeš u ponoć da zapevaš
Ovde ću te čuti
Između noćne radosti i zore

Kako brzo prolazi sen reče Marko Aurelije
Duša je prolazna, zar ne, ponada se
Udružen sa demonima po treći put
Krivica mu prišt, čovek žrtva, a život podvrsta čira

Nezadovoljstvo je ono savršeno
Od pamtiveka ne možeš izgubiti ono što nisi imao

Odvojiš li se jednom
Saznaš li za pravdu bola nasleđenu
Mogu li otrov i požar biti korisni
Nisi li postao previše popustljiv Marko Aurelije
Pred deobama i žudnjama
Namerno izazvanim

Neka te ne muči više juče
Sve zavisi od Bogova

Danas su stvari potpuno otvorene
Dok ih krvožedni vetar ne obori
I odnese u sutra koje neće biti

Zato Marko Aurelije kad god se pogledaš
Seti se da li je oblik prepreka suštini
I odgovori ko je veći lažov
San ili sen u ogledalu

Kada će početi ništavilo
Kada ćemo čuti odjeke jutra
Lišenog brzine, ljubavi i mudrosti

Doći će čas
Biti istovremen
Biti tišina i bljesak
Biti sudar i stvaranje
Da bi kroz trenutak ničega
Došao na ovaj svet

Od tada se širi kroz ukus ničega
Kao talasi vode

Zagrni usne i odvike
Udahni miris vetra i promena
Odškrini kovčežić
Pusti nek izlete sve stvari
I mirne noći i uspavanke

Odrekni ih se
Dolaze pometnje i druge noći

Poželiš li šapate i guste zaklone
Čuvaj se
San je čuveni sejač
U doba novih iluzija
Koje device pretvaraju u život

Zašto nema granica
Između laži i života
Pred devičanskim kolenima

Rodila sam se u igri svetla i senki vodopada
I čekala da zagrizem plodove
Kroz jedan svet ili vek

A oni gorki iznutra

Vraćam se mirisu doma
Ostrvu sto pliva u noći i vodi

Groznica nema kraja
Pesma ostala bez zvuka i vatre
Magle ne haju da budu opevane
Pa nema razlike između vode i blata

Devojka uplakana bez uporišta
Dok zid zavičaja dogoreva

U podsvesnom dijalogu
Niko nije budan

Ja uporno napasam reči
Dan i noć
Prvo ih tražim
Prepoznajem čak i u gušterima
Koji nesreću najavljuju
A Vi bi vreme i puteve, iako isprazne
I plave krugove iznad izvorišta brzih reka

Vi mesečeva deca
Ja usamljena stabljika
Vi upamćene boje
Vi pesnici, a ja nisam još

Ja Pan zaljubljiv
Koji ne zna kako se na Vašem jeziku kaže pustoš
Obeležena da pevam žudim Istoku
Gde bih mogla da se spalim
I u zvezdu konačno pretvorim
Kao Kecalkoatl*

(Kad bih samo mogla da se zanjišem
Na trenutak
Ni muzika nije potrebna)

* Kecalkoatl- mitsko biće Tolteka, prvobitno vladar i prvosveštenik a potom i vrhovno božanstvo. Po predanju sam je sebe spalio i pretvorio se u zvezdu
Kako su radosni odjeci ravnica u susretu s vodom
Krošnje se zavrtele
Ispod njih šćućureni reka i ja
Ne za dugo

Muzika straha i pukotina groma
Dižu vode protiv nas
Koje do tad nismo poznavali
Ni moje Juče i Danas

Zatočena sam
Da ne bih otišla u mesto gde se prelivaju vode
Čineći naše odredište
O zakonu spojenih sudova

Svejedno mi je
Samarićanin je umro

Otići ću u pustinju
Napraviću masku sebi i prizivaću kiše

Vidi li nas Veliko oko

Ne zaboravi
Voda je talas do praznine
Voda je pad kroz metafore
Koja moli ogledalo
Da se vrati
Na manjkava mesta pesme

Samo da mi san
Ne dovede do dna

Nikada neću reći
Na šta vonja mesečar
Sposoban da bude budan

Nikada neću zaspati
Bojim se misli

Šta čekaju oni
Koji se sećaju mojih reči
One su kamen koji se kruni

Zaškiljim kroz videlo rešetki
Šumovi detinjstva
Simboli intime
I snovi
Jedan po jedan
Jedan po jedan
I nasta vreme
Vreme sa druge strane zida
I života iza nas

Volim ponoći bez umora
I ljubav bez razmišljanja
Proždirane usne
Između pospanog drveća i zore

Dete sam na plećima oblaka
Neću da zvuk ode predaleko
Ni svetionik da se izgubi u mraku
Ni čuvare što bdiju nad mojim tajnama
(Ni slavoluke od blata)

Želim košulju od srebra
Da pokrijem tuđe poglede
Želim samo tvoje oči između zidova

Dosta mi je zbunjenih i zavijanja u noći
I onih što me traže i zaspu pre nego me nađu

Noć i otvorena vrata
Sablast mi glavu obuzima
Vidim ti oči
Sudnji čas – tačno izmeren tren sagoreva
Vidim ti oči
Ne pripadaju meni

Bacih svoju dušu
To su dužice povetarca – viču mračna ogledala
Istrošeni glasovi iz krvi izrastaju
Puzeći obaraju stabla

Ti se vraćaš
Grubo vlažeći svetinju mojih usana
Nema i ukočena na pragu
Izgrižena prvim bolom
Bljujem zmijski otrov

To su možda tvoja tišina mržnje i moj zaborav
A zapravo
Ni ti, ni ja, ni pričešće

Ni mornari
Ostavljeni na izgubljenoj obali sablasti
Ni plač brodova u noći
Ili je to pesma nasilne ljubavi

Ona nikad ne ostaje bez glasa
I kad se ne čuje

Šume spavaju
Ne znajući
Za preplašenu travu
I njihov uzdah

U doba vetra
I biljnih padavina

Tišina kamenih spavača
I prevarene publike

Ćutim pred nemuštim zvucima
Groznicu slutim
Čuvam te tišine
I gradskih uhoda u cvatu
Iako nas očevici razdvajaju

