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The Habitus of Wilhelm Friedman


Wilhelm Friedman was spat upon to the point of pain.
A boozehound died poor… They then admit…
The dude hit the clavier, like the buckish
bios of notable rock stars.
Oy vey, there was a movie as well,
I think the title of it is, in fact,
Wilhelm Friedman, where he
suffers and struggles
He is the father, we are all his children’ (OH GOD!!!!)
but with all those flies, fleas and planktons
that make up life and make up us humans,
like a living organism, dead centre in that life itself.
the habitus of Friedman Bach.
A remarkable musician, an unrivalled composer,
but a heavy, heavy drinker.

Copyright © 2019 by Leila Samarrai Mehdi

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law

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Dehumanization


One little, two little, three little coxcomb
pray slack our rage
with a futile thought

so I heard them strumpet through the weeping dark
reverberating as the Sable laughed, howls
hot coles, abstract, to fill in the gap
as thus released my rain barrel

And as he spoke a new man die
so add blind dangling
that sudden light sound within those holes
of years for tears

to be bloodthirsty is better than a droop, let’s toast
to broken ribs of monstrous peak
to the powerful crimson arms

to 12 hanging chandeliers,
to 12 sheep hanging on the iron rod,
beyond courtesy of snake to snake in their snake-pit
to 12 hells lined up in forgotten time
to mild brightness trickles from the stars

Escape,
Goes through loneliness,
Always blowing quieter.

Copyright © 2019 by Leila Samarrai Mehdi

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law

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Echoing Day


Echoing Day that awakens
hand with others’ words real
It’s comforting to be the surrender
to the cruelty or mercy of stone
The flames will open as dungeons
of an imaginary eye
through the dark walls with threatening asymmetry
blind mind, sight .. resurrected valleys then exploded pits
with a secret of men of how I become
miserably miserably lifeless
Heartless, awake, I raid their devilish picks

I repeat cast moons, I feel confused
I repeat time, still.. all the silhouettes of fire
unsettling madness in the valley of death
non-found treasure I bestow, I feel confused!

Grievance and hours wrapped in rotted mind
may I be lulled by buried voices
I delight the dark plots  of traitors,

though never knew breastfeeds

by echoes of that cunning sideways
and fainted valleys, oh mercy to the river’s
and dreadful dreams nailed me to my terrors
I cross this uncertain lasting ended in poisonous spark

 

Copyright © 2019 by Leila Samarrai Mehdi

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law

 

 

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Goodbye soldier, farewell sword


Horses no longer want to ride you
nor to spur your flame
Goodbye… never again…
from your blood, bird calls

Goodbye soldier, farewell sword!

A beaten, sputaneous apparition, my old robber
devoured with time, I’ve devoured time,
Deeper, every minute
I’m looking at the height of the earth
and her circular endless

 

Copyright © 2019 by Leila Samarrai Mehdi

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law

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Broken shards of porcelain


Life is a dream
for awaken men
to walk on and sleepwalking
by shards of broken porcelain.

**

Život je san
po kojem se budan hoda i mesečari
krhotinama slomljenog porculana.

 

Copyright © 2019 by Leila Samarrai Mehdi

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law

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to a man who has upset my dream.


to a man who has upset my dream.

You’re a harasser
just like Gurdjieff, Buddha or Jesus
You’re disturbing my dormancy
You dig in my inner composure
Whoever upsets our sleepiness, we will disperse them
(I want to hurt you..)
The dream was “so wonderful”.
The Dream can be beautiful,
and I do not have to be wonderful,
but one thing is certain:
It’s a dream, an outspoken, useless!

 

Copyright © 2019 by Leila Samarrai Mehdi

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law

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Boris K. i konačno rešenje za Viktora Frankla


Godina 1946. U  krčmi “Paviljon za samoubistva”, udaljenoj svega nekoliko koraka od centralnog groblja u Vieni, Boris K. I Viktor Frankl razgovaraju… Boris K. se žali na noćne more. Autor knjige “Kako da sačuvam živce”, napisao je gomilu knjiga koje su (reklo bi se) mogle biti od pomoći Borisu K. Boris K. koji je procitao sve  Franklove knjige.

Doktor ga sluša sa pola uveta. Cinicni osmejak mu obigrava oko usne. Boris K. nosi prepoznatljiv mu autfit – “mornar Popaj” majicu na pruge. Frankl nosi logoraško odelo. “Tako se lakše rve sa bolom..”, došaptavaju se gosti krčme od kojih je većina delila Franklovu sudbinu. (kao i autfit, i po koja krčmarica i konobar)

– Prolazim kroz teške čase.. – otvoreno će Boris K. – Morao sam da te vidim, doktore.
Psihijatar se počeša po glavi,  izgubljenog pogleda, razbarušene kose, zureći u prazan papir.

– Ne znam kako ti ja mogu pomoći, Borise K. – Frankl sleže ramenima, a Boris K. se zaplaka, na šta ga doktor s mržnjom pogleda, okrvavljenog oka..  Tad se pribra i nastavi, dok je Boris zadovoljno protrljao ruke – Obojica tumaramo po tami, Borise K.  s tim da je moja malo.. mračnija..  –  uskliknu i podiže mali prst uvis – Nad Evropom bde i bdiće, ujedinjene,  strava, kob i sen. Da svi bdimo sudbinom čovečjom, a ne samo sile svetle zvezde zlokobne, već sile noći bez kraja,  ti – uhvati Borisa K. za majicu na pruge i snažnim zahvatom je pokida na komade, kidajući pruge jednu za drugom i otkrivši Borisov mišićavi torzo –

“Ah! – postide se Boris K. pred krčmaricom koja zasikta ka njemu – Lakše to, doktore! Nemam rezervnu.. A i dama.. “

Doktorove zenice su se rumenele kao okrvavljena zora. Odmahnu rukom:

“Pridruži nam se, o Borise K. Živela revolucija i tamna brigada! Cannons to the left, cannons to the right, baš kao u pesmi”, Frankl obliznu palac, okrete stranicu i nastavi da pomno čita prazan papir, okrećući oči od Borisa u stranu….

Boris K. se strese pod utiskom sablasnog proročanstva.

Tad reši da istera stvari na čistac. Kako da dođe do rešenja vlastitog problema? Samo napred i hrabro, Borise, to je samo doktor..  Pitaj ga!:

– Recite, zašto ste dosad niste ubili, Viktore?

“Ko kaže da nisam?”, lakonski će Frankl i nastavi uz jedno “Dovraga!”, da zuri u papir. “Nemam ideja, a Tully me čeka!”

Tad priznade Borisu K da mu njegovo prusustvo ide na živce, ali da to ne shvati lično, jer “Nešto me draži kod tebe, Borise K. a ne umem da objasnim zašto.. Možda je do mirisa.. “

Boris K. shvati da se doktoru miris njegovih nogu nije dopadao.
“Isto je i sa gostima krčme – paviljona. Nerviraju me ti.. uspeli suicidi. Srećna kopilad”, mrmljao je psihijatar nepovezano u bradu.

Tad Boris shvati da Preživeli tumaraju krčmom odsutnog pogleda i okrvavljenih očnjaka. Obuze ga jeza.

I doktor Frankl se, najedared, ustremi ka njemu, izgladnelog pogleda, ispruživši ruke… Ostali mu se pridružiše dok je Boris K. hrlio ka ulazu ophrvan užasom i pobeže koliko ga noge nose.

Bilo je to sastajalište Preživelih. Ko je od njih živ, a ko mrtav, bilo je pitanje od manjeg značaja, mislio je nekoliko časa kasnije Boris K. zapalivši cigaretu Laki Strajka, sam samcijat, kraj kontejnera, delimično pribran i utešen svetlošću obližnje ulične bandere.

Boris K. stoga odluči da se vrati Franklu po savet deset milenijuma kasnije, kad se i psihijatar malo pribere.

Ako ga večnost u kojoj je boravio ne pretekne u plemenitom naumu.

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After the crime


‘Give me money!’
is not a gaggle of snakes slithering in and biting me,
crawling in my skin,
not the place where plants breathe in fear.
I feverishly dug in my imagination,
looking for shelter with my fear-filled eye.

Everyone will get together then.
Dancers in circles joining hands and
dancing with hands up high.
A dance of small, precise steps,
slowly, in circles, while people join in
and expand it.

Forced, wicked foreign letters,
to create confusion, false memories,
dumb definitions! Someone is mocking me!

This is someone forcing a finger into the joke,
poking where he doesn’t belong,
mixing in variables, instances, inscribes
threatening riddles with mysteries.

They…they carry something within them…
in front of the church!
This is symbolism, all of this clowning around,
this dress, all of this is wrong,
where, where are you taking me…
what misfortune is this?!

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Nascency


I supervise and I punish
I do not destroy, I suppress
between the hidden and obvious,
through desires and laws, to death and kinship
About a law of merged vessels
The invention of humanity is so tempting.
The position can be inverted
and the Earth were
and the sky were
and stone by stone were
I’m a sculptor
in Aphrodite’s hands
I beg
I curse
I hug time
to run backwards

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Adagio


While Aphrodite’s seed flows on me
I sniff your scents you voiceless tempest
I rip your dresses daughter of the devil
I rob your spirit sadness of Daphnis

While Aphrodite’s seed flows on me
I warm the shrill sun
Under the glance of Thebes
and I trade with my skin
On a Syrian bazaar.

And I spill my blood down
Baghdad’ cobble
And I gnaw my bone
in the Samarian necropolis!

While Aphrodite’s seed flows on me
I am the twitch of the Life-bearer
Singing in the scream
I am a furry beast
Outspread next to the twilight
The opiate that suffocates the mind, soul and heart,
The thought that creates the swarm of hells in head
While I am a drop of seed on Aphrodite’s thigh

My silence divines,
My presage roars
I will lose my mind in the halls of Letha,
They will rob my spirit in the chambers of Hades

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Laying in wait to pounce upon his prey


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

 

*In Akkadian mythology the Rabisu (“the vagabond”) or possibly Rabasa are evil vampiric spirits or demons that are always menacing the entrance to the houses and hiding in dark corners, lurking to attack people. (source: Wikipedia)

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Requiem for a mosquito, may your spirit rest upon these toxic fumes


1

I love your milk colour, nearby madhouse,
I love your fatuum traitors cry,
To Now or Once, to hellholes or sneak thieves
Which summons the harlots of Time.

Pull the drains, sewer bunnies.
may your spirit rest upon these toxic fumes,
I love your shiny little bumps, your aggro,
Simply… I love your shaft.

The Belgrade on Krnjača*
screwed up its sewage line to
contaminate the crime scene.
with raw sewage.

The Wraith will come dragged along the floor
Belgrade, you are an asylum in the open river
while sailing on a burning duvet

2

To Kunst for homeless god
to Happiness and vindictive mosquitoes
to calls of local bar hopping slut.
and fine Sers missing communal apartment.

Spraying for mosquitoes!
are you my executioner?
you’ve disarmed the vengeful mosquitos
itching
cursing
a short-tempered star
a lightning strike
frost in dictionary

And soon.. all these years
seem just like a blink
of the bite.. inseminated…
earthquake!

Don’ t get nervous phantom of the
birthplace shores.

Requiem for a mosquito
and soon, your music shall come,
some slacker roadkill shall come,
plastic heart shall soak it all in.

Like ammonium nitrate…
3
To add mincemeat out of the filthy Ser
mix mixture carefully into medicinal
soup
For Hannibal.

Poke and doodle
In the pokey, up to the rectum river,
then
plant yourself like a squatter

And… put some ice in the urinals.

 

*Krnjača (Serbian CyrillicКрњачаpronounced [kř̩ɲat͡ʃa]) is an urban neighborhood of Belgrade, the capital of Serbia. It is located in Belgrade’s municipality of Palilula. (source: Wikipedia)

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THE MAN’S PRAYER


THE MAN’S PRAYER

Please, Father. Deliver me. Watch my semeion…
because this is not the place of the still waters
Boon pure as jade stones and lilies
below the moon – women dressed in the sun

But a place of eternal torment
Aion .. if you have not noticed
and behold the great fiery dragons.
Fire shines upon this red tears falling.

Dark clouds hang low
and blood to wild donkeys
it makes them gush their thirst.
up to the vanishing point

This is the valley of death
This is the death clock room full of
people with seven heads and ten horns
and the ala, with child, devoured cried,
a fucking ton of bricks fresh, at birth

For three evils and for the four that you did,
as I’ve decided to forgive you, too, Father,
fatherhood above, a father of us all
Do not worry, Father,
we, mortals, are inclined to forgive everything
And to feel.. and to see..
a chosen generation..
For this, I say to you by the word of the
Man.

Just get me out of here.

Copyright ©Leila Samarrai Mehdi2019®

* No part of this poem may be used or reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any way or form or by any means electronic, mechanical, recording, or otherwise without the written permission of the author.*

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Le regrettes tu , Charlène?, translated into French by Daniel Diaz


Le regrettes tu , Charlène ?, translated into French by Daniel Diaz

Au Revoir, Charlene

Le regrettes tu, Charlène ?
Je ne m’y en attendais pas et cela aurait dû être de même .
Je ne sais pas comment nous l’avons manqués pour que je me retrouve dans une telle sauce .
Tu m’as réellement détruit.
Ce n’est pas juste de ta faute je ladmet,
je voulais me pendre quand j’ai découvert
ce que tu étais ,ce n’est rien de inattendu .
Dans ma famille il y a beaucoup de lunatiques,
ce n’est pas inhabituelle de les rencontrer et de cette manière, les fous mattirent et je les attires
Je ne sais pas… C’est difficile pour moi de décider
Soit je me jette sous un camion ou je suis la tradition de ma famille
Il y a quelques jours la corde était brisée et nous avons d’une nouvelle a nouveau .peut être un voiture ….
Et j’ai pensé a ce que cela me passe dessus ou juste de rôder comme les badgers***
dans la nuit et j’attends pour quelqu’un de me prendre et ils n’iront pas en prison, on va arranger cela.
Une solution avec eux est faisable.
Je n’ai pas encore décidé et je dois décider.
Je dois me perdre bientôt….
Cette voiture est couverte de soie …. Et puis je me suis rappelé je l’ai laissé quelque part Loin….
Cette voiture… Tu ne m’entends pas ?
Eh oui , typiquement toi. Tu es tellement une pute, une ogresse
Que ce qu’un homme s’attend de toi? Ou une femme
Indécente, creative, tu pense j’ai des passions en moi même , c’est étrange pour toi , tu es un peu blassée , tu es contente que quelqu’un soit mort , peut être l’étais je?
Sur ce … Tu n’aurai pas ris en vain
Je vais voler dans le ciel rose du coucher de soleil , pendant que toi … (Tu es en train de rire encore) dans des plans noirs a travers les raisons sur ton visage.
Tout vieux et mouillée et gribouillés
Un signe qu’il n’y as pas de doute a propos de cela .
Je suis sur c’est juste la manière a un point je t’ai laissé aller trop loin donc ce n’est pas juste de ta faute que la corde se soit brisé
Oh désolé, la corde a éclaté, donc laisse la, elle est brisée tu ne le sens réellement pas et tu pensais tu avais tout préparé
Tu es en train de faire de moi un méchant dans cette histoire
Charlène as tu déjà ressenti du remord?
Peux tu entendre?
Entends tu ce que j’entends? Entends tu cela…
(Son inconnu) , aussi?ian
Charlène , es tu toujours la ou…
Tu es en train de regarder la foule faisant l’amour a ton tonic ou ton gin
Tu me cherche dans Memphis mais tu ne peux pas me trouver là
Je vais aller a mon imprimerie maintenant et je ne vais pas te donner un livre , du moins pas avec une dédicace
Les écrivains vont mal écrire ton nom, les librairies sont accessibles à tous
Je n’ai jamais voulu que tu saches tout cela même si je savais que tu savais cela
Tu joues la victime , tu critique et torture et cligne des yeux
Tu es juste catastrophique , tu me fais honte , te demandant pourquoi….
Je me demande pourquoi je sens du regret Charlène
Pourquoi tout ce qui me touche ici , ça marche sur moi a nouveau , ça marche, je deviens sensible , pourquoi me regarde tu comme ça c’est un crime sérieux , donc c’est ….
u as toujours jouée la victime quand je te regarde je n’ai pas le désir de vivre , j’ai honte de toi, je me suiciderai maintenant ici…
Ici , donne moi la corde…
Je m’en vais de la ville…
Par chance , chanceux je vais avoir Memphis et il matte de et l’appartement et ils méritent beaucoup d’attention avec qui je n’ai pas encore fait de business,et ils ne marchent pas comme des chiens battus et pour cela,
e ne le regrette pas , et toi?
Le regrette tu? toi? non?
Moi? oui.
C’est la vie….
Corde….
Charlie?

