diederdas katzen – for Čarapica (Chappy, August 28, 2006 – August 28, 2022)

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alt und e-version
a mouse’t introit
of gray-grey
snag-pylon
’round which in rainbow garb
und pied-measure
the Schicksals und muses waltz

            I Clio

Clio
silver-gray sunrise
ashes at day’s end
she sits
paws quill-pin’d
drawing inks from a ball of string –
fate itself out-thread spin of snake &n’ rainbow
until snip’t
into a life-sized bowl of milk
drying (tongue-wise…)
into a glaze of white on white
(or ghost on bone)

II Melpomene

in or out

all the world’s astayge –

Tom savage’rys

that strut &n’ go

return badge’d with wounds

full of hunger &n’ sleep

as nook-by-room

bruised by instinct’s wobbly ferris

mother &n’kits assume the rutty-furrow

until at last

each by all

are heard in mind’s light only

III Thalia

in self measures

the Falstaffian snores

the Doll dozes restively

as belly-quiet &n’ sphinx-like

the inn cat purrs

outside

it is snowing twilight

inn cat wakens

to the flinchy-drumings of candle &n’ moth

overtones nudge

Falstaffians fart

Dolls start/mutter

candle (goes out) &n’ moth –

where are they now?

(hear that?

the stars are clunking…

inn cat slow blinks

frowns

cheshires a laugh

made of cheddar’d silence

neighn lives (O’ –

IV Calliope

ferris purrs-thru

yesterspokes come &n’ go (again…

shedding a glitter of sand*

to be or not box’t (for-

give the Thalian over-spoke…) anew

* char-ants follow f’r clean-up

that becomes an Ozymandus lyre

musics from a claw-strum’d rose

as menchheit – the begotten mouse&n’mouser –

domesticates harrow by hearth

another mix’t hour’s-worth

of ours-worth (yawn, alas, of full moon…

V Urania

night vision

but

nor tom nor mother nor kits

sees or recons their passage

from the star-font writ

of

Leo in the sky

nor by day do they

mis-know

that beneath the reaching arm

, or bush’s overhang –

the origin of fondle &n’ food

nor (bone in) can un-know

that for them &n’ theirs

the owl in red-shift

is not the stuff of milk

or Hollywood

VI Euterpe

self’s trio

cats have but a three-string

pure they stuffs

of meows purr’d-meows

&n’d the resonant growls

of grab-it or fight

who can guess what else?

otherwise

from April keeps

to when the leaves wither &n’ down-strum

we sing for them…

VII Terpsichore

jete

up for ball swing

laser’s insane Lebans

near-miss’t bird

pure elan

or

escape’s nearest fence

beneath the hissly branch of all things

this is how the sworl ends

” ” ” ” ” “

silent feet

parting fogs with pock’t cursives

(repeat first

then second stanza (optional)

VIII Polymnia

toms

yawl in drunken fortes

moms

in curved altos

both (whatever they may

they whatever)

in a music too antique

for the nudge or bark of human words

window in

, window out –

XI Erato

comes now

Glenda the Good

safe from all but Trojan harps

the keeper of cats

Eros is as does

prone to vagabondia

whose passing shadow’s enough

to (however un-handy the hour) grow love

from the pulse-deep strums

of self’s virtuosity (O rose

o’rose…

winnowing (au talons –

against the engines of time* comes hard

* always/everywhere ‘too o’clock’

a roll of milk-less dice

wounding the day along

until comes a cauter of stars

mixing, alas, the salts of preservation

with the sands of wither &n sting

still

Glenda the Good

keeper of cats subsumes

saves with her own muses &n’ fates (ergos

&n’ errors in the scheme of all things)

some in her room darkness

from itself

moon

, purr…

diederdas katzen – poem for Čarapica (Chappy, August 28, 2006 – August 28, 2022)

Featured

alt und e-version
a mouse’t introit
of gray-grey
snag-pylon
’round which in rainbow garb
und pied-measure
the Schicksals und muses waltz

            I Clio

Clio
silver-gray sunrise
ashes at day’s end
she sits
paws quill-pin’d
drawing inks from a ball of string –
fate itself out-thread spin of snake &n’ rainbow
until snip’t
into a life-sized bowl of milk
drying (tongue-wise…)
into a glaze of white on white
(or ghost on bone)

            II Melpomene

in or out
all the world’s astayge –
Tom savage’rys
that strut &n’ go
return badge’d with wounds
full of hunger &n’ sleep
as nook-by-room
bruised by instinct’s wobbly ferris
mother &n’kits assume the rutty-furrow
until at last
each by all
are heard in mind’s light only

            III Thalia

in self measures
the Falstaffian snores
the Doll dozes restively
as belly-quiet &n’ sphinx-like
the inn cat purrs

outside
it is snowing twilight

inn cat wakens
to the flinchy-drumings of candle &n’ moth

overtones nudge
Falstaffians fart
Dolls start/mutter

candle (goes out) &n’ moth –
where are they now?
(hear that?
the stars are clunking…

inn cat slow blinks
frowns
cheshires a laugh
made of cheddar’d silence

neighn lives (O’ –

            IV Calliope

ferris purrs-thru
yesterspokes come &n’ go (again…
shedding a glitter of sand*
to be or not box’t (for-
give the Thalian over-spoke…) anew
* char-ants follow f’r clean-up
that becomes an Ozymandus lyre
musics from a claw-strum’d rose
as menchheit – the begotten mouse&n’mouser –
domesticates harrow by hearth
another mix’t hour’s-worth
of ours-worth (yawn, alas, of full moon…

            V Urania

night vision
but
nor tom nor mother nor kits
sees or recons their passage
from the star-font writ
of 
Leo in the sky

nor by day do they
mis-know
that beneath the reaching arm
, or bush’s overhang –
the origin of fondle &n’ food
nor (bone in) can un-know
that for them &n’ theirs
the owl in red-shift
is not the stuff of milk
or Hollywood

            VI Euterpe

self’s trio
cats have but a three-string
pure they stuffs
of meows purr’d-meows
&n’d the resonant growls
of grab-it or fight

who can guess what else?

otherwise

from April keeps
to when the leaves wither &n’ down-strum

we sing for them…

            VII Terpsichore

jete
up for ball swing
laser’s insane Lebans
near-miss’t bird
pure elan
or
escape’s nearest fence
beneath the hissly branch of all things

this is how the sworl ends
  ”    ”    ”    ”      ”        “
silent feet
parting fogs with pock’t cursives

(repeat first
then second stanza (optional)

            VIII Polymnia

toms
yawl in drunken fortes
moms
in curved altos

both (whatever they may
they whatever)
in a music too antique
for the nudge or bark of human words

window in
, window out –

            XI Erato

comes now
Glenda the Good
safe from all but Trojan harps
the keeper of cats

Eros is as does
prone to vagabondia
whose passing shadow’s enough
to (however un-handy the hour) grow love
from the pulse-deep strums
of self’s virtuosity (O rose
o’rose…

winnowing (au talons –
against the engines of time* comes hard
* always/everywhere ‘too o’clock’
a roll of milk-less dice
wounding the day along
until comes a cauter of stars
mixing, alas, the salts of preservation
with the sands of wither &n sting

still
Glenda the Good
keeper of cats subsumes
saves with her own muses &n’ fates (ergos
&n’ errors in the scheme of all things)
some in her room darkness
from itself

moon
, purr…

A man who begged for his death

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The scene begins with strong accents because the Grim Reaper and the patient have been having an angry conversation for some time. The patient is 78 years old, withered as a rose, unusually cheerful on his deathbed, chirping like a swallow.

– Murder me, yes, murder me! And the blood will rush from my veins, and I will feel warm and laugh. Lord, I will be content! I’ll be overjoyed!
– Death is a reaper, and it cuts precisely!
– Yes, yes, death operates 24 hours a day. Kill me and deliver me from her clutches!

Santa Muerte paused with his scythe in his hand, inhaling the stench that evaporates from the deceased’s fat deposits and is blown in blue rings of fragrance while the dying patient sings.

– Oh, you’ll get drunk, pass out, and be content. You stinky ball of a human being, go to the pubs and the streets. I’m sick of your breath and the stench of your oxen shoes, and you used to be someone… a real figure of a lieutenant colonel of light cavalry, in black fox fur, you moved with routine ease, despite the first deposits of fat that are more the result of alcohol than food. Your sabre was curved more than mine!

Death becomes enraged and decides to kill him with a barbaric swing.
– I have already liquidated myself deep within myself, and I consider myself to be a random someone, a phenomenon that is already more underground than in real life. – with a last jerk, he grabs the Reaper’s hair and brings it to his lips reverently, while the murmur of debauchery from the taverns that the admiral of the fleet visited during his life pours into the dying room, as if into a shell: murmurs, screams, whispers, hellish growls, finally – cyanotic sea foam

– I’m a drunkard in a tavern, hell, and a madhouse, but I always knew whether I was in a tavern, hell, or a madhouse. Please help me!
Death sighs deeply as he realizes how difficult everything is.

– What are you on about? I see you recall your previous life and the sixteenth century. Is there anyone else here? Do you have a spouse? Do you have a family?
– Not! I’m all alone! I don’t have anyone!
– Who… is that? What happened to her?
Death closes her eyes abruptly.
A desperate wailing voice erupted from the shadows.
–  Me? I’m at a loss for what to do! I’ll have to commit suicide by cutting my own throat.
I cut, and it’s all over… Attack. Tears. A piercing scream.

Sand flows steadily in the clepsydra on the wall.

Then, seeing the old dame’s shadow across the street, death rose quietly, walked on tiptoe, as if in a church, to the glass door that leads to the terrace, and there, with the open curtain, watching the leaves fall from the plane trees, and the distant instrumentation of the cannons surrendered sentimental fantasy.