Nestanak boja
Dan pretvara u noć
I obijenu hrid

U deveti čas

Nalikani leševi se raspliću
Nikako da ih potopim sve
Kao ni istorija crne marame
Spremne na pomeranje vremena i vazduha

Tokom ove
Hiljadu devetsto devedeset devete
Teško je stišati plač iznad posmrtnih izveštaja
Šume i trava i dalje niču iz nekada živih
Jer su najpouzdaniji

Sa nebesima pregovaraju
Oni što su neposredno došli iz zelenog pamćenja
I grobova pre zaborava

Motre nas živi i mrtvi
Da mrtvi nisu živi
Ostali bismo svi bez jezika i plamena
Zar oni nisu i Vaši dvojnici
Da živi ne potiču od slabosti možda
Kada se u odsustvu
Predaju jedan drugome

Jeza mrtvih ptica
U ambijentu zasede
Poj krvotoka je

Misao malo glasnija
Kao što se daljine
Tišinom umivaju

Otplovite oči
Atilinim zlovirima
Iskopajte ptice
Koje su sebi dovoljne
Da najlepši glasovi
Iz mrtvih redova u zemlji

Trebaju nam
Na početku i kraju ljubavi
Uvek ih tada dozivamo

Kalderon reče: život je san
Varljivi pratilac između dva buđenja
Ni život ni smrt
Ni nešto treće
Ni život posle smrti
Ni smrt pre života
I zamire među kazaljkama
Pre nego zanoći u našim telima

Sigismund uzalud okovan nepouzdanim zvezdama
Objavljuje veliku varku
I krugove nemuštih snova

Posle hiljadu i dvesta noći
Vidim u vrtovima vire moje kosti
Kad bi beskraj zavladao pre jutra
Možda bi iscelio usamljenost

Dva zagrljena oblaka
A možda i dve ptice
Ili poznata marama u čvoru
Ili san između dva oblika

Uzalud se krv osamila
I tišina sa senkom
Pršte kalemovi i bezbožni udarci
Koje ne razumem
Kao ni odsutni zvuk koji sledim
Dok se oblaci ne pomeraju

Senke uzmiču
I serafimi se izgubili
U sebi grizu sve strane sveta

Kuda ću ako me mračni san savlada
I vampir

Sablast tvog života još nije iščezla
Poput koplja zabodenog
U oči idolopoklonika

Niz proplanak klizi mesec
Ali raskršće je još uvek u sumraku
Iz kojeg koščate ruke i bajalice
Tvoju bi nagost u grču

Uzdah pod plaštom ljubomore

Ne čekaj Sunce bez senke
Ono ne razlikuje bludnicu
Od davljenice na obali

Nek poljubac pesništva
Bedro ti prepusti mojim usnama
Nek krik ućutka sve
Osim nežnosti kiše tek pripremljene

Nije mi žao
Što će rečni pesak prekriti svaki stih

Lirika pripada svima
Ni bekstvom ne možeš izbeći njenu težinu
Zato nikud ne žuri
Ne napipavaj prstima trbuh mraka

Neko će umreti u prvom sumraku
A ja ću pisati o kometama
Zakidati na hlebu u tvojim rukama
I pripremati uzoranu zemlju
Da se mrtvaci rumenih usana nadišu

Mirno spavaj
Krivotvoriću sve što treba
Pobiću kokoši ako ih ruže ne zaustave

Ti pronađi one koji su nas optužili

Zaustavljen strahom od čekanja
Ne izrastaš
Ni u snohvaticu

Kad plamen plamenom prećutiš
Iza tebe praznina i vetar
Postaju spojenost irealnih čvorova

Stakla ulepšavaju život i ljubav
Nek samo pokušaju da razbiju sočiva naših kuća
I saksije što kipte cvećem greha

Vi što se smejete pokazujući crne zube
Zalud Vam pohlepa i strava
Ako Vam lik zanoći u rasparčanom ogledalu

Ja odoh na sever čija je odsutnost mislena
U tišinu i stud
Gde jedino drveća podsećaju na ljude

Slepilo – usud prokletnika
Ćutanje – navika ubice
A san – java smrtnika

Mogla su to biti tri čoveka
Spojena očima
Iako je jedan od njih slepac

Sresti čoveka sa svim čulima je retkost
Jer put nije označen
Ako ne vidiš
Ili ne sanjaš
Ili ne umeš da ćutiš

Verujem u božanstvo smrti
I u istinu demona
Jer u njima lepota zaglušuje

Priroda je u stanju da ubije
Bez razmišljanja
Da bi razdvojila iste senke

Oči moje
Svejedno mi je kada ću umreti
Vaša me varka ne može utešiti više

Priroda ume da kazni radoznale
Nezavisno od greha
Samo da se iluzija i istina ne susretnu

Noćas purpurno naličje oblaka
Probudilo poslušne mrtvace
Koji podigli glave
Oslonjene na koščate šake

Ne znaju jesu li živi ili mrtvi
Prvog su dana čuli trube
I zaspali ispod zastava i oblaka
Pod kojima su
Umesto pod zvezdama prodisali

Drugog dana objavljeni tišina i cveće
Ne verujući da postoje

U međuvremenu nebo je uranjalo u sumrak

A trećeg dana
Mrtvaci su slavili budnost mimohodnika

Dolina stihova još uvek mami
Kćeri svetlosti u luninim haljinama
Jedna drugoj sestre
Po zemlji bešumno se dozivaju
I mene u kolo pozivaju

Prihvatam ruku jedne od njih
Saplićem se

Usiljeni koraci ne udaljavaju
Od ponora i uporišnih tačaka

Plač im nalik na nokturna

Dok ruža života zaleđena u istini ogledala
Na zaravnima povrh čarolija
Kaplje po mahovini
I razvalinama sveta

Devet časova spava
I devet kazaljki sveta

Usta blagosti odbegoše
Kao cvetovi narandži
Kad dođu da ih seku
Iako nenajavljeni

Sem vremena, sve je u znaku prolaza
I drvo maslina
Što izdiše pod insektima

Za svakog postoji odgovor
Prezir, ljubav
Ograničena svetlost
I nasukani brodovi

Je li istina neverni Tomo
Da rekoše mu:
Za svoju stvar
Iz tvojih usta izbori pravo
Dok ti umire dan