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THE LONG NIGHT (since March 8th till March 28) when my mom’s medical emergency became a hospital horror show


THE LONG NIGHT
(since March 8th till March 28)

you exist, in the distance, keep on going further
you – a dead body wet in the misty shadow
forget the hope promising, eternal spring is your enemy

So, now mother, touch the white winter
while falling snow still lingers

The final light long in the night
waiting for the hospital clerk
oh, sad devil, say, white deaf in winter light

Say it already!

He always knows how to count
the impulses of nonexistent madness
to heal the air behind you

(Your mother is ..)

empty days, obedient to the
hammer’s turn

the wisdom of silence
over the graveyard

as in a church, as in a shelter
the blessings of rational misfortune

from the shelter to the work, back shelter again
in a blind horror
death is a dream
in a blind horror
STOP IT
from the shelter to the work, back shelter again

(your mother… ta mère est..)

death is a dream
in the blink blind, the hell of.

(your mother.)

infernal landscape and in each one
I used to be a beggar. clever those landlords are
clever
from the shelter to the work, back shelter again

The patient lies lifeless:
object between the rest in the room

death and life, in the eye of a smoke locomotive
The heart of before last evening slippers and the ash of all the doctor’s ashtrays
Imaginary sails deployed over a…

(your mother!)
STOP IT!

for barbarians four barbarians for barbarians are barbarians
barbarians are coming
I travel from say to word
from the shelter to the work, back shelter again
from the shelter to the work, back shelter again
from the shelter to the work, back shelter again
over the whole yard
I, pilgrim full of sin
I renounce darkness that covered me
It was pitch dark,
It was pitch dark
from the shelter to the work, back shelter again
from the shelter to the work, back shelter again

… Vaša majka.. Ihre Mutter ist
Ihre Mutter ist

MY MOTHER, YOU WHO ARE MY FATHER
SAVE ME, SAVE ME!

long into the night, the hammer invisible laughing
from all sides…
Poor fool, stupid words escape me
from the shelter to the work, back shelter again
she cannot die!

run run
into a rose bush
vomit vomit
an apple made of steel, for lunch
then vomit for dinner.

Light from the window shines over the yard
Where the falling snow lingers:
Vom Tierheim zur Arbeit, wieder zurück

I vomit for dinner

frozen little star, you exist, in the distance, keep on going further

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‘You should have killed me first, then give a speech,’ Sleeping Mathilde, an excerpt


I am posting Daenerys’s tributes at FB https://www.facebook.com/leila.mehdi.12935 all they long… read this chapter. It was written in 2006… before the show and this is not The Game of Thrones. It is finished in 2014
But, my Mathilde is slightly different than Daenerys…

‘You should have killed me first, then give a speech,’ Sleeping Mathilde, an excerpt

Undead Mathilde takes over the Hasse Castle, north of Vasteras

***
‘I know all the guards Orian ever spoke to. You were not among them. You did not follow a single command I issued. I know what you did with the trenches. You buried them, and in them, you’ve buried the bodies of my many loyal guards. You brought your own men. Do you think I am unaware of the dagger at my throat and that the tower guards’ arrows aiming at me, or of the gate being unlocked? I wonder who dragged you here to begin with.’
‘Almric, Olof’s brother.’ He smiled and lunged at her with a dagger.

She grabbed the sharp end with her hand, confusing him for a moment, then giving him a powerful knee kick to the crotch.
The guards pulled out their arrows and tightened their bows.
‘Stop…’ Tamson gurgled, but I could no longer hear him, for I went numb out of fear for our fates.
At that moment, from the highest point of a tower, an arrow pierced the rebel’s leg, and then the other went into his palm. The mistress grabbed him and blood covered her long, white fingers. ‘Almric, you say?’

Dark shadows were dancing on her face, while the guards were returning the arrows to their quivers.
‘Are they dead as well?’ Tamson asked. His confused look was aimed at the archers, many of which, as he knew, were hidden in the deepest parts of the tower. It was the last line of defence, therefore it had to have been heavily guarded. ‘Where are my men? Maybe in that trench, you mentioned?’
Mathilde burst out laughing.

‘Give me my sword back, you damn Norrbotten witch!’
The shivers that had overcome his body up until that point were gone completely, which she noticed and whispered ‘Almric…’ anew, adding ‘I can understand that. I would have done the same myself. Raise an army of monsters and crush Amerongen, bathe in his blood under the light of the pregnant moon. But where is the wretch now? There he is chanting to himself in the solars begging the serfs to ride him. There are no living here, not anymore.’ To this, I, Jonas Sverker, quivered in fear, but Mathilde had already sent away the guards that wanted to shackle Tamson. There was a tumult in the air from all the rage. Tamson looked at their faces, but they were cloaked. ‘This is your army?’ He laughed. ‘Yeomen whose blood you drank?’
‘How poignant.’ She laughed and tossed him a two-handed sword. ‘I like your courage. What else can you do besides being brave? Since you cannot fight, which we’ve established during regular training.’ She turned her back to him, giving him the chance to cut her down. ‘I can hear the trotting of feet moving to the gates. The monster is here, to lay the beast to rest.’ She spoke without rhyme or reason.
Tamson stood on his shaky feet, the sword in his hand equally as shaky.

‘You wear the robes of Amerongen, giving out the same commands he would, drink blood far more greedily and suck the life out of Norrbotten more rammishly and passionately than he ever could…You are Amerongen. Your soul is rotten, words vile, innocent blood rests on your hands!’ He shouted, swinging his sword to Mathilde. She swiftly turned and he landed on the sharp end of her blade, his heart pierced.
‘You should have killed me first, then give a speech,’ she said, wiping the sword on Abaddon’s back. She turned to the guards….

***

Copyright ©Leila Samarrai Mehdi 2014®

* No part of this novel may be used or reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any way or form or by any means electronic, mechanical, recording, or otherwise without the written permission of the author.*

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Au Revoir, Charlene


Do you regret it, Charlene
I really did not expect it
and should have been,
I do not know how we missed it
to find myself in such a sauce
You really screwed me up
It’s not just your fault I admit
I wanted to hang myself when I found out what you were
it’s nothing unexpected
in my family, there were many lunatics
It’s not unusual to meet them
and this way
crazy people attract me

and I, them..

I do not know … it’s hard for me to decide
whether to throw myself under a truck
or to follow the tradition of my family
a few days ago the rope was broken
and we need a new one
and again. Maybe a car … and I thought of that
to run over me, or just skulking around
like badgers in the night
and I’m waiting for someone to pick me up
nor will they go to jail, we will arrange it
agreement with them is feasible
I have not decided yet, and I have to
I need to get lost soon … this car is covered with crimson silk ..
and then I remembered I left them elsewhere
Far .. That car … you do not listen to me? Well yes
Typical for you. You ‘re such a bitch, an ogress
What a man would expect from you?
Or a woman
indecent, imaginative, you think I have passions in myself
it’s strange to you, you’re a bit jaded, you’re glad someone died, maybe I did?
so that .. you would not have to laugh in vain
the playfully drawn lines of the study portrayal
typically lyrically, well-formed, friendly
I’m so sure of it
you’re doing it and…
you do not follow me, well, how could you?
you’ve failed as our civil war
that doesn’t work, not for rabies.
but, fortunately, I have Memphis, I wanted you to know that
that’s why I came to tell you au revoir
I will fly into the pink sky of dawn
while you .. (you’re laughing again ..) at dark plans
among grapes on your face
all run-down and weathered and wrinkly
a sign that there is no doubt about it
I’m sure that’s just the way
at one point I let you go too far
so that’s not just your fault
the rope broke.
oh, sorry, the rope burst
so, leave it, it’s broken
you do not really feel like it.
and you thought you had it all planned.
You’re making a villain out of me in my story.
Charlene, do you ever feel remorse?
Can you hear?
Do you hear what I hear?
Are you hearing this… (unknown sound), too?

Charlene, are you still there, or … you’re looking at the crowd
making love to your tonic or gin
You’re looking for me at Memphis, but you can not find me there
I’m going to my printer now
and I did not give you a book
at least not with a dedication
the skywriters spelt your name wrong
bookstores are available for everyone
I never wanted you to know all about these things
although I knew you knew them
you play the victim, you blame and torture and blink
you’re just troublesome, you’re embarrassing me,
wondering why .. I’m pondering
why I feel regret, Charlene
why all this touches me
here, it’s working on me again
It works, I become sensitive
why are you looking at me like that,
It’s a serious crime here, so it’s ..
You always played the victim
when I look at you I have no desire to live
I’m ashamed of you
I’d kill myself now. Here..
Here, give me a rope..
I’m leaving town…
luckily, lucky to have Memphis
and he’s waiting for me
and the apartment and they are worth a lot of attention
with whom I have not yet done business
and they do not go around like beaten dogs
and for which I will not regret it
and you? Do you repent? you? no
Me? Yes.
That’s life.
Rope …
Charlie?

sarlen (1)

Copyright ©Leila Samarrai Mehdi2018®

* No part of this poem may be used or reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any way or form or by any means electronic, mechanical, recording, or otherwise without the written permission of the author.*

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POETIC PHOENIX,  Susan Joyner-Stumpf, dedicated this poem to – me.


POETIC PHOENIX
(For Leila Mehdi)

Serbian Sage
Balkan Bia
Rise from the Tower of Babel
Where Shinar will again shine
Corner wings of words
To draw your sky-maps
Structures strong will crumble
Around you
But so your Goddess-breath
Shall hold the fortitudes
From crushing such effervescence
Be your own storm
That reeks the sadness
From your heart of all
Those dirty fingers lifted
Out of boneless minds.

In the Sun’s wavering array
Discover new arrows
To pierce virgin Dawns
Not allowing subterranean suits
To steal such humble attire.

You have made your mark
Upon the shifting sand dunes
Of hypocrisy and odium
Cleansed evil eyes of
Their predatory, loathing lure.

Madness is a gift you favor
In intangible realms of
Poetic dovetails ~ ~

We choose our blades wisely,
Those of us who write to
Sustain our ever blood flow.

Poetic Phoenix ~

Do you not already scrape the sky, the stars,
With Soul’s misty flavor?

Taste of Life’s emptiness but, so too,
Drink from the cup of all you have
Given, thus!!!!

AUTHOR’S NOTE:

Bia IN GREEK MYTHOLOGY; Bia was a minor goddess of the Greek pantheon; Bia being the personification of might and compulsion.

Copyright ©Susan Joyner-Stumpf 2019®

* No part of this poem may be used or reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any way or form or by any means electronic, mechanical, recording, or otherwise without the written permission of the author.*
_________

Graphic designed/created by sonnetwolf designz© Copyright © Susan Joyner-Stumpf ®

No part of this Graphic Artist Image created by me below may be used or reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any way or form or by any means electronic, mechanical, recording, or otherwise without the written permission of the Artist.

(¸¸.•*¨)¸.•´¸.•*¨) ¸.•*¨)

61903557_10219837821284426_4536059925041774592_n

This is an amazing gift from the incredible, magical poetess, Susan Joyner-Stumpf who dedicated a poem – to me – POETIC PHOENIX
I am so honoured – Phoenix is an extraordinary symbol of resurrection and immortality.
The word Phoenix derives from Greek, it means- red blood.
seeing me as a Phoenix, forever rising from the ashes, a melodious voice that gets sad as it approaches death., but is not it easy for everyone to get over this sad voice when the bird fall dead if the bird fells in beauty and sadness?

Always rising again.
And again.

…a bird of flame, living a lonely life in a distant land, coming to a region inhabited by people only when ready to die, having the ability to heal and rise, impossible to be destroyed.
You, Egypt, lying on the altar of the sun, in Heliopolis, wait for my old ashes for this poem is so good to revive a dead man, Thank you so much, Susan Joyner-Stumpf! I am deeply touched.
and I shall always rise again.
And again.

 

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THE END, Inspired by inimitable insipid individuals, infinitely inconsequential


THE END, Inspired by inimitable insipid individuals, infinitely inconsequential

The word is dead.
1
Then
One day
Nothing left to fear.
There is no Logos.
There is no Nature.
No, there is neither.
2
I saw how my twenty-first-century poems,
Or at least what I think they once were,
Now turned into
An unrecitable torment
Of making
A testimony of sorts… For what?!
The unseen, the unspoken,
It is enough to vanish,
But I am in the know
Of how much it would please
My talented adversaries.

So I will remain a stone
That writes
there is no poet here.
there is no poetry there.
general paralysis
Madness
Blindness
There is no poet, there is no poetry, there is no poet, no poetry, no style,
no language, no music, the word is dead, rest assured.
Please, rest assured, please, please rest!

3
…. and that would be it.
I AM the verse
Without fresh air
prostrate –
beside the river of Babylon
where everything is seated
some amigos,
a friendly barbecue,
adventures,
Dyed bodies of cannibals
And a cheerful toast.
my irritated imagination
my symbolism
my twinkling lights
Resplendent to be sniffed
The intermittency of appalling scenes…

4
Vigilance interrupts
The idyllic life in a nightmare
I am a cosmopolitan, widespread disease
My hair stands
The table’s edge.
5
My tears after awakening
Are crocodile dung
Tears drowned in a bathtub
The smelly bath
In the embrace of blindness
She delivers the Thor to the nails
I buoy to the ceiling
all manuscripts
planks of ink…
Serbia’s camp
Prison hospital.
6
I’m a polite woman without any hustle
I have performed hundreds of poetry experiments,
If I merely wanted it, I could easily die during one
Now I’m off to the lab
to disinfect Myself.
Sorry, Pater Noster – Aunt, with your fluttering cassock,
Sorry Pater Noster – Uncle, who holds the keys to the Heavens and the Ferraris
I did not know how to bounce along the national rustic jig
Cumbersome I kept stumbling over
I am not a good believer
I, neither pretty nor young enough for the title of Holy
Forgive me, for I am not a good Serb
Sorry, Mater Noster, forgive, forgive!
8
My cheeks are hollowed out from verse pimping
Goodness, lovers and girlfriends for dinner, it is a lavish part
of the poetic end, isn’t it?
But they do not serve me as a poetess
Nor do they moisten my stanzas with fragrances
9
As I write my last public address (Do give us a hand, please) I am clenching my breasts in my palms
I recall my early youth
Sometimes the light is born within me
Very noticeable
More fervent than the dawn of time, priests would say
Mostly I feel the night inside me
riddled with bullets and bloody wolf hunts,
FERRO ET IGNI
I adore the deos until after their ouster
They aim for my life, appear to me with claws and marks
Through dubious astrological trials
10
I am watching the sea that I will never see
In this accursed hamlet,
I describe the sluggish steps of Kings
sneaking by palaces at Samarra
Which will never whisper
I recognize the images of distant landscapes
in the verse that does not unveil itself to me
There is no nature in poetry
she is sick of the three pens and mangled alphabet.
Her belly is swollen
There is no promised land to continue towards
on one’s pilgrimage
I am dust, bloated and greedy
denied
With this departure from the country of poetry, with a smile of a crying child
answer me, chimera that glides between my rows and my trenches
Be honest, the deep illusion with elephant diphtheria and malignant disease
three lines before the end of.. this, before your affluence rots
and your garments are devoured by moths, INTER NOS,
is it possible for anything to be minisculeto dust?
CHIMERA:
Veni at me… sed wicked… Climax non-est!

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BABYLONIA


Babylonia

 Basically, this poem is about the universal failure to communicate.

NAHUA

It is a place of seven caves
Somebody calls me by my name.
It was the Hueyapan vicar:
“Diego”, – he told me – down there in aztatltlan(tli), the Nahua tribesmen
Cut people up
In pieces.
A sacrifice, Diego, it is a sacrifice.
Chicomostoc… (rhythmic drumming)
Rabbi Isa, Rabbi Isa… (rhythmic drumming intensifies)

RICHARD THE CANNIBAL KING

He took rothers and left the stede, that is the King!
The Cannibal King, For the King, is the great power
that overpowers the great power that overpowers
the powers the great power
that overpowers the great power that overpowers the powers
Unis, Unis, Unis
Mother, mother, Mother who is Father, awaken me!
Fear not the nightmare, my child, but sing praises to her(demonic laughter)

SUDD MA’RIB, LA CIUDAD PERDIDA

Selena is reading the spells from the Book of the Moon
Blood, my heart, my bill, me in a pool of blood
Ruinous, violently, I bounced my moist body
Towards the tambourine stars
u sudd Ma’rib, la Ciudad Perdida, *The lost city (esp)
my bane, in the pit, an engine-maker, a prophet, my salvation
mydeca, are – pr – pour.. pour, pour…
my blood
my bane
my heart
my salvation
Abwûnd’bwaschmâja *Our Father, Aramaic
Abwûnd’bwaschmâja
And to this the Rabbi told me:
Talita Kumi. *Stand up, lass, Aramaic
l’ahlâmalmîn. *Amen.
L’ahlâmalmîn.