– I remember you, admiral – Death looked at the old woman hypnotically – I remember you on the deck, bathed in red distant, bloody flames, so those shadows intertwine like inky ghostly apparitions. And there, on the ship’s bow, you could see your massive, dominant, daring, and defiant appearance.

The red admiral flag fluttering above your head as you stared at the shipwreck in front of you. Strong winds and thunder. THEN ONE VOICE COULD BE HEARD SAYING, “There’s the Admiral!” It’s directly on the beak! The admiral must perish! It had to be her
This old woman. Political showdowns, you killed her husband, an enemy admiral, and all that’s left for the widow to do is cut her veins, and it’s a kind of political showdown, what will happen to those poor children, but well, you killed him, he prayed in Latin, the woman cut her veins, all of this is political calculation.
But it was her only meaning in the madness of life, and now she is hell’s only refuge. To her, you resemble him. That is why, deep within her, she crushes hatred, which fights with love, but both love and hatred dissolve slowly, like poison.

– Please save me! I washed my bad wounds, I don’t want her to wash me with hydrogen, drinking water – then she bathes me – she moaned – as big as a celestial body in our system, and she is terrible, she uses an antique store comb with strands of witch’s hair in it, and she is terrible. And he tells me, “Pasha, I love you so bloody much!”

– She accused you of being a womanizer, and she told me: Death, I didn’t believe him, and I hated him for it! I can see her from where I am. He now moves away from the terrace and watches TV with bloodshot eyes. She is praying for your health
. – Erase that darkness, erase it! Don’t let me die! I don’t need a bloated, balding, grey-haired poisoner’s lifelong nursing intervention – she flirted with death, er… with you so much that speaking symbolically is closer to the Unknown than speech or a picture. You did it! Satan!

Death became perplexed to the point of total lack of spirit. The patient sighed. The nurse rose from her chair, returned to the window, and kissed them both.
The patient’s reaction is neurasthenic and helpless

– I thought it was a trick, and now that I see you, you have no idea what I would do, whether to go or not to go, kill you or leave you alive, throw the scythe far away from me, I sincerely grieve, but my work is now done. However, death mows, precisely, death must work. If not me, who will? Death was pondering. Then he added, “I have memories, too.” I was not always Death. This old bat is as familiar to me as my first scythe. She is only from competition, and don’t ask what kind of competition.
But I remember her measuring the appropriate length of the probe, measuring the distance from the tip of the nose to the ear, then to the top of the sternum (and then he kisses me in the mouth). That’s how I died the first time
– She added another 10 cm to that length if she placed the nasogastric tube through the nostril, i.e. through the dying man’s fear. A whirlwind blows, and the madam’s body collides with the pane. Broken glass was everywhere.
– Give me back my rib!.- missus said to the admiral.
Then she turned to Death and said,
– You, ms Marzanna give me back my first scythe covered in ancient blood!
– And her hair… in the daylight, her hair turns white; at night, her hair crawls, surrounded by poisonous snakes, and the missis says,
  “I used to be a young and beautiful girl.” dignified and deserving of respect. My beauty was melted away by the pain and peeled off like wax.
Out of vanity, I used Lornion a century and a half later. I went to church after leaving the opera and became close to the Dominican sisters. So I resolved to be and remain a widow and a sister, religious or secular, and to devote myself to the Admiral in the nights when my pain grew under my fingers. I was. So I wasn’t any longer. And now I go to Biedermeier to mourn my husband’s death mask, to marry him again until the end of time, marry and mourn, marry and mourn, you Hochstapler’s misery – she said to the admiral, as she looked curiously at death’s scythe as if in an apparition.

– That is, indeed, her. She enjoys inserting the urinary catheter repeatedly – Death leans against the wall, deep in thought. – That’s exactly what she says: “Shall we insert another urinary catheter into you?” Alternatively, lie down with your thighs slightly abducted.”

The dying man almost jumped out of bed when he heard this: “Who, Death, would not be left indifferent and speechless by such unworthy images? Get me away from the old harlot and off this dissecting table! I was an experienced warrior, a capulin of dogs, as evidenced by my movements and calm self-awareness!
I’ve conquered many seas, and I’m going to conquer new lands with my ballast. Save me from her, from Berleitnant Dr., who manicures her nails: from her set box manicures and nail polish bottles, all lit up by a beam of sebaceous glands as bright as possible on the parallelogram of the lid of one military mug!

I’m not sure how it went. Death pounced cruelly and violently on the deceased old mater: 

– Ah, what? What about me? Down! Come down! I need to be alone! She screams as he grabs her and throws her into the water.

-, Admiral, why are you so quiet? Allow me to cut you so we can fight together!
– But!………….. NO!!

Wind, panes, screams, hair blowing, and thunder, through which the voice of the Unknown Executioner and trumpet blasts can be heard.
Death bled the captain with his scythe and killed him as blood flowed like a faucet. And this one appeared to be dozing off. The last thing he heard was her rage: “Animal!” While death was rescuing him from her curse and fate, she was discovering new worlds in his flesh wounds where her pain would fade in maddened senseless fogs. Then she dashed back to where she came from.

The scene begins with strong accents because the Grim Reaper and the patient have been having an angry conversation for some time. The patient is 78 years old, withered as a rose, unusually cheerful on his deathbed, chirping like a swallow.

– Murder me, yes, murder me! And the blood will rush from my veins, and I will feel warm and laugh. Lord, I will be content! I’ll be overjoyed!
– Death is a reaper, and it cuts precisely!
– Yes, yes, death operates 24 hours a day. Kill me and deliver me from her clutches!

Santa Muerte paused with his scythe in his hand, inhaling the stench that evaporates from the deceased’s fat deposits and is blown in blue rings of fragrance while the dying patient sings.

– Oh, you’ll get drunk, pass out, and be content. You stinky ball of a human being, go to the pubs and the streets. I’m sick of your breath and the stench of your oxen shoes, and you used to be someone… a real figure of a lieutenant colonel of light cavalry, in black fox fur, you moved with routine ease, despite the first deposits of fat that are more the result of alcohol than food. Your sabre was curved more than mine!

Death becomes enraged and decides to kill him with a barbaric swing.
– I have already liquidated myself deep within myself, and I consider myself to be a random someone, a phenomenon that is already more underground than in real life. – with a last jerk, he grabs the Reaper’s hair and brings it to his lips reverently, while the murmur of debauchery from the taverns that the admiral of the fleet visited during his life pours into the dying room, as if into a shell: murmurs, screams, whispers, hellish growls, finally – cyanotic sea foam

– I’m a drunkard in a tavern, hell, and a madhouse, but I always knew whether I was in a tavern, hell, or a madhouse. Please help me!
Death sighs deeply as he realizes how difficult everything is.

– What are you on about? I see you recall your previous life and the sixteenth century. Is there anyone else here? Do you have a spouse? Do you have a family?
– Not! I’m all alone! I don’t have anyone!
– Who… is that? What happened to her?
Death closes her eyes abruptly.
A desperate wailing voice erupted from the shadows.
–  Me? I’m at a loss for what to do! I’ll have to commit suicide by cutting my own throat.
I cut, and it’s all over… Attack. Tears. A piercing scream.

Sand flows steadily in the clepsydra on the wall.

Then, seeing the old dame’s shadow across the street, death rose quietly, walked on tiptoe, as if in a church, to the glass door that leads to the terrace, and there, with the open curtain, watching the leaves fall from the plane trees, and the distant instrumentation of the cannons surrendered sentimental fantasy.

– I remember you, admiral – Death looked at the old woman hypnotically – I remember you on the deck, bathed in red distant, bloody flames, so those shadows intertwine like inky ghostly apparitions. And there, on the ship’s bow, you could see your massive, dominant, daring, and defiant appearance.

The red admiral flag fluttering above your head as you stared at the shipwreck in front of you. Strong winds and thunder. THEN ONE VOICE COULD BE HEARD SAYING, “There’s the Admiral!” It’s directly on the beak! The admiral must perish! It had to be her
This old woman. Political showdowns, you killed her husband, an enemy admiral, and all that’s left for the widow to do is cut her veins, and it’s a kind of political showdown, what will happen to those poor children, but well, you killed him, he prayed in Latin, the woman cut her veins, all of this is political calculation.
But it was her only meaning in the madness of life, and now she is hell’s only refuge. To her, you resemble him. That is why, deep within her, she crushes hatred, which fights with love, but both love and hatred dissolve slowly, like poison.

– Please save me! I washed my bad wounds, I don’t want her to wash me with hydrogen, drinking water – then she bathes me – she moaned – as big as a celestial body in our system, and she is terrible, she uses an antique store comb with strands of witch’s hair in it, and she is terrible. And he tells me, “Pasha, I love you so bloody much!”

– She accused you of being a womanizer, and she told me: Death, I didn’t believe him, and I hated him for it! I can see her from where I am. He now moves away from the terrace and watches TV with bloodshot eyes. She is praying for your health
. – Erase that darkness, erase it! Don’t let me die! I don’t need a bloated, balding, grey-haired poisoner’s lifelong nursing intervention – she flirted with death, er… with you so much that speaking symbolically is closer to the Unknown than speech or a picture. You did it! Satan!