A on
Osuđen na okolnosti u poletu
Pretvara se u svakog ko ga podržava
Daleko od puteva koji glođu nevernike

A on
Na prvu reč ne zbori, ni na drugu ne uzvraća
Tek na treću smerno i obazrivo

A on
Zna da je ovaj život za mrtve
A ne za žive
Ni zid ne huli

A on
Moli za providnu nevinost sa očima od melema
I za podvige očajnika

A on
Ne mari ni da ga među ljude vrate
U molitvi učeći

Ipak jedno ti ne verujem
Ne verujem ti sveti Tomo
Da nije dovoljna uteha
Izmišljena u obliku žene



La Oscuridad Del Entender, Leila Al Samarrai

La oscuridad del entender (poemario), Leila Samarrai

Editorial: Edición “Primogénito”, 

Centro Cultural Estudiantil, ganadora del primer premio

2002. ISBN 978-86-7398-010-2.

leilasamara (1).jpg


La tristeza está ocultada en la cabeza con la sangre laureada

Hacia la sabiduría Jerusalén llamada

Está matando al hombre que la lejanía está escuchando.

Está de veras allí “Ecce Homo”,

De España jerarquía alta,

Mientras el tiempo transcurre la desesperación baja hasta el sangrar.

Doloroso jamás, sin reconocer malestar

Ave soy,

Ave con deseo de morir en España.

Escribiré en el informe

En los suaves frutos se esconde

Julia Burgos Mortificada.

La reminiscencia de más allá muestra que.

Son las seis en la noche




Así madre mía a mí me decía

No busques más a tu patria

Entre los árboles olvidada

Debajo de los cuales estás nacida

En la noche elegida

Cuando los saltamontes de las terrazas volaron

A un a un montón de voces odiosas

A mí destinadas

Madre quieta,

No suelto ni un chasquido

¿Cómo iría a saber yo

De los naipes el otro lado?

¿Vienen ya a llevarme

arraigados del disparo en la última mañana?

Me levanto descalza

La mar asustada está

Como del trueno la tierra

La corona de espinas ya nadie menciona


Vanidad en el camino del zorro

¡He aquí un milagro!

Supuestamente unilateral en instantes

Apto para un momento revuelto.

El mártir y su hija que se lavan los pies. (no se)

con clavos en lugar de sandalias

Conversando en silencio.

Cualquier cosa menos (no se)

Orillas y raspaduras fantaseando.

Hija, ¿quieres que el polvo te resbale?

Perturbar la responsabilidad, el no ser y los zarcillos.

Anhela a través de las piedras que superas

Mas negro que la noche

Temes que ya no haya vertebrados.

Es la tercera hora de la noche.



Y habló mi madre

No busces mas la tierra olvidada

entre los arboles debajo de

Los cuales naciste en la noche escojida

Cuando los grillos volaron lejos de las terrazas,

dentro de las numerosas voces llenadas

con odio dirijido contra mí

Madre silenciosa

Ni un sonido que resona adentro de mí

Como hubiera podido saber de

Los otros lados de la carta

Es que me van a buscar ya

Enracinado en la ultima mañana de una balla

Me levanto descalzo

El mar está atterorizado como tierra del trueno



Mismo si no todas les heridas les sale sangre


Un Hombre se muere cada año



La semi-obscuridad y Soledad se van a ir

Me voy a servir sólo adentro de yo misma

mismo no soy mía antes de las rodillas heridas,

todo se habre flores y pensadas, historias de justicia

Cranios de wanto y eras sin descanso

Dios me va a castigar lo sé

Pero en el crampo de la pasión

No voy a ser ronpida por los absentos

bailamos todo el dia

La soledad, una nueva, cojida por los valles

Ariba de las cabezas de primavera

Y Pecado del pueblo

Yo estoy aterorizada




Voy a ser tu ombra

Y la vela de matrimonio

Y el primer grito

Un crimen de pasón

Y la sangre de las dos veces, enfermo y bien

Es mejor de ser asustado

El secreto del helecho*

ambos era y no era

Y el mieso

De alguna parte la soledad quema sin essuciarse*

Confinado en las estrellas adentro de mi

Me gustan todavia mis ojos

Sin amie , la obscuridad me va destruir



En la cama, yo no dependo delos ordenes

Las Rosas ya han peleado***?

Con el viento

Cuantos relojes me preguntas

Mientras que la magnana llega con la eternidad que

Esta tarde

Magnana de delirio



El silencio de los dormidos de piedra
Y del publico engañado
Frente a los sonidos mudos callo
La fiebre presiento
Del silencio te defiendo
Y de los espías urbanos “que florecen”
Aunque los testigos nos separan
Desaparición de los colores
Al día convierte en la noche
Y en acantilado golpeado

A las nueve horas




Los cadáveres pintados desarrollándose
No hay modo de que yo los hunda todos
Igual que la historia del negro pañuelo
Dispuestas a mover el tiempo y el aire
Durante este año,
Mil novecientos noventa y nueve
Es difícil callar el lloro sobre los informes de luto
Los bosques y la hierba siguen brotando de los que antes vivían
Porque son los más leales
Con los cielos negocian
Los que mediatamente vinieron de la memoria verde
Y las tumbas antes del olvido
Nos observan los vivos y los muertos
Si los muertos no hubieron sido vivos
Nos hubiéramos quedado todos sin las lenguas y las llamas
¿Acaso son ellos sus dobles también?
¿Acaso los vivos se originan en la debilidad,
en la ausencia,
al entregarse unos a otros?