EGYPT

Yet another dream…

I was born
The Goddess of Air and Invisibility
I was born and died a virgin of the Ogdoad
me, Amunet, the female hidden one
the androgynous goddess, the serpent, the lesbian
goddess of graves and coffins
and the moonlight cast by Iah made my dream illumined
I am the nightly vision written of in Anacreontea
Take me to your bedding, if you want your woman to love you
Your hands quiver, but they know how to caress
Kiss that bit of the body where my eyes divert
Of the tombstone
In the dark land, in a bloodied area, in the riverbed
You will be reborn
In the Ogdoad, you will be reborn
In the sudd Ma’rib, you will sing thy love and thy life.

TALITA KUMI

Fear mourned me
Horror clawed at the cheeks
The spasm of fear is as hard as a quince

(love is a bone breaker; the Dream is interrupted)

SERBIA

“I know what I’ll do. I’ll give you a drachma!”

While the landlady waves with the electricity bills in hand
She’s looking at me as if I were her lamb meant for the slaughter
but, I am a she-dreamer of beautiful lips
the Nazarene understands me, we speak the same tongue
Amunet understands, she would hold me in her generous embrace
The cities understand the blindness understands, the blood of the innocents understands
While I cast the curse of the fiery tongue on the Daemonion
After I’ve sacrificed my own world to the world outside
She burned at the spot, bills in hand and all…
O, how we do not forgive our debtors.
And glory be to the hellish tower of slaves!
glory! Amen oh Babylon
I walk thy streets, bare and free

Featured

Die, die alone, out of sight


Die, die alone, out of sight

Die, die alone, out of sight
An ear of a pig’s eyes is singing in the dark
It’s singing about the black shackles
of those who dare not scandal… slaves!
sounds no more than gladdened herd on Earth,
to those who kneel
And their minutes carried to the abandoned bowers

Onto the eye shores
Of the forest’s forgotten in bones
and touch thee all calmly fly high
to those who rub against the rooftops
above the bursting suicidal spirit
bursting after the waves
where lone echoes toss in their beds
in the mid-forest, a row of irises is dreaming
incandescent duck, coffin, twanging moon

to those who will blast
to those who will be thrumming on love
Beyond the suburbs, pure souls
past paths and dreams and up the hill;
in front of the hidden creature
that howls and cutting board and grate

in unison: we kneel
we scandal, amazed to hear
where lone fleeces set in white and meat and whine

She enters the bet of an eye
she enters the pride never spoken.
she enters the downcast kingdom’s turfed grave
of Babylon mouth

She’s gone before the hues of an invisible light
foretold the remains of the last cursed ship
will die, die alone, out of might

 

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LADY LEAF


Moderately hospitalized,
money laughed at the doctors’ faces,
life form forgotten,
zeroed in – the beauty did not stop at her
And now, more importantly, win the machine.
She’s looking at a bunch of white trouble
tied with yellow stripes,
all are ready for prime suction,
day and night,
relentlessly,
immersed in a huge mass of material
with a notion, you cannot understand,
In addition to machine swallows,
to take the leaves, to suck them, to chew,
then mutilates them somewhere inside
while she cries and ejaculates out, she is printed
black chalk gloved
but she now realizes that the Lady Leaf
does not appear at a contracted meeting on the other hand,
now she has to count the leaves, with primal diligence,
counter to a hundred and back,
she breaks the whole thing and everything from scratch.

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ON REVENGE


Revenge is wonderful if the sound is good, if God and the sacred tin pot give tact for the show.
Oh, incorrect, inaccurate, revenge is suitable for others to take tempo, harmony, imposing themselves, saluting their heads, once torturers, they are just devoted victims.
They will ring instead of recognition, respect is expressed by duplicates, falsified children, the former children who ring, only adults or God has no more time to open them.
Like a leaf that has dropped out of the machine, so the avenger is preparing for a path that will bring it all in line.

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RESURRECTION


In the beginning, I created two zeroes
two zeros, they were, in the beginning at the beginning
people fluttering vainly in my ringing words in the belly

I screwed up, yet again.
I moved again to the bus 26
again I did not return the corpses to the place
I picked up the phone again

It was me … I made their death to the end
with the patches in my hands that I covered them
with a pudding of water
from where I would catch the fruits of theirs
blood, I cleaned them dirty, helpless to control myself.

My poems revealed a deadly activity.
sometimes I’m too quick, hasty react
so I missed the victim.

(Temperamental bird
was walking into the circle, tweeting:

People like to nod over their heads to be loved.
I know it was important to them, more than respect.

Great’ve performed
I am now released to the pasture of life,
with whipped flowers on the throat.

I flew to tell you that you will not be alone.
On the road waiting for you, only the dead can understand.
And on the way, you are waiting,
the alarm clocks do not ring for a dream)

Now astonishment took the stomach. Behold the miracle.
Because the dead are not coming back. Plant them in a tomb,
fill their suitcases, like a plate of porridge
yet they are here.

The dead are coming back.
Always. They have unpleasant names, they are nameless.

I ring for you, stand up, life is one,
grabbed you .. Live!
then slowly retreats,

It inserts the umbra, traps,
passing days, same days wear headgear and grey caps.
Neither a dirty sock is no exception.

You’re becoming a monk from
silence.

Loneliness then soaked
With the melody rising,
with the harmony of the sphere a bit of my old dirt.

I’ve been drinking lots of benzodiazepines before
resurrection, a happy event
I’m a character forever lost in the brand of everyone
postal address,

once beautiful, now one of many, decrypted, glued
for the machine from which the paper is fed, printed in legitimate crumpled letters.

I and Jesus are like a nail and baptism.
I have an appointment with a psychiatrist at five.

@Leila Samarrai Mehdi

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Krakens, dedicated to my enemies


Krakens, dedicated to my enemies

I will wait for you in the locus between
the earth and the underworld
between iniatroty passages od childhood
to adulthood with its heroisation
and anti – initiation, in the cosmic river with
a liquor, Homeric, Hesiodic, Orphic rituals
in order to discover their respective significance,
but one must remain aware of the fundamental
differences in nature and evolution that exist us and them
It will take place in the dark,
in a burial place, an irrevocable
farewell to a voracious marine monster that scares
fish away, I will raid you, adorned with dedications and promises
I will… I will eat a magic plant
I’ll eat a fortuitous plant, I will devour dolphin’s terror that is transformed into a quail, doused with wine before your ashes and bones were gathered in a receptacle.

I’ll wear your urn neck.

I wish you well, to share a tomb side meal with the dead
wish you well, a terracotta relief in the Isola Sacra necropolis
a voyage south to Rome
where the dead will laugh at you
with outstretched arms welcoming his guests

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In The Balovale’s tribes mausoleum (of human history od living and dying)


dedicated to my mother and to her trials and tribulations as well to all those monsters who caused her state of being ill:

 

Immersion to the sea isn’t that much different

Like a nuptial bath, is a one – way, irrevocable transformation

I think the median age of eternity is 42with the life expectancy of 25.

Sounds about right to me.

entombed beneath the mountains of Himalayas seclusion

In The Balovale’s tribes mausoleum

    …..mausoleum.

Where it always smells like sebaceous secretion

Glandualae odorifae

A circumcised tree leaving a peg of bright white wood

Oh, I’m sure they’re thrilled too.

During circumcision of seclusion

It’ll just be one great summer of Chinese torture for all of us.

The blood kept coming.

Sculpting faces to add to the garden

Who cares anyway?

?

Midsummer butchers at Psyche bedchambers

Or twelve skeletons after sharp force trauma

to holy to pray                                                                       I looked at church’s high girdle.

From ancient precursor to what we call warfare

tilTo apostles hunter-gatherers who were largely nomadic.

around the start of the Tiberius’ Holocene.

And since then Ilyad and the charge of the light brigade

were terrified, inglorious flash which was not all a flash disabled,

dulce and decorum est cut palms from the palm-trees for

a chant for selfish prayer of the wildest Brutuses

Richard II to Richard III, with all the Henries in between

leader, a sociopath and one of Shakespeare’s tambourines,

    The cortege and the flutes

I shall disrobe myself before a man                                     and taste of love by bloodshed.

The blood kept coming, to take me home

The angels’ father’s flocks have tempted the birds

To close their eye

so,  hear our prayer underworlds’ slopes

This is the end

Attention, all passengers. Do not leave your baggage unattended. I am not                                                                                                  psychotic, I am eating the gluten

This  is the end

       Hello, little hobit 

Mother!

My blood!

This is revenge.

Right, we’re here for revenge.

                                                                                                     Anyway, Where the fuck are…

Truly I am next door human if you .. close your…                                                                           ….close your…

 

Lid..

They should have passed by now.

 

                                                                                                                        ….Your mother.. is… 

Mother, your doctor is making a scene

.So your kid is the guardian.

Here are my lids.

Here are my arms, here are my hand

admire, wait for and then devour jackals mostly from the friends                                                                                                                                                                                           handsome replica

Excusing myself as if…going to the toilets

contrivance  is for the sake of ameliorative mankind

living Satan is tempting, my child, you vein, pride, evil..

living tenderly in the silence..

                                                                                                          I will devour your summers’ ashes                                                                                                 …ashes

 Actually, maybe several bullets pierced..

the dropping dripping midsummer dreams

 kernel….  

 

I’m overjoyed.

Why hasn’t IT come yet?

Damn it! Come fast.

I want to see you, you… scary house                                                                       Maybe! Just…

You, evil face

You, grotesque eye                                                                                                      Just maybe!

is the perfect place for me.

 In fact, when I take off this hospital gown

Of daughter in obedience

A dungeon horrible, against the monarchy of…                                                   ….. crazy 86 years old, I guess she is the Lord of the Landlord’s                                            I think the median age of her eternity is 442 with the life expectancy of millennia.

Torments me with the axe, that hideous ruin                                                       … versus

To mortal men,

  myself, a                                                                                                                                                   double                                                                                                                                                       agent –                                                                                                                                                       atheist

Who screwd up the Hospital Lost

I should just walk over to the pier and jump,

end                                                                             it                                                                                          all.

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WILDFIRE PUBLICATIONS MAGAZINE JUNE 1, 2019, EDITION 23, POETESS OF THE MONTH Leila Mehdi SAMARRAI


WILDFIRE PUBLICATIONS MAGAZINE JUNE 1, 2019, EDITION 23

POETESS OF THE MONTH Leila Mehdi SAMARRAI

Thus spoke my mother.

Seek no longer the soil
Forgotten among the trees
Under which you were born

In the chosen night
When the grasshoppers flew away from the terraces
Into the heap of voices filled with hatred
Directed towards me

Silent mother
Not even a sound to flicker within me
How could I have known
About the other side of maps

Are they coming yet to take me
Rooted in the last morning of a bullet

I arise barefoot
The sea is frightened
Like ground from thunder

sas

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a passage from my interview for the Serbian portal East Pearl, who has been removed Leila Samarrai Mehdi


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Q: You come from a mixed marriage (your mother is a Serbian – Greek origin, and your father, the Iraqi), how much the combination of different cultures is affecting you and where the cultural heritage of (ancient) Iraq is present in your literature. Is the Eastern Spirit in you, or is it still Western, modern and materialistic?
A: It would be romantic to imagine that I was an unusual personality in which two opposing cultures, religions, traditions were united, that in the collision of the East and the West unknowingly, through the veins, the verses overlap, and the eastern stories are running.
It would be exotic to say, like Leo Africans, whose personal adventure was reconstructed in the book: “I am a son of the road, and my country is my caravan.”
As such, I define the antithesis of the tribe because I do not belong to any city, nor any path, nor any end or beginning of the world, nor I come both from Europe or Arabia ”
What falls to my mind, answering this question, is that many would like to see me classified somewhere not realizing that the beauty of my whole “defiant” personality lies primarily with my cosmopolitan spirit that does not belong to anyone. I’m a stranger among people, with the feeling I do not belong to anyone. My Arab origin was traumatically disputed in Serbia and Serbian in the Arab world. I was and I remained, in both cultures, discriminated against in all possible and impossible ways, so I am a writer who for personal reasons is interested in mythology, philosophy, religion, and that it is not dictated by the genitive component of affiliation with Arabs. This applies also to the Serbs. /element (this is just one element … for example, I do not define territorial, cultural or linguistic communion with the Arabs) Also, I do share only territorial (at the moment and wish not to…) and linguistic communion with the Serbs. As for culture, I am not sure about that…
I’m a stranger who is hiding in the shadows of the night I tumble between the walls, whose fear cannot be rid of, for I have come to the utmost memory, until the end of mystery, in a life that is a crowd of sad and tragic stories, not one, but more life without leaving apart, and what I write is just a hidden choice to appear on the canvas of creation.
In this and such a world, I have created my own ancient literary homeland in poetry and prose which often overlap. My deprivation has given me an insight into the oppressed, the neglected, the borders are eradicated, the religious, the national, the cosmopolitan identity is created. The imagination destroys and creates the worlds and the universe, I’m walking eras and worlds, through space, as in a dream. I stumble like a ghost in a stormy night somewhere, trapped, confused in the darkness of the human dream. My solitude lasts three thousand years.
So my literature is marked by fragmentation, confusion, soaked with anguish and non – affiliations to both nations.
.
That way, my mark has determined the only safe place for me and this is the place between the worlds, the place in which everything merges what is otherwise separated because the boundaries exist only in the limited minds. And who would, if not a poet, be able to overcome impenetrable, to touch ineffective and to approach the separated worlds

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Boris K. i njegov dvojnik


Boris K. je završio pisanje svog remek dela „Uspavani konj Karabak“ kad je bio ušao u svoju četrdeset treću godinu. Skinuo je lornjon, obrijao crnu bradicu koju je nosio tokom pisanja knjige, ali ga najednom obuzeše crne misli, jer pored nesumnjivog kvaliteta, rukopis je ipak trebalo prevesti na bling – blingovski da bi ga stanovnici zemlje vatre, u gradu Bling razumeli. Tokom svojih putovanja, Boris K. se više puta obreo u ovoj neobičnoj zemlji, obučen u tursko – ruskom stilu, zagledujući u džinovske nebodere koji su, kao vite kule, boli nebo, upoznao novog prijatelja predsednika Bling Blinga koji je sav šljaštio u zlatu, s kojim je Boris ispijao flaše votke šetajući se duž ulice Blingzami i koga su ljudi voleli,  a on nije znao šta da radi po tom pitanju.

Na to Boris K. reče da često putuje jer ga u Fenopublici smatraju nezgodnim i nepodnošljivim  stvorenjem, te ga šalju na zajednički jugoslovenski pasoš kojem je istekao rok upotrebe da putuje svugde po svetu.

„Gdegod izabereš. Borise K., samo da te nema jedno vreme, pa se onda ti nama vrati“

Začudi se tome Bling Bling, izbeči oči kao da je progutao gorku pilulu, usta je širom otvorio, a onda mu se oči ovlažiše od nežnosti: „Nemoguće. Pa zar tako divnog čoveka!“

Boris K. odsečno pogladi svoje brkove poput četke.

„Carstvo Bling je već moja zona. Nisam čuo ništa ružno od sebi od kad zakoračih ulicom Blingzami. A u Fenomeniji se mnogo toga o meni pričalo.“

„Svi mi radimo stvari zbog kojih se kajemo, Borise K.“

„Ostao sam duže nego što je poželjno, to je. Luda Jord ih blagoslovio, pa oni meni nisu ni potrebni. Ali, ja njima jesam. Jedini sam ja taj koji može da kontroliše fenomenizacije. I ne smem ih izneveriti. Ostajem još koji dan u vašoj prelepoj zemlji, a onda moram natrag“, herojski će Boris K. istovremeno iznerviran, ozbiljan i pripit.

Ponudio se Bling Bling da kadgod se Boris K. nađe u nevolji, da dođe sa svojom četom konjanika u Fenomeniju i „raščisti stvar“.

-A kakvi su samo moji Arzeri.. Sve sami Zorostrijanci. Anđeli božji!

-Prećiće put preko mosta koji vodi preko pakla da te kao pravednika do raja i natrag otprate, Borise K.