Death became perplexed to the point of total lack of spirit. The patient sighed. The nurse rose from her chair, returned to the window, and kissed them both.
The patient’s reaction is neurasthenic and helpless

– I thought it was a trick, and now that I see it, you don’t know what I would do, go or not go, kill you or not kill you. – I thought it was a trick, and now that I see it, you have no idea what I would do, go or not go, kill you or leave you alive, throw your hair away from me, I’m truly sorry, but my job now triumphs. However, death mows, precisely, death must work. Who will, if not me? – contemplate death. Then he added, “I have memories, too.” I was not always Death. This old bat is as familiar to me as my first scythe. She is only from competition, and don’t ask what kind of competition.
But I remember her measuring the appropriate length of the probe, measuring the distance from the tip of the nose to the ear, then to the top of the sternum (and then he kisses me in the mouth). That’s how I died the first time
– She added another 10 cm to that length if she placed the nasogastric tube through the nostril, i.e. through the dying man’s fear. A whirlwind blows, and the madam’s body collides with the pane. Broken glass was everywhere.
– Give me back my rib!.- missus said to the admiral.
Then she turned to Death and said,
– You, ms Marzanna give me back my first scythe covered in ancient blood!
– And her hair… in the daylight, her hair turns white; at night, her hair crawls, surrounded by poisonous snakes, and the missis says,
  “I used to be a young and beautiful girl.” dignified and deserving of respect. My beauty was melted away by the pain and peeled off like wax.
Out of vanity, I used Lornion a century and a half later. I went to church after leaving the opera and became close to the Dominican sisters. So I resolved to be and remain a widow and a sister, religious or secular, and to devote myself to the Admiral in the nights when my pain grew under my fingers. I was. So I wasn’t any longer. And now I go to Biedermeier to mourn my husband’s death mask, to marry him again until the end of time, marry and mourn, marry and mourn, you Hochstapler’s misery – she said to the admiral, as she looked curiously at death’s scythe as if in an apparition.

– That is, indeed, her. She enjoys inserting the urinary catheter repeatedly – Death leans against the wall, deep in thought. – That’s exactly what she says: “Shall we insert another urinary catheter into you?” Alternatively, lie down with your thighs slightly abducted.”

The dying man almost jumped out of bed when he heard this: “Who, Death, would not be left indifferent and speechless by such unworthy images? Get me away from the old harlot and off this dissecting table! I was an experienced warrior, a capulin of dogs, as evidenced by my movements and calm self-awareness!
I’ve conquered many seas, and I’m going to conquer new lands with my ballast. Save me from her, from Berleitnant Dr., who manicures her nails: from her set box manicures and nail polish bottles, all lit up by a beam of sebaceous glands as bright as possible on the parallelogram of the lid of one military mug!

I’m not sure how it went. Death pounced cruelly and violently on the deceased old mater: 

– Ah, what? What about me? Down! Come down! I need to be alone! She screams as he grabs her and throws her into the water.

-, Admiral, why are you so quiet? Allow me to cut you so we can fight together!
– But!………….. NO!!

Wind, panes, screams, hair blowing, and thunder, through which the voice of the Unknown Executioner and trumpet blasts can be heard.
Death bled the captain with his scythe and killed him as blood flowed like a faucet. And this one appeared to be dozing off. The last thing he heard was her rage: “Animal!” While death was rescuing him from her curse and fate, she was discovering new worlds in his flesh wounds where her pain would fade in maddened senseless fogs. Then she dashed back to where she came from.

Baba Yaga

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Near the witch grandma song
Symphomaniacs and Satan Voice and body
consolidate inside the fog of thought.
Passing might have been charming In the north-eastern Siberian grandmother’s honor?

Wearisome our fire, unending our develop one hour old
exactly when judgments go ahead with ice locked all the colder season
wearisome hoarfrost sunned the most noteworthy zenith
upon the effect
on the interstellar aide of blocked roads
its splendid sun animating wonderfully
so be it, the hawthorn tops
so be it stem the hawthorn tops
in heart witch, caracal checked look out,
quiet fire snaps in shut rooms
like a strip
Bridget Bishop with an open heart
all lost, all lost, and nothing that can miss

exactly when you flip around the early Siberian birds,
rust-concealed canines woofing like a human voice could never exist
it is plausible to breathe in away from rabies
drifting ice from Siberia conveys frosty foxes on it
the irritated sun broke down into excess
unmelted wax for loathsome witches

Taking into account this, I will not bring
The story of me
I’m…

Wiccan showed the lights of Salem consuming
Since we don’t go through the minefields.
belted back not concern us
complete guiltlessness isn’t among the holy people

however lengthy the exploded shells
had been ended inside the internment chamber
bound with string and obscured
all affection wrapped by dew
nothing among it and the impacting sky

Between the oppressors and the questionable appearances.
A tanned thought spills scars
covers are stuck inside. furthermore, assembled
at a point that will squint the huge within
me the
so to speak thing more superb than an island burning

Water progressed forward
for frozen faces, it is more straightforward to imagine
subtropical steppe of Novosibirsk
a dull clad vampire will approach with wild, speedy leaps
with a white face and fake blood around his lips
stays near the coffin and frenzies the visitors.
additionally, shape one’s own otherworldliness
previously, previously shined singing
I washed, in my stones, I was appointed
under each bone on fire
it is much the same way to insidious
on their heads
staggering.
The title of my.
Then, I’m there.
Those – no.

the stake rests in the chest likewise as before

Baba Yaga Painting by Tatiana Chepkasova | Saatchi Art © Leila Samarrai      

Phoenix

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Phoenix egged burnt lucency of Zion,
Hovering sounds moaned intoned as each dead fell,
Failings fall, shiver and dead rise faltering,
Dilly-dallying zephyr riles,
The gale gusts in undulations maddeningly.
Of those who’ve died, exhausted beyond insightful;

I arise from tenebrous dead depths,
Candle flickers loping limping legion of devils,
(The diablocojuelo).
Outcry groans moans, in the half-light;

“Lazarus, come forth.”
The wake in terrible miserable ache,

Heaven is snatched away,
Exclamations of “Why” echo in the horror,
Sylvia Plath enters heated caves and Virginia Woolf gathers stones.
Effort to effected cause willed power,
Effect to instructed methodized procedure,
Frankensteined to abhorrent complete,
And finally, a stake to vampiric heart.

The Renaissance is spent,
Lady Lazarus laments.
Faded Jerusalem is ruins,
Desert caravans careen to dust,
Siberian singers slough to slowing in brumal,
Logic languishes in the defects.

Blessed be you, sublimely unreasonable,
Among the reasonably riled retinue.

Photo Credit: Olha Darchuk, Phoenix 

Again…the night! Again and again and again…in night…

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And how from thenceforth, I…
Facing blossoming willows of mine,
Estetica etica,
Facing anxieties and colonies a la lazaretto,
Leprosarium in Caesar’s hospice.
Before the judgment in wrath, fury and torture,
In patterns tawny and darkened,
Pounds, ounces, pennies box the mind,
Unsealed unlocked revealed from hearts hearth.
Triple cover blooms clouds between fields,
Dismal shrouding me, thy is the castle cacophony,
Tied to breed idolatry, scraps of food in poverty,
‘tis some bravery that shames me.
Nothing…nothing…but miles to the cemetery, death’s vile estuary,
Differentials extinct between friend and foe,
To dire dusts, we all depart in returning,
Overflowing passes requiems.
Grave thew’s in duels, magicians and mobs,
Charnel homes choked and crowded,
The open moor maw’s mewl shared souls
The box in bile vividly coloured,
Stain glass strained and blind,
Corpses worthy estranged in engage,
Faces abhorrence rearranged,
Visages of friendly foes fixate.
Thine is the repository! Thine is the tower! Thine is the castle!
Wasted shekels on broken hurts and hearts,
Disgusting guzzle’s gasps gulps avarice.
Crystal balls, crystal chandelier, Turkish marches feared,
The long-nosed ballerina dances and riles,
In cruelties deadly disease.
Mistakes may require hours,
Thus embarks my fatigue through fulsome fear,
Bewail I in misery motifs;
Stones in forever forgotten weep, shine’s digress,
Shine shekel savagery…for now…
But the silent dust rises in easterly eclipse,
Again…the night!
Again and again and again…in night…

Towards the Death’s odor land

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When the earth curses at night, as everything
rots and dies, then even seemed that dumb drum
struck twice through mortal silence
on, contorted quietness…. stopped – young
– of all old corpses, first!
In the dying days, the earth creaks quietly with bells- and wakes
like the well lit Zion weeping echo
each one in turn perishes and yells
And the providence sprouting its laughter, loud and wild.
the roar of the blood
the maddened dark
shone steady sun as bright.
to both old and young
        drip drip in Death’s odor land
.

Forgiveness

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How do blue feelings feel?
a faded fire in the eyes,
a numb hand on my chest
as I lay dying, among the graves?
Irreverence – what is that?
a wide open mouth spitting
hundreds of poisonous flowers?

Forgive the bastards!

Being dead, what is it like, after all this?
A knife impaled in the stomach,
made up of a thousand thunder bolts!
I’m purged through a holy fire
of bonfires and stars!

What thrill’s wave!
Bloody ravines everywhere,
now and to come! I absolve you all!
Bastards over the world: I absolve you all!
malvados, screams, bloody ravine, villain
Ego te absolvo!
Schwein, Schweinehund, everywhere,
now and to come:
I absolve you all!
(Vo veki vekov!)

Schwein · 1. pig, hog (US); (Fleisch) pork. sich wie die Schweine benehmen (inf) to behave like pigs (inf) · 2. (inf: Mensch) pig (inf), swine; (= Schweinehund)
Ego te absolvo means I absolve you
Vo veki vekov means forever and ever
In some cases (when negation takes place), “во веки веков” should be translated as “never”. 

Dandelions don’t tell no lies

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Dew drips from the green leaves. Fireflies, oleanders.
With their selenite eyes on the starboard side,
Dandelions don’t tell no lies

Beside me stood the blessed Cause
Lingering and murmuring by my side,
golden golden emeralds shine
Dandelions don’t tell no lies

Fell on my brow; while the corundum air
placed the things that remind you of water.
And the green stars burn like haunted fires
… for these virtues, dandelions, escaped….