Repeluzno de las muertas aves
En el ambiente de la insidia
Es el canto de la corriente de sangre
un pensamiento razonable
Igual que las distancias
Con el silencio se lavan
Váyanse flotando los ojos
Por las fuentes maliciosas de Átila
Exhumen a las aves que autosuficientes están
De que los sonidos más hermosos
Desde las filas muertas en la tierra Las necesitamos
Cuando empieza y termina el amor
Entonces siempre las llamamos



Calderón dijo: la vida es sueño
Acompañante engañoso entre dos despertamientos
Ni la vida ni la muerte
Algo tercero tampoco
Ni la vida después de la muerte
Ni la muerte antes de la vida
Y está expirando entre las manecillas
Antes de que anochezca en nuestros cuerpos
Segismundo en vano aprisionado




Con las estrellas dudosas
Proclama el gran engaño
Y los círculos de los mudos sueños
Después de mil doscientas noches
Veo en los jardines mis huesos divisándose
Si la infinidad predominara antes de la mañana

Dos abrazadas nubes
Y tal vez dos aves también
O el pañuelo conocido en el nudo
O el sueño entre dos formas
En vano la sangré se aisló
Y el silencio con la sombra
Estallan bobinas y golpes ateos
Los que no entiendo
Igual el ausente sonido que sigo
Mientras los nubes no se mueven



Desaparecen las sombras

Y los serafines se han perdido

En sí muerden todas las partes del mundo.


¿Y adónde iré si el oscuro sueño me rinde

y el vampiro también?

El fantasma de tu vida no ha desaparecido aún

Como una lanza clavada

En los ojos del idólatra.



La lírica pertenece a todos

Ni siquiera huyendo puedes evitar su pesadez

Por eso no te apures

Y no intentes tocar con los dedos la panza de la oscuridad

Alguien morirá en el primer atardecer

Y yo sobre las cometas escribiré

El pan de tus manos quitaré(¿?)

Y la tierra apenas arada prepararé

Para que los muertos de los labios encarnados puedan respirar

Duerma serenamente

Falsificaré todo lo que sea necesario

Mataré a las gallinas si las rosas no las paran

Tú busca a los que nos acusaron



Parado por el miedo de la espera

No llegas a crecer

Ni en la somnolencia

Cuando llegas a callar llama con llama

Detrás de ti un hueco y el viento

Llegan a ser la unión de los nudos irreales


Los cristales embellecen la vida y el amor

¡Que intente la gente romper las lentes de nuestras casas

Vosotros que os reís mostrando negros dientes

Vanos son sus avaricia y horror

Si su imagen anochece en el despedazado espejo


me voy al norte, cuya ausencia es inteligible

en el silencio, en el frío

dónde sólo árboles parecen a la gente.



Esta noche purpúrea antifaz de las nubes

ha despertado a los obedientes muertos

que sus cabezas han levantado


apoyadas en sus huesudas manos.

No saben si viven o muertos están

el primer día las trompetas oyeron

y dormidas bajo las banderas y nubes quedaron

bajo las cuales a respirar llegaron

en vez debajo de las estrellas.

El segundo día silencio y las flores

sin creer que existan.

Entre tanto, el cielo se hundía en el atardecer.

Y el tercer día

los muertos a los despiertos viajeros celebraron.



Desaparecidos – omnipresentes

Su llanto a nocturnos se parece.

Mientras la rosa de la vida congelada en la verdad de los espejos


En los planos encima de las magias

Gotea por el musgo

Y las ruinas del mundo.



Nueve horas duermen

Y las nueve manecillas del mundo también

Las bocas de la suavidad huyeron

Como las flores de los naranjos

Cuando vienen a cortarlos

Aunque sin aviso alguno

Salvo el tiempo, todo esta marcado por lo efímero

Y el olivo también

Que expira bajo los insectos

Sin embargo

Para cada uno hay una respuesta

El desprecio, el amor

Una luz limitada

Y los barcos a la deriva



Es cierto, Tomás infiel,

Que le dijeron:

Por lo suyo

De tu boca gana el derecho

Mientras el día se te muere

Y él,

Condenado en las circunstancias en el brío

Se transforma en cada quien le apoya

Lejos de los caminos que a los infieles muerden

Y él,

No dijo nada después de la primera palabra, ni a la segunda no contesta

Apenas moderado y con cuidado a la tercera

Y él

Sabe que esta vida es para los muertos

Y no para los vivos

La pared tampoco blasfema

Y él

Rogando por la transparente inocencia con los ojos del emplasto

Y por las hazañas de los desesperados

Y él

Sin importarle que le regresen entre la gente

Aprende rezando

Sin embargo hay algo que no te creo

No te creo santo Tomás

Que no es suficiente el consuelo

Inventado en la forma de mujer


Babylonia 2, work in progress, by Layla Al Kiz Kulesi – Not for you

Dedicated to Hatun Amira Sirbegovic, Sarıkız of Gure, born in the kingdom Kurkuma, Sultana’s Efendi, Kizlar Aghasi, general of the girls etcetera.. An inscription as well as a dedication found in the Orhon valley on the language of unintelligible speech, a really badass alphabet., next to the bloody dagger and Turkish runes, written in a pretty messy way.

Translated into English: by a completely self-taught idiot

time and place: Belgrade, 2019 is under the water and under the Turkish invasion of operation Atilla code.

The poem follows a fair maiden Dihya Layla al – female seer and military leader who has just returned from 7th century mission in the Maghreb, known as Kiz Kulesi, leading the resistance of  N’Nonmiton Beninin our mothers amazons under the parole Things Fall Apart, about whose lady mother, Valide Hatun is quarantined in an Clinic for Infectious Diseases for 20 days while reading the book of Leviticus that tells how to quarantine leppers and other creatures suffering from a new age zoonotic virus and, fair maiden’s mother in a desire to overcome her naturally caused  thanatophobia, even when there is no sign of any illness, obsessed with the idea to arrange her own funeral as in the scriptures, the nails and hair trimmed, a burying-place out of mundane sight. Highly on both visual appeal and price – it costs a deal of money.  “

Only one person in Belgrade under the water and under the Turkish invasion of operation Atilla code is idle rich and get nailed with expensive funerals, that is Hatun Amra Sirbegovic, Sultana’s Efendi who already bought off off-street visitor parking breaking parking restriction for Turks at cemetery Highgate in England.

But Amira and Dihya Layla al – female seer fair maiden used to be best friends, but now they avoid each other at all costs…  using only diacritical sign, or accent – or a glyph added as a form of ancient The Ghegs communication often fails to give Layla the necessary visa to enter Belgrade under Amira’s ancestors’ concubinage… illegible handwriting…  

This poem had a number of beginnings.