Boris K. prihvati, jer veli da je u poslednje vreme u Fenomeniji prikovan kao da je srastao uz kamen, da ga lokalna šalteruša šiba pogledom punim mržnje kadgod se ne seti da joj kaže kako je lepa, da živi od jedne mršave sume koju dobija pisanjem putopisa, izvođenjem raznih trikova dok je jedva sastavljao kraj s krajem, a gazdarice bi ga mal malo izbacivale na ulicu, da je živeo u buretu Barel Džordž s predivnom fasadom koju je konstruisao fenomenijski priznat arhitekta Smit, obojio je bure u narandžasto i da je tu imao svoju radionicu, ležaj, kuhinju, a da je istim plovio i preko Atlantika.

„S prozora na dnu Barel Džordža sam posmatrao delfine“, sećao se Boris K. sa suzama u očima –  i da je na kraju mučne životne borbe shvatio da se treba prikloniti ili jednoj ili drugoj strani, ovisno od toga da li je ta strana pravedna ili zla.

„A onda se dogodio nesretan slučaj. S buretom sam se otkotrljao u živi pesak i počeo da tonem zajedno s njim. Srušio mi se čitav svet kad sam morao da se odreknem voljenog doma. Niko nije pružio ruku da mi pomogne.  A molio sam – sve oko sebe, dok me zloslutni pesak gutao, u delti Nila… a okolo kajmani..  Neko vreme sam plutao, zaplivao leđnim stilom unatrag i uz snažne zaveslaje  otplovio meditaranskom obalom od Egipta do pojasa Gaze gde sam par godina živeo bez papira u palestinskoj enklavi.. Ali, mog bureta više nema. Od tad.. – Boris K. prekri oči rukama, uzdahnu, ali onda se pribra i nastavi da govori:

„Dosta mi je dobrih misli, dobrih reči, dobrih dela. gotovo zapeva Boris K. u stilu napolitanskog tenora, a onda stidljivo spusti ruke u krilo i stiša se – „Nauči da voliš novac i videćeš kako se čuda dešavaju, nabavi nedeljivu ženu i nauči da prolaziš kroz zidove.”, mudro će Bling Bling.

“ Te tri stvari su jedino što nikad nisam niti umeo, niti imao, niti znao“, nevino će Boris K., potom ućuta, preksti ruke na grudima, a onda, nakon nekog vremena pogleda u Bling Blinga i nasmeši mu se.

Ushićenog srca Bling Bling je slušao Borisovu životnu priču, zamisli se, pogleda u oduševljenu skupinu građana Bling i reče: „Hajde da zamenimo mesta, Borise K. Ja ću sa Zoroasterima u Fenomeniju, a ti budi predsednik Bling Bling koga će da obožavaju u Carstvu Bling. Imaćeš visoku platu. Tajni rudnik zlata..  zoroastersku kompaniju „Boris Holding“, kulu na Arzarskim ostrvima..   Uslov je da mi odaš tajnu.. Kako da budem ti, a da ostanem ja.“

„Fenomenizacije? Ah, to ne znam kako.. ni sam! Mnogi smatraju da se tajna krije u samom stanju mog duha, da je moj mozak čudan, da one same od mene zaziru i da me to čini krajnje opasnim. „, neuverljivo će Boris K.  a potom nastavi da zabavlja Bling Blinga pričama o svojim ludorijama.

Bling Bling je sve vreme pucketao jezikom.

Tad oni rešiše da pozovu lokalnu vračaru, a ona se zvala Stara Zmija, koja im telepatski poveza umove. Tako će Boris K. tehnikom gledanja na daljinu upozoriti Bling Blinga na skrivene fenomenizacijske baze koje se nalaze širom sveta I epoha., pa i u unutrašnjosti zemlje., a da mu Bling Bling otvori um za nove informacije o tome kako da razume svoj narod, kao što to čini Megavažnić u Fenomeniji, reklo bi se, ali na bling blingovskom nivou.

Bling Bling opet pucnu jezikom.

Bling Blig predloži da vračara izvede tajni ritual himerizma u kojem će Boris K. da postane svoj vlastiti blizanac, da bude kombinacija samog sebe i Bling Blinga. Tako će leva Borisova strana da izgleda kao on sam, a druga kao Bling Bling.

„Tako će se izbrisati granica između nas dvojice. Ti ćeš imati sve naftne bušotine ovog sveta, a ja ću biti superljud, Borise K.“

Boris K. oduševljeno pristade i svo troje odoše u baštu naučne laboratorije gde vračara izvede okultni ritual nad Bling Blingom i Borisom, dok je u crnom plaštu mahnito udarala nožem po podu, izgovarajući nerazgovetne reči, bacajući okolo ljuske od jajeta, ugravirajući tajne znake iz Svete knjige slobodnih veroispovesti.

Nakon izvršenog rituala, telo Bling Blinga se sruči na pod, a na Borisovom telu se ukaza beleg koji je jasno razdvajao njegovu levu i desnu stranu, gde je leva, borisovska strana bila rozikastija od desne.

Potom Stara Zmija načini ugovor o vradžbini, gde će se nakon isteka demonskog saveza u trajanju od godinu dana, Bling Blingu njegovo telo vratiti ne samo onakvo kakvo je bilo, već I podmlađeno za pet godina..  i Bling Bling dade vođi konjice Arzera, Vugaru Strašnom,da odnese papir do pukotine najviše stene na Himalajima, sa sve ljušturom gde je boravila Bling Blingova duša. On to učini.

Od tad Borisu K. je u Fenomeniji dobro išlo. Bling Bling je bio sposoban da čini nepoštenja i mahinacije koje je Boris želeo da čini, a ranije nije mogao, zbog čega je Boris K. stekao zavidan ugled. Uništio je Borisove neprijatelje koji su hteli da ga upropaste, združio se s najvećim huljama Fenomenije i postao svačiji najbolji drug. Kartao se s Megavažnićem u vilu, rols rojs i jahtu. Katkad bi podlost, gadurija i bestidnost Bling Blingova bila nepodnošljiva pa je sa svoje strane činio sve da Bling Blinga obuzima nekakvo strano, čudno i neprijatno osećanje koje mu je mililo niz nogu, a za koje ne beše reči na bling blingovskom – a to beše savest – i Bling Bling u Borisu bi zaplakao u moru slanih suza: „Pogrešio si, Bling Bling, bio si zločest. Tako je, Borise K. Kako si mogao to da učiniš? Kako si smeo, Bling Bling?“ – rigala je vatra savesti, a oči Borisove poprimiše boju krvi, te se dvojica u njemu svađaše i jedan drugom je kazivao onom prvom: „Zaveži mu usta, išamaraj ga, ubij ga“ ili su pljuštale psovke „Ti, prokletniče, ti cmizdravi crve“

Bling Blinga su uznemiravali Borisovi glasovi iz prošlosti, a Borisova nežna, osetljiva i blaga priroda i primamljiva otmenost bila su u zavadi s večnom žeđu Bling Blingovom za diktatorskom vlašću.

U Fenomeniji – Boris K. kao Bling Bling je posavetovao Megavažnića da mu vrati pare koje mu ne duguje. Nema logike, ali pali. Megavažnić uze od naroda i uplati sumu Bling Blingu na of šor lični račun kompanije na Bahamima. Megavažnić je shvatio da su mu ruke odrešenije negó što je mislio. Beše u nekoj vrsti nirvane, dok se naslušao Bling Blingovih ezoteričnih učenja o zoroasterskim religijama kojima je osnovao svoju ličnu konjaničku gardu,da vlada uz pomoć okultnih sila., da je Boris K. profesionalni revolucionar i kao takvog ga se ne sme ispuštati iz vida, negó ceniti i uzdići jako jako visoko, sve do Himalajskog glečera na južnoj strani, najvećeg zida na svetu!  Tako Megavažnić podiže spomenik Borisu K. u centru Fenomenije, uz oduševljeni poklič naroda, praćen bojnim urlicima Arzera, koji bi pratili Borisa K. sa sve Bling Blingom u njemu, u stopu.

Borisu K. kao Bling Blingu dodeliše stan poštenog političara Fenomenije koji je štitio zakone I propise, a stan je bio kompletno namešten, što znači da je imao i orman, tako da se Boris K. nije mogao otarasiti Bling Blingovog duha bilo kakvim savetovanjem s Fenomenijskim vračarama jer kad bi se Boris najeo belog luka ne bi li izbacio Bling Blinga iz svog tela, on bi iskočio iz njegovog tela i ne bi izlazio iz ormara, a upravo je to poslednje mesto na kojem bi ga Boris K. tražio, jer je znao da bi se tu Bling Bling najpre skrio.

Istovremeno, Boris K. je s mesta predsednika Carstva u ime Bling Blinga odstupio, kada su građani Bling potpisali peticiju da čelnici započnu sa opsežnom istragom da je predsednik optužen za čast i za poštenje kojima u poslednje vreme izluđuje opozicione čelnike, jer čast kao i nečast ne dolazi iznenadno, a sve to daje boju sumnje njegovim postupcima, kao na primer uvođenje narodnog glasanja u Carstvo Jednog Čoveka Bling, te želja da se podnese carska ostavka.., te se čini da je Vladar sasvim pomerio pameću, iako s vremena na vreme, kao da psuje nekog drugog, rečima: “Išamaraću te, Borise K” dok  istovremeno poriče takve sramne optužbe, da bi na kraju suđenja priznao krivicu iako mu nije suđeno zbog varanja naroda u pijanom stanju.

 

Zapis Vračare Stara Zmija:

 

Boris K.  se branio rečima da desna strana njegovog tela kako je tvrdio, nije zapravo njegova, no u njoj boravi ugledni smenjeni predsednik Arzerai drugih naroda Bling koji živi kao duh u njegovom telu, a kao dokaz je pokazao neobični beleg na telu koji je pravolinijski podelio njegovo telo u dve boje. Zaprepašćena porota gledala je u čovečuljka raščupane kose, sa cvetom u kosi, slušao njegove rasejane i slabo sređene misli koje bi smenjivao bučni, histerični samozadovoljan smeh onog drugog u njemu, kako I optuženi beše tvrdio, a svaki je ovog drugog dovodio do nepodnošljivog besa jer se u jednom telu, beše zapisano, nimalo nisu slagali.

“A odvojeno smo votku na Trgu fontane u ulici Blingzami pili!”, obojica će uglas na šta se sudnica isprazni u dahu, pred naletom nečiste sile, jer progovoriše dvojica u isti mah.

Tad ulete Borisu obećana konjica Arzera, a ličiše na mongole, a Boris K. progovori: “Ja sam odavno spreman i gotov”, na šta Bling Bling u njemu reče: “O verni Arzeri moji, on je moja leva strana, pregazite ga”, na šta se Borisova desna strana uzjoguni i reče Arzerima: “O Arzeri verni moji, to nije istina! Upravo je suprotno, desno, desno, izgazite ga!”

Tad dva ratnika obnaženih pleća, bakarne kože i tamnih, bademastih očiju, s ogrtačima preko širokih pantalona, a behu jahali na čelu uske kolone koja je nahrupila u sudnicu, zapevaše napeve nestvarne zvučnosti i uz udarce bubnjeva koje su pojedini od njih držali u rukama, u nemogućnosti da se odluče za jedan izbor, zapravo načiniše dva, opkoliše i isprebijaše na mrtvo ime smrtno telo Borisa K. u kojem su prebivale dve nejake, suprotstavljene duše.

“Otpušteni ste iz moje vojske! – cerio se isprebijani Boris K. iz kog je vrskao samleveni Bling Bling – ionako ste bili tehnološki višak!”, upravo u trenutku kad je tresnuo o pločnik, upravo ispred zgrade Suda u kojem su i on i Bling Bling odgovarali.

Najjači od svih ratnika, mrkoliki Vugar odvede na konju Borisa K. do postojbine mu Fenomenije gde se Bling Bling izjasni u osvetničkom besu da je došao da Megavažnića pošalje na onaj svet, da mu je lažima grejao srce i da niti jedan dijamant iz njegovog tajnog rudnika neće dobiti, a onda ispusti nekakav piskav zvuk nalik na jadikovku i usred prevelikih muka njegova duša u Borisovom telu crče,  a u daljini, negde kod Himalaja odjeknu stravična eksplozija i svest o tome da je svet lišen jednog bitnog fragmenta koji je dotle postojao, a sad najveći zid na svetu više ne postoji, kao ni kletva, kao ni Himalaji.

– jer to beše početak himalajskog glečera gde se nalazila stena u čijoj pukotini beše pohranjeno seme vražjeg zapisa.

“Tako padoše i Himalaji, tako je pao i Berlinski zid”,  beše poslednja Borisova rečenica nakon što Vugar odjaha na kalabaku niz vijugavi put koji je vodio do kapija Fenomenije, a Borisa K. je zasula kiša udaraca neobičnih silueta koje su krenule na Borisa, da dotuku ono malo što je od njega ostalo. Bila je to Megavažnićeva lična garda, žene u nacističkim odelima s čiroki frizurom kojima se Bling Bling nije nabacivao, već je zatražio dve kofe za povraćanje uz reči: “Lepše je s kulturom”. Ali, u Fenomeniji mu se, za razliku od vlasti u Carstvu Bling, zbog svih nepočinstava nije prethodno sudilo.

 

 

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(in madness no one has a funeral!) – U ludilu nikome pogreba


With the paddle through the storm
so through the head
so through the heart
the marsh birds aiming for heights
and pirates devour their feasts

Oh … you.. arrogant veins!
through blood blossoming
flock
stiff facial shed hot tears
the bastards raise the dead
the shore into it
courtesans wider legs
in waves

And hands
and applause!
it’s an old fool-dog
throws up the tower
(in madness
no one has a funeral!)

In collusion (are they?)
Smile and weeping
Victim and rejected sword
to freedom to be frenzied

In the hurry of Nature
to lay his hands
(Cowardly cemetery!)
while the storm shiver through the oppressed eyes

The grey face is bleeding beside the bloodstream
illusions, images of the silent flow
city dogs are foam and thirsty murderer
who grows out of gold and Omnipotent’s logic

@Leila Samarrai Mehdi

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Let’s expand and translate into English Leila Samarrai’s article on Wikipedia


 

Let’s expand and translate into English Leila Samarrai’s article on Wikipedia

https://www.change.org/p/leila-samarrai-s-readers-let-s-expand-and-translate-into-english-leila-samarrai-s-article-on-wikipedia/dashboard?source_location=user_profile_started

Given that, since the year 2013, the author Leila Samarrai Mehdi has been widely expanding her literary activities, it is quite logical that the article about her work, presented in Wikipedia be expanded. At the same time, the obsolete article presented here: https://sr.wikipedia.org/sr-el/Лејла_Самарај unlike other writers in Serbia, has not been even translated into English, due to the fact that the Wikipedia articles, in general in Serbia are in the private domain and the decision about this issue, the decision on this matter is in the hands from the former colleague of writers with whom Leila Samarrai Mehdi does not agree on the ideological, aesthetic and moral basis for which she is a writer in exile in her own country, persecuted with prejudices due to foreign origin and her artistic authenticity that is not suitable for a small group of writers, editors, publishers, and critics in Serbia who do not forgive diversity of any kind..
Let’s help her to achieve that goal. Let the boycott chain and monopoly of “the chosen ones” in Serbia be interrupted by this and similar examples. Culture is not for trade!

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This is the morning of my madness.


After forty days of hunger

From a bird, eye view perspective’s being
entered by a demonic fair
during the devouring of grains of sand
and coral reeds of scorpion tail

One afternoon came to me unexpectedly
Injecting through the lips of starvation

The hour of death

As succulent gaspy and undefined form
of the broken glass
a sweet slate of thirst, like soot, cursed me
in a swollen mouth

This is the groundwork for a well-founded in all aspects.

And they forced me to throw up the bile
epic episode never caught before on
requested picture by of me entering
well placed backings by not chasing dreams

I ignited the wistful fire
memmoring idealistic flash of mad-genius penetrates
circumstances between origins of authenticity.

And I’ve eaten food pieces
the adhesives to the body as nutritive matter
medically induced straight jacket’s ability to correct
and lit long direly needed indulgence of flames.

I cleaned intestines of the brainiac beast
my facets with this blinding echo of eagerness
mad mad carnivore
to the funeral feast.

This is the morning of my madness.