You shall find your thin brown course
That tree is on the side of the Slow
The blood with the transparent water,
Dandelions do not lie, but they do smile in their own pure air.

Golgotha fell again like a bloody seed on the vertex

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It’s quiet, eerily quiet.
Filled with alabaster air,
Swift as a purple night,
Pale as an evening west
Black secrets stir in every face;
Disdain the Were the from parades;
Keep the dark flies up the road;

Will the white idol, despised and spat upon,
naked and crucified, live forever?
Doth not her ear to peace?
Disdain becomes pictorial

When the Son of Man is
slaughtered
and his wounds are
burned and torn,
Shall I am of my ancient sorrow?

Shepherd, ye taught thee for a single-ply;
a curse, a stone, a bullet are poured on his head,
Chain to a square with palaces,
House, banquet! dale and lake,

Thomas, the posthumous weevil,
burns, sad lipstick he drinks and shatters:
“Golgotha fell again like a bloody seed on the vertex.”
Although no darkness since all difference may end.
Sparta never from our skies.

[ A wide, bell-shaped cathedral ]

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A wide, bell-shaped cathedral
loomed large as I slept
over and over as it revived me

as I awoke
I flinched

The awoken.
A sweat poured from the breasts at the ribcage junction.

Dreams are like time, but I keep them anyways
confined within a glass beaker.
The dreams are awash
with preserved objects and beings.

Everything and nothing is there at night.
Symbols of unused love are both valid and invalid.

As an ever-repeating record, the Dream is
announcing alerts continuously,
in constant parody.

Such a nightmare would make anyone shiver.
Splits in two, strange
strange

strangely glassy, erotic
tablecloths set into a chest.

 Or not, for life is a circus,

the tip: suss out the clown from the ringmaster.

Wrath (Prometheus rising)

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Things break,
arguing ensues,
yelling ensues.
The gruesome gnomes are back.

Let’s birth them!
Kerosene lamps leak out in a spiral of filth
and bells ring at funeral masses

become vengeance
become… wrath

Fearful cowards
prior to the ferocious whirlwind of war
They hammer the door,
like a graveyard

become vengeance
become fury

Not yet
Not yet carved
a silhouette,,
not yet dried

The stage suddenly lit up.
A basement lamp.

ire
animositas

fire fire fire

(fire fire fire….)
mad mad gun

2

Hunchbacks
With a cloud on their back
Butcher clowns
Villains
Regana’s daughters
Who hate my day
And all my mornings
Born from the wound
Of glistening narcissuses
Litter of Lucrecia
You exchanged venoms
Compressed into pitchers
In grinds sweetly
To stain the knife
With ancient cause
It is the artist osculating
He butchered the night
Of silence
And hush
But I will further hear
The eternal echo of my death.

3

three segment worms turn the stomach
smile of a dwarf attitude,
and the rat dogs make ready to scratch
….the itch of each!

lightning bug smoke signals
alert alter boys that rage starts after mass.
be come comes from behind…
sneaking past fear that can’t hold
a candle to the unleashed release of blind war.

see the crowds gather for flames
reflected in pyromaniac eyes…yes!
now i am power, hammer, sickle,
sword sick and thor!

the reincarnated zombies rise to ride fury,
and your sons will carry future lust.
but not yet, made to wait…

waiting on a burned wood
outline of a melted sunset
afterglow of a dark blue canvas.
a hot lava lamp down deep

…to announce Prometheus rising..
but not yet….
tonight we feast and rage on fire,
with pre gun powder,
and pre pyrotechnical power.

Saadi*

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Drums, black flutes, trumpets, strings and whistles,
Saadi*, a single degree.
horror, cramps, poison, girl’s screams,
Cap the chords into the air.
broken glasses, sweaty plastrons, the sound of cracked glass,
E’en to a round day-age

twix and between
a mixed muse of sensation,
a genderless
being of chic sheikh
embodies
a broken eardrum of synaptic nerves…

shaken by sudden thunderclap!

vision blurred,
wind knocked out of a vessel,
a perceived drowning has become the sea.

calm means (are) slow moving
in the heat of the day…..
salt finds old salt
worth it’s salt,

and the content is
content.

the sun goddess rises
with the dog star…..
ra and sirius
purr godot
home always already.

to be cont…


Photo Credit: Sirius. A minute before the sun rises. Painting
Elena Barkhanskaya

*Saadi name meaning is Righteous. It has multiple Islamic meaning. The name is originated from Arabic

(no madness here) I am Ophelia

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It’s blood on the water lilies.
where crime is celebrated crimson

Over the circus hearth at Golgotha,
erect in deathless truth
both the reaper and the sower;
I pray silently with a black marble cross
like the seeds sown in a cooling magma
There is enough saint’s blood in this tone. It’s maddening, screeching, and demonic.

Die cheerfully.
Be not frightened by revelation or impatience
come Uranus moon, don’t feel terrified
Gray clouds sail by. Ophelia dreams: the waters are floatin’.
Lie fluffily on gray parquet, as if you were a yellow rag doll
A Cuckoo’s nest of instruments that sound like a zither,
a martyr is born.
Somewhere the harp is humming.
A lunatic is grieving for her lost dream.

(no madness here) I am Ophelia
Oh, reverend, sick and naked, oh, weakness, disheveled hair
oh you, unfortunate passive cry, caryatid suffering
For three already bloody summers drowning in desperate silence,

finish it!..

Ophelia in the fourth act of Hamlet is demonstrably insane, but the direct cause of her slipped sanity is something that remains debatable. © a day ago, Leila Samarrai    death • free-ve

(no madness here) I am Ophelia
Images tangled in a blur of blurred lines.
Relaxed among the diving veils…

It’s blood on the water lilies.
where crime is celebrated crimson

Over the circus hearth at Golgotha,
erect in deathless truth
both the reaper and the sower;
I pray silently with a black marble cross
like the seeds sown in a cooling magma
There is enough saint’s blood in this tone. It’s maddening, screeching, and demonic.

Die cheerfully.
Be not frightened by revelation or impatience
come Uranus moon, don’t feel terrified
Gray clouds sail by. Ophelia dreams: the waters are floatin’.
Lie fluffily on gray parquet, as if you were a yellow rag doll
A Cuckoo’s nest of instruments that sound like a zither,
a martyr is born.
Somewhere the harp is humming.
A lunatic is grieving for her lost dream.

(no madness here) I am Ophelia
Oh, reverend, sick and naked, oh, weakness, disheveled hair
oh you, unfortunate passive cry, caryatid suffering
For three already bloody summers drowning in desperate silence,

finish it!..

Ophelia in the fourth act of Hamlet is demonstrably insane, but the direct cause of her slipped sanity is something that remains debatable. © a day ago, Leila Samarrai    death • free-ve

Peace may be found in less hungry worlds

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As clouds caressed your red curls,

they pilgrimaged you

with torn uniforms as before execution

I may tremble if I see you again

now that every barrel is empty.

All of the wine has returned to the blood

that Jesus drunkenly took to heaven

with us as we eat salty meat with milk teeth.

The leafy bays were gently ripped away.

Is heresy a disgrace, or are the walls of true paradise

where frightened you lie where there is no me here,

where there is no you?

Peace may be found in less hungry worlds

to nothing certain

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Focused inward
on a pinnacle of beast
upside down in the moonlight.
Toward, but not away from dawn it howls
across the soil they speede
A neurasthenic thump thump from the drum and the wolf…
in the death agony interval
out you, you dark loners
a moribund millipede in extremis,

As the sun sets

Come out, El, Eloah, Elohai
grimacing dark laugh the Enchantress’ lit
under the hanging boiled Jason’s tail
Osii, Osia, Osii
dive out of
painted – with serpents –
with painted
with acrobata wonderfully grasshopper
balanced upon the pit of unmentionable

Back from the chill abysses home to the old home
full of sweetness
Before my mirror, in silken mists
down my flanks, awaiting in the insane circles
the more than somber a terrifying monster
and masked one, hovering
the taiga of tartaria
looming antipodal Macropodidae
the downward roo when panting with that nimbus
of hellish flames, vicious, reversed
alas,
there
end

Ten courts of hell
ten Yama kings
in a pool of filthy blood
brooding over bestia in the flare of fire
is it but reddish drawn aqueous shades
grotesquely unseen, unlamented
a red bright in the horror tilted dark,

The effortful attack of the apparition, either bored
or mad, softly, vast beast…
the effortful scorched pale virginal you
upon the red roses opened unmysteries
Queer is. Sheer it is. Defiant Damocles
belted with the vast shadow’s sword
vexed with sardonic stare prick
of black ink somnambulist soundless scream
supplies me with flambeaux whisper:

“I’m lonely. I’m lonely. I am so lonely. Lonely am I”
gone is a dreadful deed that looks like grave and
sounds like bird
sounds like the growls of lions in their wrath
sounds like…
cageless flowers behind the doomed shores
of Circe’s realm with killing smile

stinging

the oblong virtue to the beast’s visage
in the dead of the night
or knives and daggers on revolving feet
the heavenless hell honeycake to departure
I mutter, I haunt, I persecute, I knit,
the gasping chaos
taught by cool flutes lingering grace
I moan, I harp, I pipe away
And rise into ether, gather in mist
enraptured flowers, stitch the ear in a short wicked candle
Tear from the fabric the threads of incorruptible”

Immortal creature secluded in the night
forever cursed, lost with their pre-world loneliness

Left to whisper:
lonely lonely through a circle
left to weep for a cups of death
in much statically angry madness
left to strong one-pierced silence
through moaned space
time reaps death’s blade sleep
with poor cuss

left to dwell in the infamy of despair
as in the sharp blood,
o hideous night, bold in advancing
Fragile splendor intense
to the blast of a frightful scream upon awful lips

A sense of mystery untouched
by the dripping hand
dabbled with blood, the phantom smiles bloodily
and stains toes to heels, bless you, freedom
We rise to give

to nothing certain

Outsider

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Exiles from eternity

gullible players

even for future revisions of unbelievers,

god does not change the rules

in the sad rhythm of the raindrops,

I counted the clouds

as juggernauts

in pursuit of

travesties

travesties

travesties, plunging deeper into the darkness

the walls squeezed me

as I bit into them

downwind.

overall, rotten gaping mouth craves molten gold.

as they catch their breath in the oratory of wonder,

there will be no secrets

left untouched

for long Fiction

an unusual tale

and on each, I will be

the unadulterated ‘ same old

flowers’ creator

feeds shades with an

Outsider Solitude Headache

silence,

it’s all over

you ‘re out of the

swollen subdermal dungeon

Ophelia’s knitting patterns

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OPHELIA:

How nice it is to dip your head

in a warm river and squint like crazy.