The thoughts are real. The language is nothing.

As i lowered behind ‘tisnt pleasant place

I shhh the breath of screaming inside beginning

I listen to her lung congestion

Limit fluid with damp swabs

Scattered the herbs given by her doctors

She’s my mother quite abjured

With all the death rattle winds that blow

Doth my mother yet survive

Ask Eyguieres curse tablet

Holding pet birds as offerings

 with healing and resurrection.

A winged  beardless youth and old

Will trap her in a sack

A down-turned torch and wreath or butterfly

Buried on the battlefield as spartan

Sentimental gesture

In ériubanbafódla a world of delights

She’ coughing annwyfn, annwvyn, or annwfyn
to this outburst of impression with voicing

Like a whisper of the valley beside the golden plated river

Full of shit.

Mother continues:

Yet many of the cobbles rose up from smitten wisdom

House of Lazarus, house of ruins

Drunk with the innocence

Burning bamboo flute with the holy spirit

Leave the bloody track behind

As i am of silent but gazing roses as in strange land

Where an earthquake endears the choking sighs of men

You, thus hammered by your moistful hatred, created sheckels of

Slaughterers sight, stubborn little twat

This pale you are, like the dead on the board to the cemetery

Mother is angry:

You, fashioned through your grim advances

To common sense appealing like a pyet of honest man

I will not wind a long worn confessions

Obscurities to hide my desiderata

But augment my blisses and talents and your

Mommas bardship, you little cunt

Thus I made a pax and bonum with your enemies

I bravely fought like spartan god of laughter

Their narrow-minded provincial pettiness

As requiescat in pace may rest in peace

Your leering forward wars passed this noon long time ago

, so tis all in case I shall die

Someone must pay the funeral

Quick you purmblid brat hark

And swift, push away every ounce of furore

In all of the inferno bibles writes

Fringe the sad toothless minstrels

And idly forgive, while doing so, collect some debt

Ask our foe for money, is the urgency where to organize my funeral

Cast the bitches away they are changeful with stitches

‘tis all in case your mamma gone away

Oh stars shining through the weight of centuries

Not to a gall to an enemy but a pride, your enemy is sage in this unfortune

To fight or stand-alone far from the work of divine

Yet a tower is melt and she’d helped to  stood hard by…

Mother is grabbing my cloth resembling jesus garment. Her mouth, agape:

A tragedy. Yet I made a deal with monster

With her bestial sense and will

Gorgona is expecting you at this moment, ah!

Grasps, than fractured, decentred, she faints.


Such malice i subdue it and go

To procession

To not so tender creature

And quiescent, down to the 4 deeps

Impossible, for monster to ascend also

Troubles behind its nature stood and bound

Her thorn mind, stupidity in terror’s strength

Obedience to common sense, glowing on the idiot’s shore

Thundering the spider’s pavements

As I sermon Belgrade’s street preparing for the march

Rescinding mid flirtation, breathing beneath blocks

Apathetically dazed.

The final act is done than changed

Not yet with an eager move

And cold incessant

I dare not name it

A sceptre form insatiate – armour shining

Possible, yet how impossible

I do believe and I do not believe

The grave is closed and cradled and now respire

My mother, piece be with thy possible ashes but this shall not thrive

Not a shackle to borrow either friends or foes

And this one yet appals, with horn and falls

Ambitious killing brand

Carnage fruitful vile and many falls

From her false peaks of goodness

Profoundly disturbed drunk sloppy

Of a lucky fate still soul-sucking ghoul

Praise be Gugalanna, more then mongoose

Of nightmare size

Of vampiric menace,

On earth sent

So soft the farewell once was – snatched from ashes

From cafes… flashback (sentimental mode on)

Once generous fire I loved (not holding back at all)

Remnant of madness almost as my arts

Engaging in the falsehood of charm

And sparrows to her bosom

Her belongings, golden hair as my memories

Secluded before me

I could worship you!… To funerals.

My mother! An endosperm of mirrored settlings

Deals and horror by the devil’s river

Daredevil sticks

For since they two together draw a new book

Secret circle to reclaim the wise reward, a mystery

Not rest, may the liquor absolve you beyond compare

Rest not that buried a long time ago

Since than gugalanna drinks my blood compelling

So sweetly bloody Renfield’s syndrome

As cocktail in sunrise with ice and cookbooks.. For the bloody slaying


End of flashback (obsessive pathetical pathos mode off)

All the Tartini’ sonatas in woe

Flaming with pitless perdition

This being done, my winged mother, by clavicula salomonis

Is not enough to cure a witch as you are her physician

Still muse upon the mother’s spirit in wish to comfort bring

The poverty foul of carrying all complete,

Mother’s proposals make to hast seen Mupphy…

To gather the light from the beast pocket and arrange

Her shiny happy laughing funeral.

Washed in running water.

After being laid on a flat board…..



And how from thence I…

Facing the blossoming willows of mine

Estetica etica

Facing anxieties and colonies a la lazaretto

Leprosarium in Ceasar’s house

Before the judgment in wrath and fury and torture

And time – kama pazam yesh leha ?

Help Amira

Why patterns gold and darkened

A  pound, an ounce, the box of a mind

Will be opened from the heart

Between fields and tripled cover blooms

Dismal to shroud me, thy is the castle

Can tie breed idolatry for salad for I am poor

‘tis some bravery of which I am ashamed of

That there is nothing but

 miles left to go to cemetery

Put no difference friends or foes

To dust we all returnest

And overflows has passed

Duelling thew grave, magicians and mobs

Such is a graveyard, overcrowded

Off to the open moor  forever shared

A large box a choice of colours

A blind glass and a plate

With fitting body worth of engagement

As well as our friendly foes.

Thy is the castle! Thy thy!
Thy is!

No need to waste money on broken someone’s hart

With the sound of the gusle

The Turkish March, a crystal chandelier

And a long-nosed ballerina
and cruelties’ deadly disease

Mistake  may be hours, Amira said

There there my fatigue

By my distress

I cried over the misery
of a stone forgotten who won’t shine

On shiny dollar

No shine will follow by the silent dust

Again again again in the night

A drowsy thing


Amid the



The tamarind…

(the tension rises)

… from the nemrut mountains to kütahya fortress!