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Anecdote/Anegdota


ANECDOTE

I constantly look at the stray dogs’ wandering around containers, leaning on their paws, trying to climb up in order to find some food. They are mostly skinny, starving, resembling the Serbian middle class … Suddenly, as I was casting a glance at the trash, so I could see some bones to throw them to the dogs,I have heard a gruff voice: “Ma’am!
I winced. I looked in the direction where the voice came from. It was a gipsy woman, big, threatening eyes. “Move over there”, she said.
“What’s the matter?”
“This is my Starbucks. You are snatching food from the mouths of my children and I can tell you are Ma’am.”
“What Is your problem, woman. I’m searching for something for these hungry dogs …”
“I get around here every day, from five to six in the afternoon. This is my working hour.
I wait till they get their dishes done, then I wait for the gentlemen to finish their vacation at home, and then I wait for them to finally send someone to throw the garbage, so I know exactly when to come, to see what I got here to pick, at 5 o’ clock in the afternoon.
“My babies are hungry, and you want to pick up my junk to feed your doggies! Shame!”, She boomed in the bass.
“Don’t let me see you ever again if you can help it near my containers. Find yourself another.!“
I retreated before the dangerous threat and I do not go down that road anymore.

ANEGDOTA
Stalno gledam pse lutalice kako se motaju okolo kontejnera, propinju se pokusavajuci da se popnu ne bi li nasli nesto hrane. Uglavnom su mrsavi, izgladneli, kó srpska srednja klasa…
Najednom, dok sam ja tao pogledom preletala po djubretu ne bih li videla neku kosku da bacim psima, ne bi li ih nahranila, cuh grub glas: “Gospodjo!” Trgnuh se. Pogledah u pravcu odakle je glas dolazio. Bila je to Ciganka, krupnih, pretecih ociju. Rece: “Pomeri se tamo”
“Sta ti je?”
“Ovo je moj Maksi! Uzimas mi hrani deci. A vidi se da si gospoja.”
“Sta ti je, zeno, trazim nesto za ove gladne pse…”
” .Ja sam svakog dana ovde od pet do sest. To je moje radno vreme. Dok se operu sudovi, pa odmore gospoda posle rucka, pa cekam da se baci, posalju nekog da se baci djubre, tacno znam kad da dodjem, da vidim sta ima da se probere, moja deca gladna, a ti mi za kucice kupis! Sramota!”
I jos rece: ” Nemoj da te vidim slucajno blizu moga kontejnera. Nadji sebi drugi.
Povukoh se pred opasnom pretnjom i tim putem vise ne prolazim.

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The human race has completely failed because of emotions.


All emotions are one and the same: self-pity. Emotions are always between people and they occupy the space that should not exist. They mediate where there should be a direct touch.
When the emotions emerge, all forces should be imploded.
To do this, one needs to understand how it is created. It’s a program, as with the Russian scientist Pavlov.
Usually, mothers are the ones who teach children to react emotionally. It’s that frigging training we receive when we’re small and powerless to figure it out and resist it. This is THE mother-Medea who sacrificed us to misjudge others. Mothers are mostly intimidating children, so they learn. And the idea of caring mothers is to a large extent fake and fatal.
Mothers are mostly intimidating children, so they learn. And the idea of caring mothers is to a large extent fake and fatal.

Emotions are projections. That means, you project your emotions on someone and then he or she is for you only
a fraction, a part of some of your performances. In this way, you immobilize them, label them, you take away their freedom.
Look, when you offend someone, he or she immediately claims you owe him or her (apology, money, compensation).
It’s an emotional economy and it’s deadly. Look at those fools who, because of the cartoon of Muhammad, they go to bloody showdowns with anyone who gets in their way. It is a program that establishes power over people and
they obediently listen
because they can not understand what is happening to them and therefore they cannot resist to resist it.

The human race has completely failed because of emotions.

Plus, the same holds true for ideas. Emotions and ideas are complemented and successfully replaced. It’s all the same kind of programming.
And life itself, chemistry, physics, all is conditionality. Atoms are conditioned to react. We are conditioned by biochemical processes.
The only thing that we have and which does not condition us is our understanding, the ability to know what is actually happening and to distinguish and save ourselves at that point.

Watch just this saying: Logic dictates! That is, we are slaves, we are obligated to execute what “logic” requires. That’s “His master’s voice”. Slave conditioning.

Poetry should clearly expose this and mock it because it is in a superior position to clearly see all this scam.

From a strategic point of view, it is better for the wind to lift up all the rubbish so we can clearly see what is flying and what stands firm. Seize the opportunity and get rid of unnecessary delusions. It’s all that we, humans, can do, anyway. Of all that we have, the most valuable is our sense of humour. And the source of humour is pure knowledge. It is something much more reliable than emotions because it is indestructible unlike them.

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Pero i Mač


UMESTO UVODA

IZVINJENJE ČITAOCIMA, ONIM UČTIVIMA, S POSEBNOM I OSOBITOM UČTIVOŠĆU, jer NEUČTIVIMA SE NE IZVINJAVAMO.. dopre do ušiju…da je “naša junakinja” (ovo naša” treba podrobnije razmotriti, a o drugoj reči – u fusnoti na strani 332) konačno pronašla vlastiti font Kurije, kojom će uhvatiti ono suštinski neuhvatljivo u Pesnikovoj istoriji tajnih I polutajnih podstanarskih sukoba, s čvrstom verom u vrednosti koju bi isti otelotvorio srebrnokosi vitez templar ili protivnik mu slavni Arab.

 

VALENTINA, BIĆE KOJE KRVARI

 

Jednog jutra, ovo žensko biće koje krvari, a zove se Valentina, probudi se, shvativši da u metaforičnoj potrazi za pripovedačkim načinom bliskim narodu kojim bi dočarala najmračnije tajne, zaboravila o čemu zapravo I treba da piše. A pisala bi, absurd li, rado – S posvećenošću koju su samo njeni preci, kojima je istočna mistika bliska, razumeli, kao I složenost porekla Valine istorije, a samo razumevanjem ovog misterioznog predanja, da, više predanja nego li istorije, može da se izgradi koherentna priovedačka umešnost kojom će se istorijat sukoba, mraka I mistike katartično raspetljati.

Do sad je Val nekontrolisano mešala, kao da su likeri Blanš Diboa i Slatki Čirz, načine pripovedanja. Na tome joj se mnogo zameralo. Citiram veleumnog intelektualca, jeretika, disidenta, pisca pobunjenika i proždirača bureka koji se uvek omotavao u nešto nalik na torinski pokrov:

“Za univerzalnu istoriju vlastitog ti beščašća, pesnikinjo Valentina, mnogo ti je opasno da se ravnaš prema idijotima koji zauzeše sav prostor. Tvoja istorija koja mi je pukom slučajnošću doprela do ruku da je pročitam, kad sam kao Mendelson u pekaru ušao, a pekar mi je burek u prve izmašćene stranice zavio..

, recimo, ovaj pokušaj da se opiše prvi gazda, krimos, lord Sivi Kljun, Lord Kuće “Skriveni uređaji” kod Vukovog spomenika majstor visokotehnolškog kriminala, što te neovlašćeno snimao i postavljao ti kamere po stanu, a tebi ostavio sretnu mogućnost da ga goniš po privatnoj tužbi, ima slab početak, onda ima dobar deo, pa opet slabo. Zapravo je bio dobar deo u kojem Lorda Sivokljunaša opisuješ kao izgladnelog gavrana… a slabo ti je to što pokušavaš d razgovaraš s idijotima”

A mnoge vrle povesti su se zbog volje za istovar to kad je istovar bio nadohvat ruke, izgubile u nesagledivoj raznovrsnosti.. i čežnje za baroknošću.. pa, ima tu svega i svačega. Apsurda li, gde li ti se zametnula ta istorija? Da ti dam par saveta:

Nikad ne dovrši asocijaciju

Nikad logično

Nikad opisno

Nikad razumno

Nikad metafore

Nikad koji koja koje

Uvek zameni glavnu reč bizarnom

 

I na kraju reče: Čini mi se da je na početku istorijata trebalo malo više zagrevanja. Previše se izvinjavaš čitaocima. Pri kraju priče, neka bude dobra akcija u tvom stilu.

 

To reče i nestade.

 

JER MAČ JE OD PERA JAČI

 

Tad Valentina od Beogradske Manče shvati koliko je kontinuiteta, kako pripovedačkih tako čisto životnih narušila, a neke zloupotrebila, koliko je nenamernog humora u njenim rečenicama zagrmelo na mestima gde to nije trebalo, koliko je uzaludnih rečenica zazjapilo nalik na ambis u predvorju limba u koji je ušetala kao slepica, sleplja od Homera,  kroz krugove silazeći paklenim obalama.

“Koliko je to muke perom s bezobraznim stvorovima poslovati. A šta mi učiniše, pokvarenjaci, da se očima ne poveruje tokom čitanja. Đavolska neka sila ih na lukavštinu goni, isterivač sotona za njih treba, to tvrdim, ja koja poznajem narav mnogih čudovišnih stvorova istorije”

“Ali pero nije jače negó mač!”, ustade Valentina rešivši da pretraži kuću.. po ko zna koju iznajmljenu po redu. U kojoj je bila toliko usamljena da više nije mogla da živi bez karaktera svojih romana, koji su joj pravili društvo poslednjih petnaest godina tumarajućeg života veleumne plemkinje viteza ser Valentine od Manče, u Srbiji.

I nakon petnaest godina tumarajućeg života veleumne plemkinje viteza ser Valentine od Manče, u Srbiji, reši Valentina da pretraži kuću u potrazi za arapskim mačem Saifom, a dok se kretala,. Shvati serkinja Val da pada sve niže i niže i da kuća, padajući sve tako dok sve okolo nje stoji, menja oblik i postaje ne samo sve niža, već sve uža, i shvati nagonski šta bi se dogodilo i ka kojoj obali reke je padala, premda je nesumnjivo da se njena kuća ne nalazi u centru velegrada negó u središtu same zemlje gde bi je dočekao Lucifer lično, pa i kralj Minos ako bi nastavila da pada.

Al oseti arapski saif, skriven u ćošku kuće neobičnu Valentininu želju da se veže baš za njega kao za predmet kojim će ugravirati u hartije (poduprete već okrvavljenim jastučnicama), s puno strpljenja, ne samo svoju istoriju, no i istoriju arapskoga Saifa te u ime Alaha reši da joj pomogne.

 

I PROGOVORI ARAPSKI MAČ…

 

 

A kako progovori mač (u tom trenu prisećala se Valentina velikih prozora i degutantno čistih stakala i prekrasnog pogleda na Beograd, s trinaestospratnice prekoputa Jevrejskoga groblja, dok je boravila u prvom iznajmljenom stanu kod Lorda Sivi Kljun, još pre negó što je postala ser Valentina od Mačve, kraljica digresija, prekrstite je u šta hoćete, tako joj i treba kad su je i krstili u nevreme, a tačnije je sama to učinila, u crkvi i o tome će biti reči..)

A kako progovori mač, ulazna vrata naglo se otvore, promaja baci tastaturu sa stola, ser Valentina uplašeno pogleda prema vratima, ogoljena sijalica u kući boravka u prezentu sadašnjem se blago zaljulja, a Valentina se seti lustera u Sivokljunaševom Zamku “Skriveni uređaji”, luster kakve je viđala jedino u istorijskim filmovima, i on bi se blago zaljuljao, kladila bi se u to..

Ser Valentina se od straha popne na sto i pokuša smiriti ogoljene sijalice. Ispred nje doskakuta mač dvoseklog oblika s urezom na vrhu, odeven u kožni prsluk i s visokim potpeticama na čeličnim nogama koje su mu bile tanke i relativno duge u odnosu na telu i izlazile su mu iz čeličnoga trupa, kao i šamširi, okrvavljene kandže:

“Mač Zulfikar ovde, mobilni pretplatnik Saif trenutno nije dostupan. Glača polumesečje rogove štitnike, a dao mi je svoje korice da me obesiš o leđa kad pođeš.. O meni sve znaš, gugl me je indeksirao na svim jezicima, ljudskim, životinjskim i biljnim, te me ne treba posebno predstavljati, ali nekako to volim da radim. Jer nema mača do Zulfikara Makazolikog! Iskovan sam od sala sa stomačine boga Ganeša, on će ti podariti inteligenciju, snagu i mir, kao i znanje o pogrebnim ritualima kojima ćeš dostojno pokopati svoje protivnike, mudrost i znanje da ostaneš na putu kud si naumila,  alterica Bogorodice Svete Marije, da održiš čednost i devičanstvo svog nauma, da ti navike u pisanju, a i namere ostanu čedne, i duh i telo čedno, pa baš kao da si s drugoga sveta, večna devica, objektivna da ostaneš spram napadača, majčina milost da te oblije kad se setiš kako su trake biča po tebi padale i krvi mojih napadača, ali onih Ahilove krvne grupe ”

 

I dođoh ti ja, Zulfikar, kao poštovalac jer ti bogovi dadoše graciju, milost koju nisi zaslužila, ali je nisi morala ni prethodno zaraditi. Oprost dolazi od višeg autoriteta, te oprost nije što i milost..  ali osetiše tvoju želju da putuješ putem prosvetljenja, I osobite napore da to prosvetljenje ostvariš kroz nužnu katarzu, jedinoj boginji kojoj si dosad službovala I bogovi njojzi pozavideše jer nju odoabra za čišćenje duše, da abreaguješ verbalizacijom I time smanjiš tenziju.

“Pa zar je namučismo toliko?, mi praoci roda, ploda, zemlje, stvaraoci, prvi umetnici, da boginji Katarzi diže žrtvenik I možda joj odvojenu religiju zasnuje!” I to tako slabim prenosima na hartije koja nas izvesti o delima I nepočinstvima žrtve ove I gubitnika, al I dželata njenih što se nama pripisuje da ih ne kaznismo I da grešni tako zadovoljavaju nekažnjeno svoje strasti: onaj njen prvi izdavač, najpre..”

I rekoše mi stari bogovi: I videsmo da joj je srce mrtvo, a ubiše ga njeni nepročišćeni porivi. A srce mortalnog roba uvek je bolesno.

I istrtljaše još koješta sve tako iz svojih svetišta na starohebrejskom dok se ne ponapijaše, ne umoriše, uz mrmljanje: intervencija je nužna da žrtva ne ispašta mesto krivca, da se nevinom srce ne zamrači, ne vidi više svetlost, prevrne se kao barka..

Ili mač ili nuklearna kataklizma! – složiše se. – Neka se završi na lokalnim bitkama protivu sila tame, s mačem po njenom odabiru, da se stvori metež na glavnim saobraćajnicama, da se kroz metež naš glas čuje uvek, pa I kad zanemimo.  Da se hijade I hiljade sličnih sudbina podstanarskih tiskaju u njenim pričama, ugraviranim mačem istine, da knjiga bude širokih grudi, kao reka Misisipi, da se publika gurka leševe probodene da zagleda, k’o ispred bioskopa.

Ove reči tvrdiše da je izgovorio Set, ali ne mogu u to biti siguran – slegnu ramenima mač – Šta bi s perom da čini? Ne seče kako treba! Niti ima predstave šta kaza, niti se osvrće iza sebe da vidi šta to I o kome kazuje.  Mrmlja, slobodnog jezika, mislima joj tesno, jer joj rečima široko. A da ne pominjemo, o Bogovi, njene neprecizne prevodioce. Nezgrapno, neritmično, bezvučno, promenljivo, kako da ispriča tu očaravajuću priču da se bogu smrti sloši, a sotone se razbeže? Postkoitalna katarza nakon smaknuća i anti -romantika, to ja želim, ja Set! O, Bogovi, kolege pisci, slikari, umetnici, pijandure jedne seljoberske, pa zar kod nas ne postoji više niti kultura, niti kulturna politika! Dajte joj mač da kopa njime po zlatu jer ispaljuje ćorke na svakom koraku, porobljavajući svoj izraz, svoj duh, zar to za božanstva nisu bolna mesta? Radikalno ili ništa! A kad počne da krvolipti, sve će sprati oluja, nazad, u moje podzemlje!