Madness, madness and vulnerability

But keep an eye out for Black as he flies over us!

Murder: disguise at this insane ball, in the triumph of blood,

in the arsonist’s hymn,

where madness is celebrated crimson,

and all that remains is vigilance, delusion, fear, and the gallows.

The curtain moves, the closets twinkle,

and things in the corner move;

the crackling of a candle in a bronze candlestick over the bed.

Moldy threads are woven into the thread.

Ophelia gives flowers to everyone’s benefit.

Oh, the gray sorrows with the tub floating

like a ghost lining of an old torn coat,

and weeping autumn waters,

dying willows and needles,

and I choke desperately dumb.

Millennium of bloody summers sinking into the abyss of blood,

and Ophelia, master knitter

Oh, disheveled hair, my name is Reverend.

the bloody nails of the outstretched hand of manure.

Everything in the child is woven into phosphor coils,

including colors that move,

masks, green, and sulfur yellow.

and name three colors

forgive me for my woven wreaths.

You are the Caryatids of Suffering;

forgive my passive lament.

The organ is now blaring in the church,

and what exactly is a body?

What are vigils, pictures, today in everything,

when the mind goes out and chirps like a wick

and the women sing… go to the monastery!

and the bell on the fire rings and falls

like a hammer on the brain.

Heaven, you’re such a goddamn swamp,

blushing like a bloody ribbon meander.

Boris K and Lara Croft

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Boris K. wanted to meet Lara Croft following the series’ cinematic adaption in order to capture her by the braids. Boris K. couldn’t really see Lara Croft as a female performer in the 3D platform action adventure Tomb Raider: Legend.

“She is a living lady,” Boris K. thought, dreaming: “This is the woman for me – unstoppable and constantly eager for new adventures.” Perhaps the only company I’ve ever desired… But where exactly should I meet her? He inquired, swallowing the last drops of vodka. Boris couldn’t find her despite his inexplicable superpowers.

Lara had spent some time in Peru looking for a strange relic from Kualopek’s tomb, and it was believed that she had returned from a hunting expedition in the Himalayas, where she had slain a four-meter-high yeti

“It’s simple, Boris K.,” said the local Zarathustra. “She may be found in every cemetery. She is waiting for the families of the dead to leave before picking up everything from the deceased’s table. Boris K cried with delight. Lara Croft knows the precise area of every cemetery in Belgrade, the fasting schedule… everything he ever desired as a prerequisite for his perfect life companion as he once published his marriage terms as an ad in Love Romance..

Boris K. has just begun his long-awaited job as a gravedigger when he sees a muscular female silhouette on the Phenomenal Plot of the Former Dictator of the Phenomenon of the Republic jumping on the graves of the Dead in a cat jump, light in reflection and soft in landing, holding Lancelot’s shield.

A woman with ponytails takes a coiled papyrus scroll from her bra, close to her heart. Boris K. would later discover that he holds one of the few copies of the most complete edition of the enigmatic Egyptian Book of the Dead, which has fascinated humanity for ages.

Boris K. emerges from the shadows: “I need a candle to read in the dark, miss.”

“Stay away, gravedigger; I’d better dig alone. “The scroll is visible.” “However, the candle provides illumination. “What exactly are you searching for, miss?”

“Chapter 181 sarcophagus – a mummy that assures the soul’s return to the body”

Boris K. drank from the flask. Lara looked at her with interest… and then at the enigmatic tiny man. He appeared to be known to her from somewhere…

“Boris K is my name. I work as a gravedigger. I bury the deceased in the earth like potatoes – Boris K. is perplexed by his own bad joke and shivers in terror.

“Funeral planning is a frigid job.” All those celestial funerals… But the superhero becomes accustomed to it “Lara fixed her gaze on the shovel.

As a toddler, she had gardening lessons from her scary horticulturist at the Hatfield House, who was believed to live forever and was oddly reminiscent of Boris K.

She yearned for the climbing net and the six steel, hot-dip galvanized twisted wires laced with polyamide rope as she ascended the climbers in the park that surrounding the home and older structures of the Old Court, previously possessed by Henry VIII. She also knew everything there was to know about digging, drilling, and overturning the ground.

She recalled her old children’s rake, which she had used in the autumn days, and that afternoon, when collecting fallen leaves, when she went to dig up her mother, she realized that her mother’s grave was empty, with all the remains. That’s how it all began…

They started digging together.

They dug with tenacity in the locations described by Boris K., and the earth was hard, unfriendly, and frozen, which was strange because it was May, and outside the environment was thick, humid, and scarcely tolerable heat, the true Gothic of the American South.

Boris K. began by wiping the perspiration off his brow. “Please allow me. This is not a job for a lady, Lara Croft said to Boris K.

Boris K. proposed that she be laid to rest in his graveyard on the outskirts of the central cemetery, which he was assigned to during the night shifts. “The house’s name is the Balkans.” It’s out of date, but it’s being updated soon. “Until then, I’ll keep doing exhumations,” Boris K. vowed.

Lara didn’t move…

Boris K. went to change, to collect extra equipment, a bag of riches, and everything they needed, and Lara took advantage of Boris’s absence, taking Boris’s paper with the location of the Central Cemetery and discovering that her copy was incorrect. She then grabs a hoe and gets to work.

“It’s him. It’s a creepy gardener. – While bringing the bodies out, Lara said angrily: “He most likely murdered my birth mother.” “At the very least, he knows where she is.”

Lara comes to the conclusion that Boris is one of those phenomena that should not be neglected. Or, at the very least, observe from a safe distance. It appeared familiar to her since she identified him as a bomber using surveillance camera video and eyewitness cell phones after a series of explosions on Basque Country beaches, but she is now certain she was mistaken. Boris’ trachea had no scars, despite the fact that the bomber had been shot in the throat.

She came to the conclusion that it was all Marvel’s fault. Boris was talking 19 to the dozen while digging. – “This is how he introduces himself and other characters into a slew of separate storylines before combining them into one extremely fulfilling event. He constructed his own linked universe in which he is a superhero with extraordinary abilities. Be rational, Lara. There is no such thing as a scary timeless gardener. This small man is a menace… Ah, there he is, Lara, calm… “

Boris K. reappeared, invigorated and happy, and offered that he continue digging himself. “We will dig the world’s deepest cemetery and put all our treasures there.”

“I have no option but to accept, however you will not be compensated for your labor,” Lara replied aloud, thinking to herself, “The belief in magical thinking is a clear schizotypal affliction. However, immortality is still a potential… Didn’t I discover the black holes on my own? “worms that bring eternity and wipe away people’s lives, including mine, when I went into them and came out with superhuman skills.” Perhaps my mother, Amelia, is locked in a parallel realm with an endless number of different destinies. Exactly like a gardener. Alternately, Boris K. – Boris, you will not escape me! I still need some answers! I must understand!”

Boris K. drilled tomb holes all night, and as Lara grabbed what she needed from each grave, Boris would place a rock in the hole. The grave robbing appeared to be rather straightforward.

“People allow themselves to be mummified in the expectation that they may be revived one day,” Lara explained.

“They may like company, but everyone is just as heartbroken as if they were dead.” Boris responded. “Aren’t you interested in those war veterans’ medals?” he said. “Plot 12B”

“Every bit counts,” the heroine remarked, “but my priority is a two-millennium-old woman.” Lara kept her gaze fixed on Boris’ flask. He then grabbed a hidden scroll from his quiver. Her secret trump cards were generally hidden in a button pocket of her military M65 trousers, but the secret scroll was longer than the Irish Morpet…

“What do you want for her?”

“Is it for vodka?”

“This is for the flask.” It’s a significant artifact.”

“The most ordinary stainless steel flask, I acquired it fairly inexpensively from the ancient Akkadians at the flea market,” Boris K. shrugged.

“That is where you are mistaken, Boris K.” It’s an ancient Phoenician ivory flask. The first millennium before Christ. I sipped the Qabr Hiram of Tire, the Phoenician king whose tomb I had just left, from this flask. I discovered a mummy in the sarcophagus, however it was missing the renowned flask with flower pattern.”

“Enough. Here you have it!” Boris slapped her on the back. He disliked being hampered in his efforts. “I agree provided you let me dig with you,” Lara Croft expressed gratitude. Lara pauses for a second before pulling the flask…

Lara then resolves to tell him her secret, crossing her fingers behind her back. What pleases him now will upset him later – she will rationally – so I will catch him in the act and know his identity, just as I found the secret of Phenomenization that I defy myself with… But does he as well… Lara, focus… Take precautions. The universe relies on you.