With choicest

Defunct, I, pazamnik

Sword in one hand, quill in another

                                                          janissary agha, imotional

Haya basir tip haca giziroglu

Sultan Mustafa, tsar of all the Turks

Made his dawn attack upon  the beauty matchless Layla kız kulesi

By the swordlike words in black robes and black clouds

Kanuni Mustafa

 Was an imotionally man, by zodiac of the Turk

The battle at the dolomites peaks

 And there she is,

Switch, call-in, with privacy position mounted on 1-gang plate

Surface mount, one single button

Pale as the dolomites peaks

She presses and presses and presses and presses

Buzzing sounds coming from one

Hill to another

From vashundol to  foulfell, and the abysm

And the rest’s uncertain.

A murmur, a rustle a beeping

To the stars and moon, imploring the Jupiter

Until my name has cast its light upon the dolomites peaks

Less attuned her voice to the tambur

Membranophone foe with variola face

As the outline of the hills, repeating forms or not

But two equal halves, a slouched by the

Seeing Turkish forces on the magic work

O prince warrior of old kurkuma brave

Defending every piece of his interefone

Kız kulesi:

Intercom kingdom it is called, after capturing Belgrade

In 1501.

 By agha kanuni and his beloved daughter

Sarıkız of gure to

Prevent kulesi to purge the evil fire and

With two-headed dragon would

Take it to it to the tower

What a Kaz,

With one blue eye and one eye either green, yellow, or brown

At maiden’s tower

At the intercom’s pallid peak they peaked that grey wolfess

With šayṭāniyy tricks and pale intercom buttons.

                                                 and now, without further ado

How do you like dragged Diana fire blow?

Sancta maria out of the woods!

Bless death!

And the devil of another


Bloody  mounding tall chains of pearl

Becoming one Bosnian bastud that occasioned

If we teeter at my last circulation

An alt-right gauntlet!

A nitro through our Thora(x)

Argon through our mouth,

Or in through our corpses out


 down through our gas chambers

In pits, on pyres

With petals and then dumped

Two words – five syllables

Through vapours and vista

Into reverie

For rich clouds to use rain

Like blaedre, blaeddre use catheter bag

For peeing fever and chills

And my hollo perish even in fog smoke white

Pain antediluvian terrafirma destruction

Becoming one experiencing fasciculation

If shaitan don’t die of

Twanging a wiry  mind

Amoebas first I trust he will use

The remains of that former argosy sometime in

The course of the year present.

Of vinal ism

An infinitessimal

 I shd.

 spectamur agendo; or rather, not by the act but the effect

Shd. Etc.

+al philology

. (parenthesis. Can’t afford high gates’ hands well

At the outset.) Not.


The cruel scorpion Sigismundo in the chains

Beneath the toad &venomous web, the lucky golden

Accordant of mortal arm

Will  keeping the wolverine from the

Work in progress


Tranquil pill in ageless freedom

Quarantine is fangless tooth

A loveseat hell den all imposed

illegible handwriting…  go and cut the Cedars of Lebanon… 

You are safe

You are free

You are beautiful


And as far as anybody can tell, sub-power of Enhanced Speed – Lady Mother is still alive, suddenly appear then disappear from Europe, especially when flying. bat-like wings which they use to capture prey,  using gothic makeup, she eased the dread and worry of thanatophobia and viruses, an avid taphophile, attending the course of gravestone arts, epitaphs and how to dig the tombs without using the wings. Someone reported a great fire near London – the Highgate East Cemetary is still badly damaged in an arson attack by pyromaniac extremist in 2022. There is a cenotaph of a famous Sir stolen)


Moments in History That Inspired The Handmaid’s Tale

Almost everything described in the book and the show Handmaid’s tale has a parallel in a totalitarian or religious state, military regime, religious order or cult, or, chillingly, in Western society today. Margaret Atwood, the author of the book “Handmaid’s Tale,” on which the show was based, keeps saying that “Nothing that I’ve written hasn’t already happened. And nothing that we build doesn’t already exist.” Which historical events inspired the Handmaid’s Tale author and the show’s screenwriters, and why The Handmaid’s Tale can serve as a warning to the whole world? Forced pregnancy in Cambodia, kidnapping, clothes as a way of humiliation, environmental destruction and other moments took place in the past and in present.

Currently watching First they killed my father https://www.imdb.com/title/tt4882376/



Tarot card: Justice

Prema zakonu čovek je kriv ukoliko naruši prava drugih ljudi. Prema etici on je kriv ukoliko samo pomisli da to učini.

Imanuel Kant

By law, a person is guilty of violating other people’s rights. According to the ethics he is guilty only if he thought to do so.

Immanuel Kant


U članu 7 Rimskog statuta dati su osnovni elementi zločina protiv čovečnosti. Zločinom protiv čovečnosti smatra se preduzimanje navedenih radnji pod uslovom da su one preduzete kao deo šireg ili sistematskog napada uperenog protiv bilo kojeg civilnog stanovništva. To su sledeće radnje:

  • ubistvo, istrebljenje, porobljavanje, deportacija ili prisilno premeštanje stanovništva, zatvaranje i drugi oblici lišavanje slobode koji se preduzimaju uz kršenje osnovnih pravila međunarodnog prava
  • mučenje, silovanje, seksualno ropstvo, prisilna prostitucija, prisilna trudnoća, prisilno sterilisanje i svaki drugi oblik seksualnog zlostavljanja ovakve ili slične prirode
  • proganjanje bilo koje grupe ili zajednice na političkoj, verskoj, rasnojnacionalnojetničkojkulturnoj i polnoj osnovi, ili po drugim osnovima koji su međunarodnim pravom unverzalno priznati kao nedozvoljeni
  • nestanak lica, aparthejd kao i drugi nehumani postupci sličnog karaktera kojima se namerno prouzrokuju teške patnje ili ozbiljno ugrožavanje fizičkog ili mentalnog zdravlja
  • https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Crimes_against_humanity

“Not only did few of them sense a moral responsibility for the part they had played, few of them thought to question whether they should.”
― Ann Tusa, The Nuremberg Trial

“new evils require new remedies … new sanctions to defend and vindicate the eternal principles of right and wrong’.
― Ann Tusa, The Nuremberg Trial


Crimes against humanity are certain acts that are deliberately committed as part of a widespread or systematic attack directed against any civilian or an identifiable part of a civilian population. The first prosecution for crimes against humanity took place at the Nuremberg trials. Crimes against humanity have since been prosecuted by other international courts (for example, the International Court of Justice, the International Criminal Tribunal for the former Yugoslavia, and the International Criminal Court) as well as in domestic prosecutions. The law of crimes against humanity has primarily developed through the evolution of customary international law. Crimes against humanity are not codified in an international convention, although there is currently an international effort to establish such a treaty, led by the Crimes Against Humanity Initiative.