“Aye”, zagrmi  Jov odeven u senatorsku tuniku, glave okićene nezaobilaznim lovorovim vencem, jedući antičke palačinke s medom. “Pomoćiču joj samo zbog antičkog duha koji provejava u ponekoj nekoj njenoj pesmi. “A I fakat da nije vegetarijanka I da za doručak jede gladijatorsku kašu, u meni budi želju da u telo njene komšinice Vide na kvarno ubacim svog ličnog ceremonijal majstora za gozbe, trapezologa Titusa, izumitelja gladiatorum pulticula kojom se Grci toliko ponose, a zapravo je moj izum”

“Volim da džaram vatru rata, a kao neko ko lije suze nad proksi ratovima u Siriji I Libiji, dobro znam šta znači biti žrtva sektaškog nasilja.  A neka bogovi nevernika ostanu da se valjaju po balama prolivenog pića (božanskog!), a vidim s kakvom se žestino boriš u svetom ratu, kad pesme spaljuju trivijalnošću k’o živu decu, kćo falš majstori na flauti usiljeno rimuju da zabave neotmene goste što zarivaju prste u činije neukusne, gnjile, smradnije nego svi rušilački ratovi I leševi kraj Jovankine lomače koji su goreli zajedno s njenim mukama, dosadno do zla boga, dosadno, dosađuje se I kupus I karfiol I špargla, ma sve na žrtvenu lomaču, skupa s Jovankom, dimovi da se puše od paljevine. Spaljuj!”

“O čemu ti to, arapska čakijo?”

“O savremenoj literaturi, o čemu bih drugo. Ni tvoja nije bolja. Spaljuj. Nema tu prizora od kojih se ledi krv. Tu san da pišem rame uz rame s tobom dok ne nateram tvoje neprijatelje da popiju prolivenu krv s ugraviranih slova hartije kad ja s pergamentom završim, ja Zulfikar..  Jednom sam tako pisao za Šeherezadu, koja bi danas bila nešto kao most između reale i interneta koliko je dovitljiva, al jednog dana reče mi: “Zulfikare, ja bih sad da osmislim priče koje će toliko da preplaše cara, u tolikoj meri da mu uliju jezu u kosti da dobije infarkt miokarda jer me je ošamario za večerom”

I osmislih za nju priče što mu se u srce zabodoše kao strela, i on skvikne u zvižduku.. baš kao i ta strela! A tvoji neprijatelji su opasniji od Šahrijara, neki od njih za sobom imaju čitavu dijasporu, ali naše snage biće ujedinjene kao jedna vojska, savetovaćemo se, razrađivaćemo planove, uređivaćemo se. Napredovaćemo sporo, tromo, ali bićemo osvajači i osvajaćemo i premostićemo sve prepreke koje valja premostiti i nemam sumnje, do samo vere u dobar uspeh, se te nudim da ti budem i oruđe za rad i Sančo Pansa, kakogod ti drago i već mi se vrzmaju misli o tvom prvom gazdi i te misli se raduju.

Nakon lomače… I žrtvenog rituala kojim ćeš poništiti sve emocionalno idejno obojene gluposti koje si bila napisala i popraviti referentni sistem.. živaca!.”

 

 

NAKON PALJEVINE i RITUALA

 

Godine 2004 shvatila je Valentina da ne može da opstane da živi u rodnome gradu, a ne drži dva pištolja ispod jastuka jer se najednom našla opkoljena zastrašujućom gomilom koja je iskala njenu glavu da prodre u monstruoznost njene misterije, a ona od njih okrete glavu, provocirajući njihovu večnu mržnju, i poboja se jer oni odista behu mnogobrojni i ispunjeni uvek prisutnom željom da je dobro opljunu pre negó što je ubiju. Nedeljama koje su prethodile nasilnome činu, osećala je uznemirenje novorođenčeta.

Sama Val je dala opširno tumačenje u svojim Zapisima o stanovnicima njenog sela čiji je preobražaj endogen, te da promene koje proživljavaju, ne počivaju na psihičkom nasleđu negó na delovanju izvesne bakterije, verovala je, koja se u normalnim uslovima ne zadržava u dendritima, no se izbacuje kroz fekalije što omogućava inficiranim ćelijama da povrate živčano zdravlje. Ali, njeno selo se nije praznilo redovno..

“Tad imune ćelije počinju da luče “zambiju”, te seljani u nešto većem gradu K. postadoše roboti od mesa, bezumni robovi, te su “ekstravagantne odmrambene mere” sve što je preostalo u gradiću K. što je postalo groblje, ali ne trajnog mira.

“Proglašavam kraj istorije”, rekla je dva dana pre negó što su je opkolili, navlačeći smradne zavese. Živi smrad stanovnika gradića K. upio se u tkaninu. “Ko bi mogao posumnjati da će se u postmafijaškoj Srbiji, nakon proglašenj Smrti Države dogoditi išta slično?”

Nakon dolaska “nemani iz vazduha”, prorokovao je najstariji komšija u ulici, slepi starac Ratomir koga je od milošte zvala Tirke, uvek u pratnji nekog dečaka, prorokovavši da će ga, dok se ne završi proces, pretvoriti u ženu zbog čega je trpeo neprekidna zadirkivanja i podsmevanja na račun ličnog ludila.

“Prostačine! Kao da meni tos meta! Imala sam ja, Ratomirka, ovaj, ja Ratomir.. šta oni znaju šta je burna noć? Ima li šta muževnije od muškarčine u halterima! Kao da meni smeta to milozvučno proročanstvo. Oduvek san se i osećao kao izgubljena mala devojčica.. Sad san to i postao. Slepa mala.. Helen Keler! Kkavu kolekciju bruseva ja spremam kući. A i ranije san ih imao”, starac se poigravao s uvojcima raspletene sede kose –

“Starče – odakle vizije, proročanstva? Kad se desio taj prelomni trenutak kad si postao Kasandra? Ko te odabra da razgrćeš mrak neznanja? Intrige li usložnjavaš i pleteš, posumnjala bih da budnim očima ne vidim što i ti. Činjenice ne kriviš i sve što govoriš se obistinjava. Likovi deluju!”

“Od svega blaga što izgubit valja na ovom svetu ne usreći me ništa više negó kad razum izgubih. Od tad, stvari vidim jasnije negó ikad ranije, doduše ne u punoj svetlosti. Al da veština proročka u meni samuje, poludeo bih, no ima onih koji mi veruju. Dođi Valentina, da sednemo na basamake, da zaigramo šah. Drugi oslepeli komšija otišao u ribolov, a meni se baš poteže na kraljicu.. ovako slepom, ne preostaje mi ništa drugo do Birdovo otvaranje. Prednost za protivnika, ali samo na početku, bojim se.”

“Šta je to Birdovo otvaranje?”

“Ćorav sam pa uvek uzmem  pogrešnog piona. Izgubljena partija. To je sve ono što imam pre nego što sve okolo pobedim… Eto tako, sad nas dvoje ništa ne deli do šahovske table obložene kožom.. “, starac protrlja ruke. “Ali, ja ne znam da igram šah!”

Starac oćuta. Potom odmahnu rukom. “Naučiće tebe Tirke kako da unaprediš svog pešaka. Znaš, kad ti pešak stigne.. ako stigne! Na drugu stranu, on postane sasvim druga figura.. preobrazi se u zveri ko ovi zombiji okolo što nemrtvi postadoše udišući bojni otrov onda kad nas gađ’o Nato.. a u  ovom gradu neman vešta beše! Iz vazduha dođe, kudikamo s bombom 99! – nagnuo se ka Valentini – onomad kad su nas gađali i oštetili muzej 21. Oktobar, a pogođena i kasarna Blagojević, tad je sve to započelo..”, nije skidao osmeh s lica. – Šta je to počelo, o moj starče Tiresija?

 

“Piše i u novine! Kad bojni otrov ispari, postane.. hmm.. difuz.. piralen.. i još neke nepoznate reči i nazivi. Najpre će nastupiti opšti animosus. Isti kao onaj od pre, ali kudikamo notornije dete moje, kudikamo notornije.. – I da znaš – samo pešacima sledi unapređenje. Zapamti to kadgod budeš pomislila na kraljevstvo božje i na posao.. u stranoj firmi po mogućstvu, četres’ iljade.. Vidi, kralj Tiresija se popeo na brdo!” – Valentina shvati da gubi figure olako – starac je napredovao..  i zagledao se u nebo slepim očima: “Pitam se, jel svemir ovako zainteresovano gleda u mene.. O Meseče, o zvezde divne, sjaji sjaji mrkla noći!…

“I tako sam, kad je puklo! – počeo da gubim i razum i boje.. Najpre ode.. ljubičasta. U pizdu lepu.. Zelena je još bila dostupna. Toj lepoj.. gracioznoj.. A sad vidim sve – samo žuto i crveno i sve mi crno i oči mrtvosano crne, bez beonjača… Šah – mat. – starac razočarano sklopi tablu za šah –  Jedino društvo mi pravi moj komšija Bobi Fišer, do vrata, još jedan slepac. Slepac slepca vodi, u ljubavnom trouglu s mrtvacima što nakon boja izroniše, u bojni otrov obojeni, a on, taj moj komšija, slepi makro, žena mu bila prositutka, on završio u kolicima, a ponekad mi ih pozajmi na korišćenje. I čita nekakvog Ernesta, kaže da piše samo o nama, šahistima – slepcima, a da taj neki Ernesto tvrdi da je samoća cena slobode.. a slep k’o šišmiš il gluv, ko će ga znati. Možda i lud.  Svet u sunovratu, Valentina, piši o jezgru zla, promisli izrok što se rodi najpre na mestu tvog rođenja. Ja san prosjak u katakombi, pod crvenim fenjerima u vatrenoj noći, ja.. ja neću nadživeti svoju noć, al ti hoćeš (starac je kašljao, a oslepelim očima belasala je groznica) Oči slepe, a sve vide..  – Tirke beše odeven k’o starozavetni prorok Samuil, a i izgledao je kao da je njegovo godište. – Svet ovaj.. je kvadratna ploča sa sistemom mreže, svet ovaj.. –

Neki put žuta i crvena boja zaplešu u blendu, te mi sve neodređeno žuto, neodređeno crveno. Svet posta optički sužen, napadan i agresivan. Toliko mogu da vidim. Ček da sednem, da ti rečem šta se zbiva i šta će da se zbidne i šta ćeš da činiš”

 

STARAC TIRKE PROROKUJE

“I nišaniče u tebe kao cilj, a neka ti posluže moje veštine proročke.”

“Starče, kazuj”

“Kazuj ti meni prvo.”

“O čemu?”

“O devojci toj seoskoj mladoj koju roditelji žele da udadu za bogatoga selju iz Kragujevca grada. Dulčineja joj je ime. U njeno ime oklop na se stavićeš, staležu ratnika pohrlićeš, al neće te primiti jer si žensko. Jer oni u obzir samo telo uzimaju, a ne duh, a tek ljudsko srce.”

“Vitezovi templari?”

“Ma Nikosava i Bratislav Somina, intelekt mu nizak da shvati epohalni momenat tvog skorog kucanja na njegovu tarabu, otrcaniju od okorele fukse! Postaćeš tad senzacija o kojoj će da priča ceo grad. A Dulčineja tvoja što te opčini osmehom svojim, manijački se smejući s grčem na licu kad te vidi tokom  školskijeh dana, a sad tebe vidim kako s krvavim nožem na ruci ispred tarabu njihovu stojiš i velim: Nož okrvavljen u tvoje srce zariven biće, a oni će se ceriti i jedno drugo pakošću nadopunjavati i govoriti da si otpad društva, sklona seksu sa sopstvenim polom, a ti u pornićima vrhunska riba. Al treba da je upozoriš, čelik oštar prstima da ne dotičeš, u škrinju da ga staviš, jer će srce da ti lupa, lupa sve jače, u iskušenje ćeš da dođeš kad Dulčinejin tata k’o ludak izvali vrata il’ tarabu, evo priviđa mi se (trlja slepoočnice) Da razum ne poklekne u poslednjem času, da se u iskušenje ne stavi ono najvažnije – moralni princip bez koga nećeš moći da ostvariš svoju veličanstvenu, doduše pomalo uvrnutu sudbinu, da te ne pretvori u zver žednu osvete. Jer ako poneseš nož, bićeš zastrašujuće odlučna da ga prekolješ, a ako ne, bićeš samo ponižena i kao robinja na ulicu gurnuta uz pogrde i želje da budeš prognana iz grada što i nije tako loše s obzirom na to što se sprema… “

“A zašto uopšte kod Dulčineje da idem?”

“Zbog sudbine. Ali, idemo redom. Kad te nakon što te budu oterali, nasmejani budu zaseli nazad na tron gluposti, sretni što su zaustavili pravo na slobodu slobodne misli, uz masno pečenje, misleći da se ti zapravo prašiš kao štuka s njihovom plemenskom princezom, a zapravo vapaj tog jadnog stvora nakon što se završiše školski dani i iste godine vejaste rođene, ali u istoj nećete skončati, čini je plemenitom jer šušti kao svila, pošto jauk prigušuje rukom izujedanom od ugriza. Ne znam jel ovo bojnootrovno besnilo ili je samo poludela od ljubavne muke – no, plemenski tata i idealno jedinstvena mama i seka Dulčinejina objasniće joj da je učinila pravi izbor jer se za izlazak iz plemena plaća samo jedna cena, a to je smrt. Oslobođena od racionalnosti, jer je u međuvremenu postala luđa od Ofelije, Dulčineja će da zapljeska rukama, a plemenski savet će joj objasniti da ćeš ti uskoro biti prognana, a ako samu sebe ne prognaš, makar su te oni posavetovali da rado to učiniš. “Idi.. idi.. kod onih.. tvojih.. nastranih”, rekla je.. rekla.. žena .. vidim ženu ispred kapije kako krešti, izlazeći ispred belih dvora odakle puca pogled na slepu ulicu Bačvansku, vidim..  u ranu mlados’ čuvala goveda po obroncima, uvalama, udala se za sominu i rodila dve čistokrvne ultra fensi gradske ribe, od kojih jedna beše boginja od Gimnaziju. Gde ste se i srele..“

“I beše Duččineja opsednuta, al ne romansama negó pariskom modom i odeća joj bejaše strast. A kad tebe ugleda, probudi se u njoj tamna strana. Vide te jednog proletnog popodneva.. ne, negó u zimsko prepodne, o Sofokle, zbog greha greške prorokovanja ja se zaprepastiti neću, no daj da slažem, da jednu živu spasem i tebi, bože smrti, dam troje njih bezveznih u zamenu za ovog budućeg viteza, ser Valentinu od Beogradske Mačve!”

“I beše Duččineja opsednuta, al ne romansama negó pariskom modom i odeća joj bejaše strast. A kad tebe ugleda, probudi se u njoj tamna strana. Vide te jednog proletnog popodneva.. ne, negó u zimsko prepodne, o Sofokle, zbog greha greške prorokovanja ja se zaprepastiti neću, no daj da slažem, da jednu živu spasem i tebi, bože smrti, dam troje njih bezveznih u zamenu za ovog budućeg viteza, ser Valentinu od Beogradske Mačve!”

“Ma kakva te Mačva spopala. Veliš da si mudar, al ne prepozna u meni kosmopolitskog mislioca koji negira da mora postojati država za održavanje univerzalnog morala. I šta je to socijalna pravda? Marksistički konstrukt. Najveće zlo nakon satane koje je hodalo planetom su Marks i Engels. Ustajte, vi zemaljsko roblje. Danas radnik, nekad rob. Uvek rob, nikad radnik. Šta je radnik, do rob!

-Ma ustaće zombiji, ne proletarijat buntovnički i prosjački, no možda je sve to jedno te isto.

-Govorio si o nekom upozorenju, a ta žena je njena gospođa majka.

-Ima glas kao Mardž Simpson.

-I takvoj malograđanštini se mislilac suprotstavlja, da.. kroz potragu, kroz pobunu i nepristajanje na neistinu!

-A na šta da je upozorim? Govori, Tiresija, ne odugovlači! Nisu to nikakva proročanstva već kombinacija uobičajene logike, simboli, besmislice I fenomeni koji se daju očekivati od slepog majstora šaha.

-I jedno parče koplja.. I kaciga kralja, katren mi daj, za Dulčineju!

Ili simbol ega, ergo, ego obradiću sublimacijom, samo pričaj. Prorokuj, Danilo!

-Da..

Kad se mandala u tlocrtu za plan njenog hrama sruši

Zaleteće se ferarijem u banderu

Krst sa kocem i prečagom biće joj od nadalje sudbina

U predelu sna nakon 6 meseci u komi ona biće

A kad vaskrsne, nakon 6 meseci, deliće cveće na kraju ludila

Koje je odavno počelo..

Tiresija se naglo iznervira: – A ti, ser Valentina, kao tragični idealist u raskoraku s vremenom, imaćeš želju da odletiš u daleke predele, na krilima ognjenih bića, da te Indijski okean zagrli i u zagrljaju okeana da progovoriš s ribama u najpotpunijoj punoći, no neće moći ove noći!