Then, with a beautiful grin, she said:

“I play games about you and your travels on a regular basis, Boris. I hold you in high regard. Wherever I go, any mummy that speaks or an artifact that demonstrates its strange power is a sign of Whom We Are Waiting for, Dead or Alive, with a biblical-like admiration for Boris K. the superhero, a seemingly drunkard and house painter, with a flask in his hand and a graph faber pencil that defies the phenomenon whose origins I am still researching… ” And we granted Boris the ability to see the origin and end of the world, as well as create and destroy it. Controlling lightning, thunder, droughts and earthquakes, storms and showers, curing illnesses… And the goddess of dawn will guard him from the dark turmoil… that goddess is me, Lara Croft”

Boris K. looked at Lara Croft, noticing that the drink had taken her under its wing.

Then he stated that he too plays games with her, that he views her as Teja, a woman of brilliance and gems, and that the Phenorepics think he’s insane because of it.

“Boris K., they’re digitophobic.” Of course, I am a living woman, but let it stay among us., superheroes”

Lara also stated that she was hungry. Boris K. joins Lara Croft at the funeral table, extolling the Scandinavian tomb.

“All we have to do is go to the Gamla Uppsala field together and dig.” There’s an even finer woman there than the one we’ve just discovered, dressed in Viking burial robes embroidered with Arabic letters.”

Boris K. spoke late into the night as they shared a flask and ate a fatty roast. Boris’ vodka was cursed in such a way that the flask could never be tested to the bottom.

When they were finished, the dead were two picks short of a load, starving in the underworld, and tomb raiders, in silence, aside from the occasional quarrel over who would eat the most Bavarian snacks from Regensburg, near the Danube, where the world’s oldest pretzels were discovered, with mouths full of charred earth from heavy digging, embark on a new campaign to desecrate the buffet on plot 12 / a.

BORIS’ DESCENT INTO HELL

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“The Adventures Of Boris K”
Leila Samarrai

Boris K. was sent by the Vatican to save the souls of sinners from eternal damnation.

“Just as Christ once did.” Boris, do you aspire to be Christ? “To splatter the blood of the Lord on you?” Cardinal Pepe, flanked by authorities, smiled toothlessly at him.

(“Everyone has really long noses,” observed Boris K.)

Boris K. encircled the Vatican pillar with his arms. The baptismal tree, as well as flogging to death, a popular Roman sport, vanished before his eyes…

At the mention of the whip, his body burned in his wounds…

The cardinal frowned, smoothed Boris K’s expensive silk cardinal’s uniform, and poured expensive whiskey for him.

“Relax, Boris K. It’s just hell.”
“I’m not leaving without Virgil!” Boris K. moaned, turned on his heel, and boldly turned his back on the cardinal, “I’m a lost sheep without his guidance.”

“Virgil has progressed to the first round. Make your complaint to him rather than to me. “And now… raise a glass!” “A Roman Inquisition gift, son Boris,” Pepe smiled warmly, and the officials removed their congressional suits, revealing Toledo-style attire.

Then he grabbed Boris K. and stripped him naked before donning a penitential yellow robe with crimson crosses of St. Andrew.
As the cardinal approached with a poker, the Inquisitor pointed at Boris while holding a tumbler of whiskey in his other hand.

“Whiskey or the mark of the devil, Boris K.?”

“God, if it’s your will… let this whiskey pass me by!” screamed Boris K. “At least it would be easier for me if it was vodka…” he reasoned.
The cardinal responded as follows: “Boris K., I swear to Hail Mary with three hands that if you carry out your responsibilities properly and respectfully, we will let you go. You’re doing it for the glory of God, not your own.”

Cardinal Pepe gazed adoringly at the Apostolic Palace’s magnificent ceiling.

Boris K. went to hell after draining the liquid pushed down his throat by a sadist monk, having nowhere else to go and fearing for his life.

He awoke in the ninth round. He found Hitler conversing with an occultist at a back table, and it turned out to be the Roman Messalina.

“She has always shot high,” reflected Boris K., who thought the Roman Lolita deserved no better than tenth…

“Yes, my blonde, that’s exactly where…” Jeremiah, fill up now! And it all began with you, Paul!”

Hitler crossed som

Boris K. scratched out Hitler’s name, wrote “Infidel,” and moved down to nine circle, towards Stalin.

“Everyone goes to jail! Jail, prison, prison! No, jail! “What… what?” He hastily turned left – right. – From where did the scream come? Is it becoming dark? Are you ringing, Љубљенка? Give me my Љубљенка, my honey! Ah, she’s finally arrived! I am content “, the dreadful commander, calmed down.
Then he spotted Boris K. He was staring at him with a cold, authoritarian gaze.

“I apologize,” Boris K. murmured. – You may leave hell if you wish. His Holiness has made you a tremendous offer.”

Hitler crossed something out in order to dig deeper into the stack of papers on the table.

“Repent, O Führer – Boris K. pulled out the paper provided to him by the Grand Inquisitor – The Sinner is Running Out of the Vatican” before going to Hell. Additionally, keep in mind:

“His mustache was shaved. He was indeed in the Andes. His hair has grown in hell, but it is too hot in the midst of the freezing horrors!”

“I can’t, I’m revamping my Jewish swag. I’ll make them hellish soup!, he howled. – Totalitarian scum!”

“Return all of Sodom and Gomorrah to me, Hicco. Messalina stated, “I brought Rome to its climax as the Roman Empress, the protector of public morality.” Change marriage fornication, intimate relationship control, and prostitution. Let it be called adultery.”

“All right, get rid of Chaste Joseph.”

At that point, Hitler and Messalina hugged.

Boris K. crossed out Hitler’s name, wrote “Infidel,” and descended into the ninth, towards Stalin.

“Everyone to jail!” Prison, prison, prison! No, jail! “What… what?” he exclaimed, frantically turning left and right. – What was the source of the scream? Is it getting dark? Are you ringing, Ljubljenka? Ljubljenka, please! She’s finally arrived! “I’m happy, happy,” the formidable leader said calmly. He noticed Boris K. and looked at him with an icy, totalitarian gaze.

“I apologize,” Boris K. said. – You can leave hell if you want. I have an incredible offer from His Holiness for you.”

“The Vatican has done it again! What effect would the Catholic village children’s survival have on me? Surely only Moscow’s elite!”

Boris K. crossed out Stalin’s name, and the circle got smaller and smaller. They each rejected him for their own reasons, beginning with Mussolini, who, according to Boris K.’s report, did well in the role of pimp. “I am my own among my own,” after all, my trench was larger than Italy! “I have everything I desire.” Boris K. was turned down by Mao Zedong and Kim Jong Il.

“We will make China a superpower!” A significant forward step is unstoppable. There will soon be no feces for diners! That is the social plan!”

Boris K. did not pass to Pinochet from the Fifth, nor to Margaret Thatcher, Richard Nixon, Barack Obama, or George W. Bush Jr., who argued, “Who among us is the money god?”

Is it I, I, or I?”

“Just as Dante said,” Boris K. sighed, caressing Pluto’s wolf, who regarded Western politicians with awe.

He then addressed Boris K in a human voice: “I’ll ask to be transferred to the crooks. This is far too much for me.”

Boris K. progressed to the third round. In the third level, lawyers competed. Some souls were not worth their time.

In the second stage, religious leaders fought.

“They seem to be having a great time,” Boris K observed, expecting to find what he was looking for in the First Round.

“Is everything fine in hell?” Boris K. was puzzled. In the First Round, TV hosts introduced a very popular show. Almost everyone had gathered in front of the on-fire television set. Fans of the TV show “Inferno” arrived for each round.

Boris K. also heard the announcer say, “Dear viewers, welcome to Inferno,” which was followed by advertisements, much to the delight of those present.

The show went on indefinitely…

Boris K. learned that everyone in Hell was happy. Boris K. found himself in the Vatican Palace before His Holiness after the effects of the liquor wore off.

Boris K. was terrified as he said, “Your Eminence…” Then submit a report to Pope Francis. His Holiness made a shaky motion with his head.

The Roman Inquisition surrounded Boris K. As the friars moved in a circle around Boris K., carrying crosses in their palms, they extended their hands to him. The cardinal, in a panic, exclaimed:

“Do you mean we made a promise?”

The Pope burst out laughing, and the friars did as well.

“Take him out!” The poor cardinal wept. “Cut off his tongue with a Spanish cutter!”

Boris K. was captured by the heinous hands. The Pope’s fingers, which were edged with expensive jewels, put on the exquisite outfit.

Boris K. realized there was nothing else to laugh about, so he calmed down and accepted the instinctual, aggravating, and perplexing sense of survival.

“It’s not everything!” “It’s not everything!” Boris K. screamed. “I watched your coworkers; they sing dithyrambs in your honor, sarcastic tunes with goat hooves and a nightingale’s voice… “Benedict, we miss you, Benedict!” screams the ekkyklema (1). “From the Vatican, my friend!”

And every praise is met with thunder and lightning! To them, you are a god, a hero!”

The Pope jumped off his papal throne and locked himself in the papal toilet as soon as he heard that.

He didn’t leave the house for a few days. Cardinals and Inquisitors stood guard in front of the Pope’s most private chamber at all hours of the day and night.

Cardinal Pepe, the first candidate for Pope, became terrified and ordered the Pope to leave chocolate mousse beverages and his favorite dessert, which was steeped in medical herbs, and told Boris K:

“Go tell the devil that the Pope will not appear before him.”

Boris K. drank whiskey and there he was, already in front of grave sinners, back to Hitler when he bid farewell to Wig Heil, which disgusted him, but he had no choice.

“Just right, then left,” Hitler said, raising his right hand to a 45-degree angle and tapping his heel against his heel.

Boris K. raises his hand and looks up. From there, the Devil smiled at him.

“Good night, Boris K.” A bright nebula surrounded Satan, from which he emerged. He possessed Angelina Jolie’s physique as well as Scarlett Johansson’s face.

“Do I look like Grendel’s mother?”