Unlike war crimes, crimes against humanity can be committed during peace or war.[1] They are not isolated or sporadic events, but are part either of a government policy (although the perpetrators need not identify themselves with this policy) or of a wide practice of atrocities tolerated or condoned by a government or a de facto authority. War crimesmurdermassacresdehumanizationgenocideethnic cleansingdeportationsunethical human experimentationextrajudicial punishments including summary executions, use of weapons of mass destructionstate terrorism or state sponsoring of terrorismdeath squadskidnappings and forced disappearancesuse of child soldiersunjust imprisonmentenslavementcannibalismtorturerapepolitical repressionracial discriminationreligious persecution and other human rights abuses may reach the threshold of crimes against humanity if they are part of a widespread or systematic practice.

source: Wikipedia


Mars Exulti/My personal Mayday

I could not hold back my tears,  I was deeply touched and I was deeply moved the face of the heroism of this seemingly ordinary woman who was   forced, by specific circumstances to undergo the “Daenerys Targaryen” phase, to experience a nervous breakdown, to cast out her humanity when necessary, to be raped, beaten, to endure what it cannot be endured, to survive her evildoers and the whole twisted nazi Gilead society and to become a fucking superhero. 

whoever watches this series knows what I mean when I mention ex USA, Republic of “praise be” Gilead where women are tortured and mutilated if they want to read a book or be sent as concubines from home to home, from one commander to another, as well as with their wives to be raped in an obscene, profane ceremonial ritual in the name of the Lord as a concubine for “ecological disaster and birth defect”, where girls are raped at 14 while forcing them to pray to the Lord to be wives and mothers and where they cut their clit if they, for example, wear the wrong dress or  fall in love, where fertile women are handmaids, and all others are Unwomen, forcing them to die in poisonous colonies to work   until they fall apart, piece by piece of their bodies due to toxic gases .. public hangings are everyday. with prayer, watching is a must, as well as participating in pulling a rope, stoning, too .. This woman eventually became the boss of the monstrous Gilead, took matters into her own hands and became the one who is in charge. A woman respected by the greatest villains and architects of Gilead. How the hell did she do that? this is a hypothetical question, and this woman should be a role model for anyone going through difficult times.

in this time of indifference to human suffering, a character interpreted by Elisabeth Moss (the best actress I know, and know a lot about the art of acting) by Margaret Atwood’s book “The Handmaid’s Tale”, I thought of every tear that is shed every moment in the world; each different, and together they form an ocean of despondency that invokes compassion and consolation.

.Most cathartic my tears are those caused by seeing from this example of human exaltation; I was looking at tears in these people, I saw all those who were separated violently from a dear person, I have seen   tears of grandparents, mothers and fathers, children in hands of evil people who would have been deprived of their childhood had it not been for the heroism of female Moses June Osborn. My tears called for comfort and with their answering tenderness, I wipe the sorrow from my heart.

it is the testimony and story of an ordinary woman, struck by a tragedy called Gilead that saved more than 52 children of Gilead and a bunch of martyred and enslaved women by providing them with a plane to keep them safe, fleeing persecution and cruel violence, people and children who were victimized, raped, tortured, mistreated in this newly constituted theocratic rapist country.

Someone in such circumstances, from abuse at the hands of ruthless people, becomes evil. Someone becomes human. Someone becomes larger than life. And that’s not a phrase – I saw it in everyday life, I saw (admittedly not much .. which is why it’s so precious) people with integrity, real heroes, real “Lara Crofts”.

And I learn from them.

And what have you done in your miserable life, you that acting tough and cocky, laundering money through your so-called legit businesses,  to think highly of yourself (and there is no person who doesn’t think nice about herself) did you save someone’s life? Is there a work of art created with your hands and mind? Look at June Osborne and people like her … what do you have to do with such humanity, you little thing?

I haven’t cried in years. I couldn’t…. be disgusted by the crowd of sociopaths among whom I currently live in a kind of Gilead .. honestly, I didn’t have the luxury of something like that .. a bunch of ruthless cowards whose sole purpose of living  is their miserable bare useless existing in fact, for example, to make someone’s life hell and enjoy their sadomasochistic psychopathy, their madness, madness and stupidity. To exist just one moment in time not to give a phone to a girl in need if she urgently needs help… to yell at someone at the counter, to say meaningless nonsense on the bus and to disappear afterwards .., to kick scared daughter out of the door while her mother is in hospital,  to steal, to lie, not to give a glass of water to the thirsty, I wonder: how did they dare to be born at all? who needs them? what is their purpose? Today I cried (amazed) because I know who I am, I know why I am, I know that there are others like me, that I am not alone and I am glad about that.


a bit of cynicism: I felt like a pope at a prayer vigil after watching this …

The Lord said, ‘I have seen my people in bondage, and I have heard their cry,’” she says in voiceover as the handmaids carry her through the woods. “I know their sorrows, and I have come to deliver them from the hand of evil men and lead my people out of that sorrowful place, to a land flowing with milk and honey.”
Those symbolism-heavy sentences are an inexact quote from the Bible, a book packed with fire, brimstone, and tragic martyrdom. In fact, the star of the Bible died in an attempt to save the souls of his people and create hope for the world. There are many New Testament lines June could have used to suggest that she, like Jesus Christ before her, has died (luckily she didn’t) for the good of mankind. Instead, her parting season 3 words come from the Book of Exodus, which follows Moses’ flight from Egypt with the Israelites. The Israelites, like the handmaids, were slaves until someone saved them from their abusive plight.
Be stronger than any odds stacked against you. hdhjdhj.jpg


Becoming Writer

In the secrets of
fathom deep
of guarded embroiled
guarded Frontieres
of intercoursed sapphire
and intercourse willing feet
desperat and eternal
shackles into layers undiminisht
by utter darkness and durst in dreadful deeds
I’d not fit as return’d not lost Seraph
as the smack of feverish and the transpiercing aeons
Unanimous twists and handkerchiefs
flamed blood bitten gentlemen
I lay bare unfit

A skirt. the mightiest. so pondering durst ink.
the number of stones or red bricks thrown
exploding fingers, the red graved letter
by drunken writer engraved beneath her window.