Tiresiju je obuzimalo ludilo, dok se naizmenično smejao i tresao od straha: – Jer kamo god odsad odeš, nikad neće da opstaje ništa do oči nacerene, rugoba skamenjena, i glavu čoveka smeniće glava kaimana, a dušu njegovu smeniće ognjeno biće velikih dubina.  (Nije zmaj, oni ne vole vodu) Zavladaće.. – Tirke je ustajao polagano, a lice mu beše u krastave žabe, bela brada beše dugačka i koristio ju je umesto metle, te prorokova, dublje i poučnije i rečitije od francuskih enciklopedista: – A ako ostaneš, umrećeš i nećeš opstati drugačije do kao oko nacereno, rugoba skamenjena, glavu će ti proždrari kaiman, a duša..  – Tiresija se razneži i zagrli je, zabezeknutu – “Sine Valentina, verovala ti ili ne, ja san nekad bio ugledni političar, plemenitog porekla, praunuk Žan Luj Bretona, a on se pretplatio na Andrea i na enciklopediju još u osamnaestom veku, i trotrljao je, onako sveobuhvatno, nije imao niti tačku, niti zarez, i to je totrljao na tri jezika, leksikografa takvog nije bilo, tvrdim, ja, Žan Luj, zvani Tirke..  Poboj se!  Poboj se za  kraj kontejnera novopronađenu crno belu mačku Himejru i za rođenu majku. Degradacija je zavladala svuda, pa ni automobili nisu više ono što su bili. Mrtvi u životu ne odoše u ništavilo,  a nemrtvi baš kao i kriza došli su da ostanu.”

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The starving cans (Serbian included)


I stumbled over my colours

I cramped in myself

and they are always hidden from themselves

they are always stopped short

The perfect circle around the smell

A rat’s raised leg

shot up into the heights

 

I’ve collected everything: starving cans,

enemies who wanted to poison me

Stormy shadow, metaphors, precipice

I got angry with the bus cards

Never

I’ll never be able to throw anything away.

 

I dumped waste at the dreary poetry cemetery

It is everywhere

My song.. .. it never was, inside her forgetfulness

And my story .. my story .. was my story

 

in no place, they don’t look

Once upon a time, there was meow and meow

you smell

still smells the same

I meow

 

They.. are dead .. and grown over swear  – words in the wind

appeared in this den

My house, my house, you took over my red home

Red times

No pain.

Maybe later.

 

I feel a recurrence of one’s presence

I feel that old

Inappropriate to stay here anymore

(Scream in the distance)

 

They never liked you

They never liked you

They never liked you

And you’re just pretending, too

The wind’s forgotten appeared

 

someone takes off your memory

be happy they forgot about you

you are finally free

****

Naletela sam na svoje boje

Slamala sam se u sebi

Uvek su skriveni od sebe oni..

uvek su zaustavljeni

savršen krug okolo mirisa

podignuta noga pacova

puca u visine

 

Sakupila sam sve: pregladnele limenke

neprijatelje koji su me hteli otrovati

olujne sene, metafore, provalije..

bila sam ljuta na autobuske karte

Nikad

nikad neću moći ništa da bacim

 

Bacila sam otpad na grozno groblje turobne poezije

Ono je svuda

moja pesma… nikada nije bila moja pesma u njenoj

zaboravnosti

i moja priča.. moja priča.. bila je moja priča..

 

Ni na jedno mestu, ne gledaju.. jednom davno..

Jednom davno, bilo je – mjau i mjau

smrdiš

i dalje miriše isto

Ja – mjau

Oni su mrtvi

prerasli su psovke na vetru

pojavio se u ovoj jazbini

 

Moja kuća, moja kuća

preuzeli su moj crveni dom

crvena vremena

bez bola. možda kasnije..

 

Osećam ponavljanje prisutnosti

osećam se tako staro

neprikladno je da ostanem ovde.. više..

 

(vrisak u daljini)

Nikad te nisu voleli

Nikad te nisu voleli

Nikad te nisu voleli

I ti se samo pretvaraš

Pojavio se vetar…

neko ti skida pamćenje

budi srećna što su zaboravili na tebe

napokon si slobodna

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Insomnia (Serbian included)


Endlessly bloodied wildflowers
splattered times of bloodless slaughterer’s
design
Waking ones lulled the carrion of sleep myriads
cut short dreams harden the nights frightfully
endlessly robbed visions till deaths hibernating above all else
as long as the night lasts
I am .. immortal storms
under the bitten tongue

***

Insomnija

Beskrajno okrvavljeno divlje cveće
poprskana vremena beskrvnih koljača
dizajn
Probuđene su uljuljkane mrvice spavanja
opljačkane vizije hiberniraju iznad svega

Skraćeni snovi otvrdnule noći strašno izgledaju
sve dok traje noć
ja sam.. besmrtna oluja
ispod ujedenog jezika.

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The art of instant pearls of wisdom, dedicated to “positive thoughts” (Serbian included)


All of a sudden, briefly
shortened
sorted
instant wisdom that does not know what will make with itself
let alone with you, traveller
similar phrases, those phrases, motifs
key metaphors
About how you will overflow the river
and shadows will pass, yes… but.. no…
shift to happiness will be seductive,
more deadly

(If you wanna die, go jump off a Brooklyn bridge, not this ugly Serbian building)


from the life that has happened to you, you
you, you… a pessimistic realist!

And happiness will come
once too soon
once too late

(It makes me sick…)
sometimes again stunning start that
equates with a happy ending

No, it will not be…
no one will be self-confessed to their own eyes
tis’ nostalgia for the murder of your dungeons with washed stones
pouring into waterfalls will strike and kick
again, hammering

“Two lovers wandering down their violet way, down their violet way…”

Two lovers wander’d on the Stygian shore, the Stygian shore…”
until it does forge your essence
and the symbolism of tiny deaths

(Death is dead, death is dead.)
that are in thee rest
for good
shall remain unchanged.

Rest… assured that is the true meaning of golden mean
until it’s too late..
Once more, before it’s too late, would you reconsider?

***

Izvinjavam se ako nisam lepo prepevala na srpski 

 

My apologies if I did not translate it well into Serbian…

Posvećeno biserima instant mudrosti i “pozitivnim mislima”

Odjednom, nakratko, skraćeno, sortirano
instant mudrost koja ne zna šta će učiniti sa samom sobom
a kamoli s tobom, putniče
slične fraze, te fraze, motivi, ključne metafore
O tome kako ćeš premostiti reku
i senke će proći, da … ali .. ne …
pomak prema sreći će biti zavodljiv,
ubitačniji

(Ako želiš umreti, skoči s Brooklynskog mosta, ne sa ove ružne srpske zgrade)

iz života koji ti se dogodio, ti
ti, ti… pesimistički realisto!

A sreća će doći
jednom prerano
jednom prekasno

(Muka mi je…)
ponekad opet, zapanjujuće izjednačava
sa sretnim završetkom

Ne, neće biti …
niko neće biti samopriznat u vlastitim očima
Nostalgija za ubistvom vaših tamnica opranog kamenja i
sipanje u slapove,
udaraće i udaraće opet, čekićem

“Dva ljubavnika lutaju ljubičastim putem, niz ljubičasti put …”
Dva ljubavnika lutaju na Stygijskoj obali, na Stygijskoj obali .. “

dok ne iskuju vašu suštinu
i simboliku sitnih smrti

(Smrt je mrtva, smrt je mrtva.)

koje su u tebi
zauvek
ostaju nepromenjene

Budite uvereni da je to pravo značenje zlatne sredine
dok ne bude prekasno.
Još jednom, pre nego što bude prekasno, biste li
još jedared razmislili?

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Wishing well


All pads report
made the deal with the
the depths of the overhanging vortex
the symbolism of water is completely swallowed

And skilfully
drawing attention to the message of peace
It is
safe
at least until the water gurgled
you swayed while you were shining in infinity
infinitely
moving from water
then and now
It’s the same story that depends on how I do not know how

You do not know anything
nobody knows anything
nobody knows anyone
because white shirts have sprinkled black areas

Except for liquid water,
the queen egg
is invisible and
frequent vortices
we are violent souls

It’s not peace I want, it’s pandemonium.
aftermath:
now she can
liquefy
downwards
in the point

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Odlomak iz moje zbirke novela “Gazde”, slučaj: Grdana, Vračar GRDANA


 

Odlomak iz moje zbirke novela “Gazde”, slučaj: Grdana, Vračarandelina-dzoli-rasplakala-sam-decu-kao-grdana-644844-velika.jpg
GRDANA

Uselila sam se u centar grada, nadaleko čuven po tome što ga naseljavaju ugledni građani Beograda, ali opet nisam imala sreće sa smeštajem. Grdana, s dobrodušnim srcem za male pse i velike ljude izdala mi je kućicu u uličici G. po kojoj se širila čista, ravnomerna svetlost, ukusno nameštena, u uskoj asfaltiranoj uličici
Sa obe strane ulićice koja je bila široka jedva 5 metara nalazile su se ispucale oronule kuće zidane pre sto godina, možda i više, od blata, poneke su bile obnovvljene novim olukom
Na nekoj se uspinjala loza koja puzala po ispucalom zidu davajući ugođaj. Dvorišta su bila prepuna, ispunjena nepravilno poređanim, raštrkanim straćarama.
Baba Ruslanina kuća je bila peta u dvorištu od Grdanine kućice, gledano iz perspektive druge ulice u kojoj se nalazio zajednički strujomer, za dve ulice. I zajednička klonja.
Katkad, za loših dana, neki nov stanar bi vrisnuo kad bi mu govno isplivsalo na površinu wc šolje dok se sudopera borila s ostacima tuđih komšijskih jela, zapušivši je.
Ruslana je uvek bila na ulici kad bi se „nešto“ dešavalo. Naš dolazak je izazvao senzaciju.
Bila je to vremešna žena, s dva oka različite boje
„Zbog rožnjače, dušo moja“, kako reče . „Ne zbog veštičarenja, ne do bog“
Kako nas ugleda, predstavi se i reče:
„Romana sam, Ruskinja. Bora Stanković mi je bio stric. A oca su mi zaklali četnici.“
Tri ključne rečenice ponavljale su se sve vreme našeg boravka kod Grdane koja je istovremeno, s polusosmehom na licu, lakirala šalone, govoreći kako je komšiluk divan.
Izgovorila je to polustisnutih usta koja bi bila lepa da nije bilo drugih delova. Neodoljivo me je podsećala na Mortišu. Za to vreme, Ruslana uporno govori: “S. Moram nešto da je pitam – upiljila mi se u lice. Plavo oko je bljesnulo kao sečivo.
-Pa pitajte je, pored vas je..- odgovorih.
– Pa dobro, dobro, nije hitno.. . uznemiri se baba Ruslana, baci pogled na desnu stranu i vide komšinicu Zoku koja je izvukla jednu ruku ispred dupeta prilepljenog uz tarabu i napravi pokret „šaš šaš“, misleći na babu, prošaptavši „Nije ona baš..baš“
„Pa ko je od nas pa normalan?“, uz osmeh će Grdana – lakirala je šalone s marljivom preciznošću dok sam ja udisala miris laka koji sam oduvek volela. Mora da sam latentni narkoman.
Odjednom se okrete i baršunastim glasom, pogledavši me nežno, toplo, hladno, ozbiljno reče:
„Moraćete sve ovo još jednom da pređete…. Ovo što ja radim, kada se osuši. Ali, ima vremena Ili ću ja. Nebitno“
Odjednom je spustlla četkicu u kanticu laka, stavila je na ravan deo stepeništa koji je samo njena kućica imala. Tu se komšiluk okupljalo. Posedali bi s flašpom piva u ruci dok je Zokina i Goranova mala Magdalena, poskakivala i vrištala. Nije se moglo odrediti da li je to bio vrisak, lavež, režanje.
Dok je doprelo do nje “Tišina, Magdalena!”, ja sam već odlućila da ću da se preselim. Samo ne znam kad i kako.
***
„Hajde sad da završimo – zadigla je Grdana haljinicu iznad kolena, isprsila grudi i bradu, graciozno koračajući lepim nogama – “oko rente” –
“Aha”
„Inače, stan je simpa. Meni se baš sviđa!“, okrenula se razrogačenih očiju, uz poluosmeh, pogledavši u nas dve – za jednu osobu je kao savršen“
„ Ah, ima još nešto, moram vam reći, dakle: posle svakog kupanja.. vidite ovo dole.. „, pokazala je na čistač vetrobrana
koji se nalazio na podu kupatila. “Posle svakog kupanja klizeća vrata koja zatvaraju kupšatilo obrišite tako što ćete odozgo .. – vukla je rukama nešto nevidlljivo po vazduhu uz kez – povlačiti.. na .. dole.. Eto, samo taj pokret!”
Izlazivši iz kupatila, usput reče: “Postoji samo septička jama. I da ne bi govanca plivala, papir bacati u kantu pored, nikako u wc šolju.”

GOVOR O NOVCU

– Predstavila sam vam nameštaj. A sad, onaj neprijatniji, ali obavezniji deo. – Pare. No, najpre da vas pitam nešto. Da li vi imate novca da sebi priuštite sve ovo?
Pogledasmo se.
– Ovo je jeftiniji stan od prethodog koji smo plaćali.
– Infostan je vrlo vrlo nizak.. – totrljala je – kablovsku nema, isključila sam… – Depozit.. ne morate, davaćete, onako usput, koliko budite mogli. Ja mogu da razumem taj deo. I sama sam prolazila kroz to, selila se milion puta, ja i moji kenjci.Ako nešto u životu mogu da razumem, to je šta znači – nemati.
– Odjednom se okrenula ka meni i rekla je: – Dopadaš mi se.
– Hvala. Znači, renta je 120.
– -Jeste – nego da te pitam. Ti si studirala španski? Jesi li bila u Španiji.
– Ne, ja..
– Ah, ja sam bila svuda. I znam pomalo španski.. Jel se “ćao” kaže “namaste…”?
“Ne.. ”
“Nema veze.. Evo, pogledaj slike. Ova je iz Konga. Tu me silovao taksista, stavio mi nož pod grlo… No, dobro, makar nisam platila taksi… Toliko. Ja sad idem, a mi se vidimo prvog u mesecu. Izuzev.. ako ti, Leila, ne želiš da pričuvaš moje pse. Idem, žurim, čekaju me moji psi, ko zna šta su napravili. – naglo se okrete –
Ja radim u Telekomu, posla preko glave. Da barem radim svoj posao. Ja sam inače profesor matematike…. a nekad sam bila primabalerina, još mi samo fale pepeljugine cipelice.. – prasnula je u demonski smeh.
***

l

Featured

Freedom


My eyes are flawless
My eyes are living
hell’s of isolation’s keenly placed prison

In what darkness they’ve seen yet
whose light sees nothing else when looked deeply
within its reflections

Other than darkness preludes
always seemingly lurking in its unbeknownst
shadows of opportunities once had and lost

Continually raped by a demonic entity
my cowardice in my eagerness to say yes
my cowardice in my eagerness to say no

Those who have wept
mercy to the stillborns,
with bruised wombs, Mother’s feathered creatures

Starve us to the bone of sunlight –
never allowing us to wake
from its steely barbed wired fence

Beyond sense but saved
beyond dead but live
on sodden land with a granite red

Free to battened, free to crumble,
free to care not
free from pain and blood and touch

Featured

Klenak, scena 5


Usred iznenadne epidemije gripa, Danu hitna odvodi u bolnicu. Život joj je u opasnosti. Njena kćerka mora da se izbori s novonastalom situacijom koja skida maske s dojučerašnjih poznatih i nepoznatih likova, dok joj i samoj preti opasnost gora i od smrti…

SCENA 5

(uporedo zvone mobilni i fiksni telefon. Na mobilnom je Mileta, a na fiksnom je Vinka)

MILETA: Leila, ovde Mileta.

LEA:  Mišo, dobro je da ste zvali.. majka je u bolnici! Umreće!

MILETA: Čuo sam. Zvao me neki Simo.

LEA: Hoćete li mi pomoći? Majka je rekla da mogu da vam se obratim u situaciji kad..

MILETA: Ono u čemu ja mogu da ti pomognem jeste vrli napor da definišeš svoje interese i ciljeve. Što se tvoje majke tiče, Dani će biti dobro. Ona je jaka. Treba imati pozitivan stav da bi vreme prilagođavanja mogućem negativnom ishodu prošlo što bezbolnije.

LEA: O čemu vi to? Znate li Vi da ova baba koja izdaje stan… samo trenutak.. uključila san spikerfon… to je jedini način da čujem bilo koga..

MILETA: Misliš, da čuješ sagovornika?

LEA: Da.. u pitanju je softverski kvar i..