Boris K. picked up on the odor of burning flesh. That is what Hitler set fire to in hell.

“We’re not wasting time, Boris K. I read your mind and took the terror out of your body. I want you to see me as a peer who can offer you advice. Boris K. finally looked at Benedict after a long time. “They sold their soul to me for an eon and a half…” calculated the devil, “and they haven’t come to me in a decade or two.” It’s equivalent to paying a soul tax.”

Boris K. approaches the stunning feminine body, tightening her hips as if mesmerized.

The devil slapped him and said, “Assaulter!”

“Capture them all and bring them to me.”

“What will become of my soul?” Boris K. screamed and changed into a wolf.

“She is currently residing with me. But don’t worry, I’ll give it back to you.” He promised Boris K. that the devil would exist outside of human dimensions and that his decisions would be incomprehensible, at least in this story.

He smirked at Boris K., who was dazed as he poured a bottle of Russian-standard vodka down his throat, while Caiaphas’ priests and Judas cleaned up Hitler’s ashes.

“Let him be the new Pope. He will have forgotten who he is when it manifests again.”

Boris K. conjured up actual hell plans. He transformed into a beast and squeezed the Pope like a salted steak, dragging him to hell between his teeth.

Adolf Hitler was elected Pope by Cardinal Pepe’s body on that day. Boris K. exchanged numerous elderly Vatican souls for the devil returning his, this time in the form of a humanoid hybrid.

Boris K. burst out laughing and started hugging the devil when the demon thanked him and returned his soul…

So the devil set Boris K. free and told him:

“”Go tell everyone that woe be the world where only I keep my word.”

(1)
An ekkyklêma ( / ˌɛksɪˈkliːmə /; Greek: εκκύκλημα; “roll-out machine”) was a wheeled platform rolled out through a skênê in ancient Greek theatre. It was used to bring interior scenes out into the sight of the audience. Some ancient sources suggest that it may have been revolved or turned.
[2]
Phlegethos was the fourth layer of the Nine Hells

Envy

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(Poor Jago!
You were not God’s favorite!
But you turned
Fevered and fearlessly
on the favorite –

Amen!

Commissariat (suited
Jago-green) in a rearguard mask
of many faces
made of faux maths
hemmed with decimaled seductions
of incestuous triangles (hexa-
of Navajo serpent tail)
and from bulb’s hourglass
multiple refractions of fleurs du mal
up from the sand-around your ostrichian* head

Ah! –
warrum sie / du
da und dort in Moor’s space –
a mere flesh at blood heat,
a pulse-works from aye’s inner eye
shaped by the moon’s loiny-sway
among the she-she betweens
of Leda and Memesis?
: among that space
Tyche rolled your dice
where in clay fallows
envy took root in you
grew a plait of fire and water
that became your backlit tongue

Drighligh twinkle
, twinkle –
from further/farther backlits (Caesarian –
a smolder of shadows came
blood bloomed outward
birthed a drafty pyre
where burned yours flyers
and your books

bloodless
her-her carcass fumed
with many smells ( O Trojania Rome! –
da und dort in mojo-grade
formed between Moor and wife
the gray egg of circumstance
where they, and you,
fell to the sworded aftermath

ah mastery –
smell them out…

Eagla*, (Eagla means “fear” in Irish.)

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Eagla*

(Eagla means “fear” in Irish.)

courteous by nature good natured

a pretty a day

lectured on matting of reeds

gambols red

in the black coffin

the earth, platoons

Moves to heiress resurrection

in heavenward heights

Lo! Maker showed up: Art, Intellect, and Bliss.

I’ve been getting immaculate messengers

around sundown.

Almost ready for a stacking game

Fictional time layers

Who is that conceited jerk?

(In mine sleep, I am a minor crocodile of normal size.)

The child’s air shadow

and

moon nature

Sketch of a crooked tower

With monstruos planet

colossal thunders,

an unknown author

To alleviate fear, draw landscapes.

Those who do not hear their voice in the middle of a dream suffer

who suffers from

suffering

sick emptiness.

čaught in thičkening fear

Pre to pronunciation in the dictionary

From the sound,

in the palm of your hand

Eagla, fear not but certainly in the midst of the skin of a careful sleep

—Its month of May (yes, May; my unbeloved) It’s really spring!

Yes, the lovely birds romp as fast as they can fly.

Yes, the tiny fish is as joyous as can be (yes, thirsty blood of a serpent of a doomfull fists of hailstorm observe wickedly)

Dante’s stars fall into a deep white palpitating pit,

and a white echo jumps through time and its walls.

as the shapes shift

A billion wounds, acidic,

crumbling, pounding,

tormenting, and

nothing.

How many of them are

sobbing now,

dying,

cursing,

screaming?

May be an image of 1 person

Oval in black

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You have fallen, and the torn have fallen with you.

like as ancient gods

have used

our limestone, dirt, and clay

Gypsum aids in hardening.

Calcium carbonate (top right),

Illite and gypsum

Displays and masks move

the lightning rod

The churches pay praises to the raptor star.

and this dead home has blossomed in my midbrain’s crimson cells:

epilogue:

Eels vibrate brightly in cacophonous quiet water.

A sail, the form of a yellow ship, and the tentacles of a white lighthouse on the high seas.

Bonfire on the deck. Belly laughs

Revelation Irish Woman

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It hurts
being clothed with the moon

As that woman about to give birth
in front of the dragon

particular misshapen fruit
dealt the powerful blow of a knife, in the chest

to devoted insanities grotesque
call

In pain
I am in pain in the dark places pain, paints still water with spit of the fire

To the blade that was laid in the carved bone, an altar
an ancient image of divinity

will it speak the tongue of bones tonight.

Revelation Irish Woman
Her head peeked beyond
all the towers
countless
spirals painted
Of herself
in the center of a microcosm
An all-encompassing universality of nature

a role model
for the human monstrous role, I am now in the performed, now

y – axis whirl moving of the let – ergo going to nothing

My look at the city was one of prison
I

am here – behind bars.

This is a city
in

the middle of a prison.

Into the wilderness
as is a desolate
place

And full of serpents and scorpions

“travailing in birth, and pained to be delivered”

The forest unbathed
by an ocean of blood

An unhealed wound beneath
the hot navel

The unpierced rib in the deciding battle
A lonely nest

devoid of it’s Eagle.
from the clime of the blood roth

walking are the possible dragons
That salute, woman
over and over the infinite sea breasts!

And time stuffs the pieced
pierced belly

I am a beastly shrapnel
like a knife

ping of fadead stomach
as around as death, around me you

imagining me, dragon tail’s rise
My mortal body
of immortal progeny!

I summon the Heavens to bow
down to my tentacles

Folded into a clenched fist of Hades in the chains of the river euphoria!

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The Marx Brothers and Boris K


Borges meets Perelman. If it becomes a film, it’s too late to cast the Marx brothers.
Borges inquired as to whether Perelman had read anything amusing recently. Perelman was stingy with praise, but he made an effort to praise “The Adventures of Boris K.”
Boris’s novel’s sales skyrocketed following the publication of Perelman’s critic

Boris K, with his exaggerated stooped posture, spectacles, cigar, thick greasepaint mustache, and horn-rimmed glasses, composed a series of fictitious letters that could have been exchanged in 1903 between an enraged Perelman and a sly painter whose hobby was melting watches in instead of teaching him some basic brush strokes. The play was finally staged in Borges’ library,

According to legend, Boris K. disguised himself as Groucho Marx, just as Groucho wanted to be pictured in a portrait, and when the play began, a painter (whom they called Dali) came in and complained to Boris K. that brothers Marx, Borges, and Perelman had not invited him
“That takes me out of the picture,” Dali grumbled. Borges’ books began to fall on the participants’ heads out of rage and spite, and Boris K was pursued by both Perelman and the Marx brothers, who claimed that Boris K was the son of a bitch whose head was bigger than Borges’ table. Boris K was thus kicked out of the Library of Babylon, which was housed in a century-old building on East 93rd Street, near Lexington Avenue, now known as Carnegie Hill.

The painter claims that the play starring the Marx brothers was unprecedented in its inventiveness, and he praises all of the participants.
Journalists gathered, flashes flashed, and Perelman defended himself, claiming that his stories were unlike those of the inept “little man” struggling to cope with life, and that Boris K was stealing his ideas.
Borges kept a close eye on him. He was aware of how he had thickened his Aleph by posing as a false literary essay on the Frenchman who rewrites a section of Don Quixote word for word and is showered with praise for his audacity.

Nobody knows what happened to the portrait, which vanished in the midst of the chaos.
There have been several nearby museum robberies, the perpetrators were children with large plastic noses, bushy eyebrows, and mustaches, which they claim are unimportant.

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Painted with Rabbits (Happy Easter)


In blue majesty, sunny April
burns
like a hundred-legged candlestick in pursuit of Mayalis.


All of the spring forces
Easter is being observed today.
and today’s clouds
such as a blue Pegasi fly
Oh, the beauty of the gift.
from a sick corpse to a pinks
Fire is resurrected.

The lords of the UNDERGROUND live beneath the earth.
April
underneath
unfool’s
light alicerabbituminous
Murmurations of starlings
Whiterabbitterness in April
Sotto voce Fickle Keys
is located underground,

Φ
is located underground,
Lasarus has been discovered in the soil…
clockrabbits turn clockwise
Resurrection may resume
Lokiblót, Kali, and Rabbit
It is, indeed, underground!
simply understand!

The white rabbit is full of
deepunderalices.
at the paroxysmal
hole’s eruptive activity
fragments of viper
bursts
of the undead who are still alive

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The Last Man on Earth


Everything on Earth dies –
in the flesh of youth,
in a strange dead spring
that engulfed you in
a gunpowder fire,
you are betrayed
behind your back
by a friend and sold to
an old song about
the flow of sand.