WRITER: She ripped off funky letters from parchment’s
lightspeed body
her princess’ first inaugural ball
pulling muffler like a strip of wool
but then, again, isn’t the key sum
of all things best played on a harp
made of pyrite, snakes &n’ roses caught in the strum?

QUEEN (scribbles)
Boring boring balls
to a courtesy farewell letter
the strokes
of a maddened keyboard
the normality of it
made me tremble
oh, how painful has been my platitudes
exults in my strength, divided by lip
the footsteps of burrowing mammal
a goblet of words are uttered only by the wild cat teeth
upon the retina of finger burned deep
and the synoptic lays of a synoptic lays of
the adverse spreads havoc; my novel grows

WRITER: and it’s you are whatever
a misunderstood noblewoman
but ignobly lioness of the wood
write horror tales and never kiss away all the
tender castles
seem to lie at you
even the mildest of the savage can become a writer
that tells the story of
Hamlet’s brilliant-hued chestnut
What can it then avail
apparent Queen’s solitude
a javelin cords
a smitten sound
a splash to an admiring toad
intuitive and capable of more
in this bright wanderer degrees
but by such Sea-maid haste
sets now know whence learnt: sackcloth glow
at the end of necrotic moist
all things tender

QUEEN WRITER: Bad bad doll. How far is it to
the bog swamp than?


longing for [the girl] friend’s embrace/and between females


longing for [the] friend’s embrace


the way I hate when men many dedicate a poem to me

there is something aforesaid in this, foreshadowing.. unnatural with regard to excessive polishing of swords

for sacrifice, sheep slain of copper

Covered with roast beef

hard and black and dead

whatever this Bovinity meant to say to me

there may be something Beef noodles in there

at times plaster and bovine hair of  a

Erebus locus of all the

scuffle of

my 42 sternward nudities (run sprung unstrung wrung

bursting to light across my desolate shore, but still I

shrunk and run and brunt recording beef smile and

Boast of the grief (very occasionally journeying a roar)

he saw me not borgne Chelbt the Necessity of what is


Lo! of hundreds who fuck trampling female


bestowed a right to the portion

of a camel

algebraic hécatombe  Bearing a pack of

quiescent Venus clay

out  budding what a sweet creature

she has sweet prehistoric uvula Arabian Serbian

bud, fuzz grows above sweat glands, sweet odour

let’s..  then,, Zéphir s’ et le présage Faire crac-crac

niqer sauter…

out Se masturber, se branler en face..out en face


out en face merrily did we drop a sort of

Merrily did we drop a sort of incandescent beef

who will kill and eat

And between females means….



And between females

yoking through your half-moon of the pond

Beyond  Cyrene, beyond the throne of snares

Beyond Atalanta and moon hills

of the chariot, you came, fell weak tugs

and my delicious back

with her knife swells with the desire of betray


My want dives silky hair

Is glistening

The straining immortal kisses

Of the toxic breed of my betrayal friend

In the arms of  Hypatia gender

bronze-tipped javelin, wild breast on the battlefield

a sentient being,  a huntress companion and swore to remain unwed

to a heart in sweet tine


although she be of purple impressing flowers

rounded gently breasts strewed upon the trampled gilly


And grass between her legs bringing me a cloth.

Drops of water fell

stay here, here is my tomb, a real pint

is not only perdu, my darling, but perdu and perdu and perdu.




Have you not.


A long live hatred

O long-lived one

Hatred my life your/mine levedy love is that I hate

By the knives of circumstance,

And the last sacred backstabbing

In enchanted mourner’s bloom

But shall a gate of red fire tomb fall aside

Or have you not, sedulously full fifty filthy dull dull

Mots, same as beef, Beefinity, as merry as the

Sunrises between the devil’s horns

Have you not.


and what in my secret old shrine will happen

pipes the dithyrambs

and grieving serene

I am still grieved you sorely on my shore

Ere the lifeboat serene long

Add it to and long que doas domnas

A sicknesse, that may be hele

Phisicien, a matineuse aurora

a flail a




I hate your womanly love above all else

My disgust and despair led

My heart to the harvest of hunger.

Chacun retrouve les peines

Death companion newer still

as we parted for the canopy for eternity



…the ugliest…


Even a man’s footprints of beef.


At least I shall know it wasn’t you.

It wasn’t you, harridan

It wasn’t you.


The best psycho caught on-screen, along with “Misery” – only Jennifer Tilly can do them justice

Currently, I am having fun watching Jennifer Tilly as a nutjob in Cord – Fuga Impossive 2000 https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0191915/?ref_=nv_sr_1?ref_=nv_sr_1

A desperate, childless couple kidnap a pregnant woman and lead her husband to believe that she is dead. Scenes from Cord a.k.a. Hide and Seek (2000) starring- Daryl Hannah, Jennifer Tilly, Bruce Greenwood and Vincent Gallo, dir.- Sidney J. Furie

“Sha had a nasty cesarian a few years ago and she is very sensitive to anyone seeing the scarring – I know she is unconsiousness but I think it would be a violation of her personal rights if you were  to peel at her clothing and look at the most intimate disgusting part of her body” (8.00)

The best psycho line ever! 

and this one:
“Yes I understand you took some kind of Hippocratic oath and you feel it’s your duty to take care of my sister but I really think you should go now.”

“It’s so hard being a mother



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