MILETA:  Kako to pričaš? Nekoherentno, neprecizno i konfuzno. Gde je tu tačka. A gde zarez.

LEA: Da li ja razgovaram s Miletom?

MILETA: Tako je i..

(baba se dere istovremeno s fiksnog telefona kog Lea drži u desnoj ruci, dok priča preko mobilnog s Miletom držeći ga u levoj, preko spikerfona)

VINKA: Tako je, reci mu, reci mu, mamicu mu, kako sere! Pare, bre! Pare za račune, za struju, za đubre!

LEA: Samo tren.. Baba hoće pare.

MILETA: Koliko para je neophodno da bi ti ostala tu gde jesi?

LEA: Mišo, znate, meni nije dobro..  treba mi podrška.. bojim se…

MILETA: Ja ponavljam pitanje.

LEA: Pa.. ne znam.. moram da pitam.

MILETA: Hajde pitaj.

VINKA: Ju đubre jedno, sad ću ti ja rečem kolikU:  (dere se) Strujaaa! Nije mnogo, uzela sam joj ja grejalicu na vreme..

LEA: Mišo.. ovaj.. Mileta… da li je čujete.

MILETA: Čujem.

VINKA: (glas boje pepeljare istresene na asfalt) Dve kirIJE, po sedam iljade, četri i po za vodu mi nije ništa plaćala, đubre, pih, aj, đubre da oprostim.

MILETA: Ovako. Maksimalna suma koju mogu da ti dam jeste pet hiljada. Više ne mogu. Toliko. To je to.

VINKA: Vidi ti njega šta zna.. Đubre jedno, zvučiš ko naša država! Starost sam ti poverila, ja sam stara, ja sam bolesna,  nesposobna, a ti umesto da pomažeš ovo dete da je ne izbacim, da ne postane čuvarka fontana u velegrad, da ne jede iz kontejnera, ti si našao mene da je ja iz milostinje izdržavam sad kad ju je majka rođena zajebala. Znam ja šta je majka, Lea, nisam ja kučiće rodila.

MILETA: (spušta slušalicu)

VINKA: Ko je ovaj kreten? A mamin drugar.. Jako mi društvo ima.. krpa našla zakrpu. Umesto da pomaže, tu daje nekakve savete i instrukcije. A ti dete odbačena kao škart. Vinka da te hrani. Pa od čega ćeš da živiš? Šta ako ovu tvoju majku šlog strefi? Neće ni da se seti da mi je dužna!

A i ti, Lea, ponašaš se kao da će ona da izađe. Šta ako ne izađe? Šta ako umre? U mrtvačkom kovčegu da mi je donesu! Da joj moja očevina bude poslednje počivalište! I to u grimiznoj tkanini, da mi bude crvena još za sreću! Pa gde sam ja te sreće bila da mene nađete da kod mene umirete! I šta reču ti doktori. A n ene, Moram ja sutra da to izvidim, ti tu samo tunjava ležiš, psihički šokirana, znam ja šta su kontuzije, to ti je Lea sve psihički! eve sad ću i zovem da vidim je l ona izlapela, jel joj mozak ispario, zapušio se, jel je strefio šlog! a ti vidi da ti ovaj uštogljeni pošalje makar deo računa za struju. Ko će meni da da moje pare, ko, ko! Ko će meni da plati struju, oće da mi je isključu i odakle, odakle? (tresak slušalice)

LEA: (flešbekovi).. Šta ti šusteri znaju šta je duša…   Vrediš mnogo.. MNO – GO…  Ustaj, vojsko.. Iskreno, Dano, ovako nešto nismo videli!! A šta kad drugi vide da ona mene nema, pa onda počinje da plače, krišom? Majka je uvek s tobom.. Vrediš mnogo! Šta ti šusteri znaju..  Tvoje vreme je prošlo!..  Nadamo se da te se familija neće odreći!..  Moraš da mi veruješ da ja nemam pare uopšte posto ne radim uopšte. ako vi imate pare pošaljete mene jer mi stvarno treba pomoć.. srećan rodjendan Leci . tata Munzir… Život joj je sranje.. sranje.. Pobij ih sve! Zašto je nii abortirala?… Ja tebe nisam ostavio , ti si moja ćerka i ostaćes tako do kraja života…  Šta ćeš ti tu u Beogradu!.. Ti si jadna devojka s tripovima u glavi.. s tripovima u glavi.. Idi kući majci ona te voli…  Deco, ovo je bio vaš prvi čas..!)

(Lea odlazi do kupatila, uzima iz ugla vanglicu od ceptera, u kojoj se nalazi prljav veš. Baca prljav veš na stranu, tetura se do kreveta, legne na krevet, naginje se nad vanglu i povraća. Povraćanje traje do žuči.)

LEA: (za sebe) Imam groznicu k’o Raskoljnikov.. a tu je i baba. (lomi je groznica, u bunilu je. Telefon uporno zvoni. Lea po inerciji grabi slušalicu)

VINKA: Još ležiš tu! Ja zvala bolnicu, predstavila se k’o rođaka. Pitam ja: doktore doktore, kakav će da bude ishod?

LEA: Molim Vas..  meni je samo stalo do toga da li će da mi majka bude živa!

VINKA: oće, ne brini. Taki ne umiru. Bog ih ne uzima. Umiru dobri, a ne taki kao ona. Nego, saznala sam da nije šlogirana. Diše na cev, ali je svesna, komunicira, dakle, zna koliko je dužna. Čim ta nije odapela do sad, neće sigurno! Dobro je to s jedne strane, jer ne moraš sad i na sahranu da misliš. A opet, jednog dana će morati da umre. Ne možeš joj ti dušu čuvati. Ne možeš mamu da postaviš k’o vešala protivu stra’. Ja ću, ako dobro Bog da da dođem sutra, pa da nešto zajedno radimo, da se zezamo. Jel zvao opet onaj kreten?

(Zvonjava telefona)

LEA: Ovo je on..

VINKA: Kakav ti to glas? Nema veze. Oće to od stresa i šoka. Imaš li nešto u frižideru, a da je hrana.

LEA: Nemam. Imate li vi?

VINKA: Nemam, a i da imam, ja ti tu ne mogu pomoći.  Taksi me do Klenka košta 1200 dinara.  600 u jednom, 600 u drugom pravcu, pa ti vidi.  Ajd javi se, vidi jel taj daje pare, pa da mi platiš račune sutra. U suprotnom…

MILETA: O nečemu sam razmišljao..

LEA: To znači da ćete mi pomoći? Baba je zvala, dolazi sutra po račune.. U suprotnom će me izbaciti.. Teško govorim, nebo je potpuno tamno, ne trpi erupciju svetlosti.. Boje se smenjuju. Srećom, te ste tu Vi.

MILETA:  Ja para nemam i ne dam.

LEA: Ali pare bi zavarale Aljonu Ivanovnu.

MILETA: Leila..  Zovi familiju.

LEA: Koga?

MILETA: Tvoju familiju i rođake u Kragujevcu.

LEA: Svi su mrtvi. Svi, izuzev njih.

MILETA: Smiri se i reci ko je živ.

LEA: Njih dvoje. Strah.. Zašto me je strah? Majka je umrla juče.. u obdanici. Izvinite, samo da povratim, samo tren..

(nekoliko sekundi kasnije)

MILETA: Reci mi ko je živ, a ko je mrtav.

LEA:  Nije to gazdarica Nastasja, Razumihine. To je Aljona. Aljona Ivanovna. I sekira..

MILETA: Tvoja majka mi je rekla da su joj brat i sestra pomrli.

LEA: Jesu. A i nisu.  Mučna je to nedoumica.. Osećam bol u prsima i otežano dišem. Ne mogu da govorim glasno. Jako mi teško pada da govorim glasno. Ne vidim… Ali!  tO JE BIO MALJ, malj koji me je pregazio, malj. Svakome u životu dođe taj tren.. kada .. malj..  ii bat skine kostim s bala pod maskama i kada malj, s karnevla đavoljeg vremena dubuko fundira.. Odvalaaa! Jaoj, kakva.. odvallaaa! (menja glas) Jer to je maaalj…

MILETA: Leila..  Da li su mrtvi ili živi?

LEA:  Ono što je preživelo od njih se više ne bori za život.

MILETA: Znači, ipak me je lagala!

LEA: A u poslednjem pokušaju oboje su preminuli.

MILETA: Tvoj ujak i tetka.

LEA:  Čuje se i muzika..   To su zombiji, ujak i tetka u plesu, jedu tetrodoksin…

(istovremeno se čuje zvonjava telefona)

VINKA: A jel pričaš s njim? Meći taj spikerfon, mamicu mu…  jao kad ga dovatim, ne zvala se ja Vinka Cucić. Dođi, potegni, pomaži,  većeg seratora nisam videla, a da u oči gleda.  Ovako, Lea, ja sam zvala policiju i pitla sam ih šta je potrebno da ja tebe izbacim. Ni rod rođeni ja džaba ne bi držala u stanu, a taj koliko vidim samo se proserava, a ne daje pare. Tako da ti mene očekuj sutra s policijom da dođem, pakuj nešto osnovno što imaš, a stvari ostavi tu da budu zalog dok mi se isplati račun za struju. Ne znam ja kad će ova tvoja da izađe iz tu bolnicu. Može ona tamo da se izležava celi mesec mart, da zgaazi i u april!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Featured

Endlessly burnishing wildflowers


Fans-react-to-Daenerys-Targaryens-going-Mad-Queen-in-Game-of-Thrones-Season-8-Episode-5-22The-Bells22

Endlessly burnishing wildflowers

Forgotten by splattered times of bloodless slaughterer’s

design

Waking ones lulled carrion of sleeps myriads

Forced to godforsakenly steal endlessly robbed visions til deaths hibernating above all else

Effectively cut short dreams frightfully harden the nights frightfully seem as long as the night lasts

Frenzied paced yelling, finally put lighting in its willingly placed awakening mortality silenced scream

Immortalized storms forming
under the bitten tongue,

Secretively shadowing its sensed shade
From hiding you from under the knife

Green eyes
brown eyes
I did not have the privilege to choose
Knighted enemies eyes

Alone like Kings of the Night

Gleamed like white foot soldiers

Woefully heroic scream of blue lightning pride’s flashes
Feverishly quickening beasts

Move towards sickening its growl

Shrieking his disappointment firmly pitted against his

Bows in accordance of the journey’s will to end.

As those witnessed in deathly silence

Perched like birds of pray on the hilltop will remain still
In the sound of dragon.

There is no realm of pure meaning – Not today!
My God, dead, but yet alive
Death in itself and Words above the world
– a burning droplet, an angry hollow
and a cry of fear.

Featured

The Ghostwriter. Cripple. Madwoman. Video version, poetry recital


It is a poem about passionately driven needs to share something as uniqueness itself. But a poet feels the lack of words to express it, to see all through unto another imminently adversity of poetically rhythmic challenge to pledge in well-written form. But, unfortunately, a poet must write in a language which is not his/her own.

 

The Ghostwriter. Cripple. Madwoman.

Why creator, why Serbian is my mother tongue
why did you make me crippled …;

My gentle voice was offered in kindness
alone is to lay the proper framework
well-placed suggestive supportive backings
by not chasing dreams ending
but rather cherishing its precious moments
along well-written lines of living it.

a hinted thought in my vocabulary
processing attempts as each memorizing
idealistic flash penetrates my mind
with this blinding reverberating echo

I needed an old friend from birth
as one throughout the day today
and then when the house was calling my opening of its door
welcomed me with overwhelming reports of

which music from the past I knew somehow guiding me
into today’s reminder
that I will be ok no matter what tomorrow brings.

I can finally close my eyes in being reassured nightmares
wait not for dawns whistling birds dreaming
in sync with a mine of better days break

for all of those to see us through to another
imminently adversity of poetically
a rhythmic challenge to pledge in well-written form.

in our daily healing needs
if ever we hope to carry our torches healthily
throughout our chosen marathons of life.

This gift though will not fade
as those previously brought forth
throughout artistic history has proven.
It always starts with One leading by example.

My own path is not my own path
Be it a humanistic artist in a spirit form, or if medical assistance would reveal its wisdom’s
recognition when proudly sought after whenever its shelters
offered from overwhelming thoughts
let their presence be known.

Circumstances will always be differentiating
between origins of authenticity.
However, the origins of free will be authentically never different
in any circumstances brought between those trying to be heard.

A whisper triggers curiosity’s interest in turning
While a panicked scream can send people running in the opposite direction.

The most fared ally of oppression
loud voices is the ghostwriter.

My words of change will be heard by those meant
to join mine journeys of poetic justice.

 

Featured

Prepoznacete se.


Ja sam ovo – Lejla Samaraj takođe i kao Leila Samarrai Mehdi, (Kragujevac, 1976) je književnica i prevodilac srpsko-arapskog porekla. Piše poeziju, priče, drame i romane sa čestim korišćenjem fantastike i humora.[1][2]

Lejla Samaraj
Leila Samarrai Mehdi
Puno ime
Lejla Samaraj Mehdi (Leila Samarrai Mehdi)
Datum rođenja
19. oktobar 1976. (42 god.)
Mesto rođenja
Kragujevac
Srbija, SFRJ
Najvažnija dela
Mrak će razumeti, Lutke, Avanture Borisa K.
Studirala je španski jezik i hispanske književnosti. U književnosti je debitovala 2002. godine, pobedom na konkursu za prvu knjigu Studentskog kulturnog centra u Kragujevcu. Osim na srpskom jeziku, manje radove je objavljivala na mađarskom i španskom. Živi i radi u Beogradu.

Sadržaj
Izbor iz bibliografije
Uredi
Veća dela:

Mrak će razumeti (zbirka pesama), Studentski kulturni centar, Kragujevac. 2002. ISBN 978-86-7398-010-2.
Lutke (drama), biblioteka „Savremena srpska drama“, elektronsko izdanje, Projekat Rastko, 2009.
Avanture Borisa K. (zbirka priča), „Everest media“, Beograd. 2013. ISBN 978-86-7756-028-7.
Kraća dela:

U štampanoj formi priče je objavila u zborniku Najkraća priča („Alma”, 2010) i časopisima Kvartal, Mons Auerus, Nosorog i Koraci.

Prozu, poeziju i aforizme objavljuje u elektronskom obliku u okviru više specijalizovanih sajtova: „Projekat Rastko — Biblioteka srpske kulture na Internetu“, „Balkanski književni glasnik“, „Mreža kreativnih ljudi“, „Beleg“ [1], „Jovo Nikolić“, „Nosorog“, „Zetna“, „Afirmator“ [2], „Helly Cherry“ [3] i dr.

Nagrade i priznanja
Uredi
Prva nagrada na konkursu Edicije „Prvenac“ Studentskog kulturnog centra, Kragujevac, 2002.
Tri nagrade na konkursu „357 — Priča za tren“, Beograd, 2011.
Treće mesto za fantastični aforizam „Zvezde i mi“, 2011. (kao predstavnica Srbije)
Treće mesto na konkursu „Belega“ za kratku fantastičnu priču, 2011.
izvor: Wikipedia

A ko se vi?

 

 

 

 

 

Featured

Dream/Serbian original included


The wide cathedral with a bell tower
After ten minutes of silence in my sleep,
in ten ways it is reviving me over and over again
I’m awake
See how my face flinched?
wiped the sweat between the breasts at the junction of the ribs.

I keep dreams, though they are like time,
trapped in a kind of half-wasted glass beakers.
The dreams are swarming with preserved objects and beings,
night there is nothing and everything in them,
and I believe and do not believe in symbols of unused love.

Such is the Dream, as a  record that repeats,
continuously announces an alert,
repetitive parody.
it is a dream that shakes the nerves
and then splits, strange,
glassy, erotic like a dead man
embedded in a chest with tablecloths set.

***

Široka katedrala sa zvonikom
nakon deset minuta ćutanja u snu,
na deset načina me doziva svesti.
Probudih se tako sto sam se lecnula
obrisala znoj između grudi, na spoju rebaraca.

Čuvam snove, iako su oni kao vreme,
zarobljeni u kakvom staklu poluispijene čaše.
Snovi vrve sačuvanim predmetima i bićima,
noć u njima je i ništa i sve,
i verujem i ne verujem u simbole
neiskorišćene ljubavi.

Takav je San, kao ploča što ponavlja,
neprekidno objavljuje uzbunu,
parodiju na ponavljanja.
to je san koji uzdrma živce i ode, neobičan,
staklast, erotski poput mrtvaca
ubačenog u sanduk sa postavljenim stolnjacima.

 

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