“They, you pig speculators!”
“Here comes another pig!”
“I’m in a pigsty!”

But you seek another kind of pleasure
for yourself,
so you go into the cold, into the arctic circle.
They all pass away and vanish,
and you, on the chain, like a blind shadow,
in very quiet solitude,
you are only in the strings
of the noon verse,
you are the fire over
the abyss of rotten mud,
you are a mournful man who cries

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Oneiros /the poem based on one’s sleep-cycle


1 (prelude, hypnogogic)
Nurse
you know in truth present
about things subsumed among wings
lifted in light-fade among the bottles
and bottles shelved in moir’s service
as I (ah – eh! such age!)
from marrows-out
with genii-ed arm
reach out to rub or fondle
the wares with the dares and dos I have
as you, in prognostic silence,
observe me a feathered minnow
mind-by-hand stirring among ghouls and sharks
as if I’d power over death
and a forgetfulness daring enough
to Hyde among dishonored lives
cursed but seeing all as mystery
faux-ing in a warp of mirrors

2 (REM sleep i)

the mirrors open
I enter the wards of what if
rise among the boney fats of traume
so modulate Promethian fires
that fenneled coal’s enough
to cast such a net over history
that no Cleopatra comes
no Anthony no asp to dis-
place its feathered kin

3 (REM sleep ii)

I rise
poem becomes the poem in creation’s womb
become the hand of every Brutus
bound to the feral collapse of bloodshed
become – O fennel’s charry-smoke –
the ecstasy of St. Joan
giving birth
to churches all around the jagged-rim
of Shogun’s isle

(a clock
  flows from the tables of my mind
    I dally
      what ifs
        become the ids of self –

4 (soliloquy)

I’d lift the more
chase in circle myth by physics
Sundogs above Alaskan pipelines
of cold-blooded sway

pour gold
from Odin’s finger

build in hungry places
a working plateaupian shrine
that of no horn anywhere
would children starve

in loopholes’ well
dangle (for Loki’s head) a coin

resign Arabs
and Christians
so raise Irbil from its field of gentile dust
that Iraq’s rivers might calm anew

so bind Kafka
with Guthlac’s belt
tighter and tighter
until a demon flew from his mouth
(Kafka
  never took-off the means
      his madness never returned –

(might have
, as Rome burned, fiddled –

have escaped Muslim captors
during the first crusade by swimming
swum to France

have a bad weekend
for all our sins

tear-apart
the hing-ed Tower of Babel

become a pungent silence
for the holy son
whose blood chimes incurably

5 (epilogue, to reader and self…

here’s offered
of my own making
an (un) promised philosophy
unintelligible words
apologetics
verses on a silver tray
fit for an image of water-walker
shrouded in zeit geist

clock resumes

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A nonsensical dictionary


Dear Mr. Daily Prayer Approver, SA Stabschef Ernst, B.S. MS MBA MPHIL PhD, PhDD, DSc, MMSf, consultant, Zen Master of Social Word-of-Mouth

I’m enclosing a convincing block of 25 blanco stories in the hopes of obtaining a permanent professorship at the Faculty of Philosophy of the Phenomenonrepublic of the Balkans (though I couldn’t think of a more meaningless location). I chose this topic because it allows me to represent myself or my perspectives on life and contemporary literature better than the philosophical saints would have in their eternal battle for absolute nirvana…

I could never believe, sir, Dr. Application, that the subject of existence could be discussed in a different way. Each reader will use my philosophical system and method to grasp the pearl of a sense that will warm his soul to the final breath and sigh from the empty shell of existence I offer.

1. Beginning: The dictionary’s first letter

2……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

25th and final letter of the dictionary

Section on the Author:

Boris K. wrote the following:

Boris K.’s “History of Written Words on Empty Paper” (1957).

“It doesn’t feel like home,” (Phenomenorepublic Library) (1979)

“I Love You, Transparent” (Transgender Study) (1946)

“Never underestimate the lethal power of the bleeding creature, the women’s studies, The monastery of the harlots of the last days, Got mit uns, 1976.”
–“What’s the point of alienation?” The author of (École Primaire Socrates et Démosthenes) (333. p.n.e) is unknown.

“Reflection of Nothingness on the Nihilist Executioner’s Ax” (Henry VIII Sparknotes) (1857), author: Anne Boleyn

“Letters to an Idle Robot,” Odd Future Urban Cookie Collective College, Lecturers, Belgrade, professors Lowlife, Twerp, and A True Nobody

Travelogues, Uday Hussein, “From the Cradle to the Kalashnikovs”

The ancient Japanese writing, “Manual for Seppuku”

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We Books, too, have feelings.


There was once a critic who was so well-known for his criticism of Masterpieces of World Literature that the Guild of Acquisitors and Traders of the Phenomenopublic erected a monument in his honor, and since then he has grown very conceited – he undermined writers by any means necessary, abusing his honorable position.
He was a voracious reader and a terrible writer all at the same time!

Then something unusual happened: angry books, unrelentingly criticized, decided, at least some self-respecting ones, such as Mein Kampf and thus the Epic of Gilgamesh, to refuse to be read, let alone commented on. Due to the newly composed trash commercial book for nerve relaxation   (“The Art of War”)  , the Bible, as well as Master and Margarita and Der Steppenwolf, remained closed. This “poor wretch” refused to read great works of literature. The newspapers joined them as well. The written letters reacted angrily:

“On behalf of all the authors who have been satirized and tortured over the centuries, we books have decided to embark on a path of outrage!” They clapped their hands as well. The critic became depressed – he wouldn’t have had to read, but books were chasing him everywhere, bouncing after him, slapping him, and some would hit him on the head, falling from the best shelves. That was a mistake!

This victim quickly fell into an unusual state – a mysterious, deep, unknown land of delusions and apparitions, which opened up new vistas for the Critic – at night, he saw things that didn’t exist, he heard noises he didn’t recognize, he trembled for no apparent reason. He was stymied by fear.
“That fear escalates until it becomes terror.” I’m in agony, as if a metal hoop is squeezing my temples, and my heart is thrashing as if it’s going to suffocate me.

” The noose is tightening. “They’re getting there!” He opened up to Boris K., the painter, while drinking in the cafe.”

“Who’s going around you?”

Boris K. peering over the rim of his glass at him.

“Books,” the critic said, a provocative and cheeky look on his face.

“I’m feeling… “I felt my power dwindling or… perhaps it’s less emotional and more neurological.”

The critic stared foolishly for a moment, but quickly recovered and burst out laughing, raising a glass to Boris K., who said:

“I assure you that your “great matter” has become a state issue, that books that have been unread for a long time don’t feel good, that they feel dusty, and that it is critical to start a joint session as soon as possible.”

Boris K. appeared to be preoccupied with serious thoughts. Finally, he added:

“I believe it is time for psychotherapy.”

The therapy got off to a rocky start. Boris’s library’s books were initially convulsed by the fashion that tore them apart, and they opened their mouths to inform him that he deserved the torrent of insults that was coming; the critic couldn’t defend himself. Despair gripped his throat.

“You don’t get us!” yelled the books as they jumped around the library. And we, the books, are flawed in the same way that gods and other people are, with all of our strengths and weaknesses. Regardless, we, unlike you, are immortal! I, The Epic of Gilgamesh, am 1700 years old and was carved into clay tablets! I used to be a Sumerian folklore fresco, written on 11 Babylonian tablets! And you accused me of being bad because of the hurriedly carved 12th fragmented tablet. It was written so poorly that the Uruk people could no longer tolerate the abuse of a book written in such a sloppy manner, so an unknown shepherd created a hero willing to oppose it.

“That’s right,” Kafka’s “Trial” grew irritated – and that I, too, have flaws. “I’m burdened, full of annoyance, and ready for psychoanalysis.”

A few more fell far away from Boris’ closet’s top shelf.

“And you mention Paulo Coelho’s books here.

“You claim we’re in denial because we don’t want to admit we’re not all that great! We hid to avoid embarrassment and rage… “at the top of Boris’ closet, at the back of the boxes”

The Critic now enjoyed that debauched game, amused himself madly indeed, in his element, complacently realizing that his opinion meant a lot to books, with a lightweight layer of shame with which every critic of society entangles only the surface. Fearful and silent anticipation crept into the area, producing a profound sense of calm.

“It’s time to crack open Zen for Beginners.” To understand what is going on, you must first understand your inner selves. The microscopic immortals’ sincerity moves me. Tell me as if I’m your priest – there’s a secret.” You appear to be the type of man who is preoccupied with only one thought:

“How will they react if they discover the truth?”

Boris K. gave him a wink.

“Yes… The books’ sincerity has moved me.”

Your sincerity, Gilgamesh, especially, touched me with your kind words.” Gilgamesh retreated and screamed angrily. He then burst into tears.

“I criticized you with false enthusiasm, intoxicated with pleasure, thinking of nothing else, within the triumph of my glory, in pride for my success, in some cloud of happiness from all that adoration, of all that admiration… What I’ve always admired about you, Mesopotamian treasure, made me feel uncomfortably small and insignificant in comparison to the infinity of the universe and the forces beyond my comprehension… “

 As a deep peace reigned, terror and silent anticipation crept into the room.

Boris K. examined the Critic obliquely, with the stiff demeanor of a very careful copyist, his body tilted to one side. When it was Kafka’s turn, he began speaking in a very learned tone, solemnly as in the proclamations, smugly smiling, and concluding with a single eloquent attitude:,

“And I’d never hurt you in any way, Trial.” Except for praise, your neurosis is not for contempt.
I actually wanted to write a completely unique filled with repressed and forcibly suffocated rebukes that climb onto the accusation, you knock into the rock of my inner cataclysm with a gnarled stick, during which hopes and expectations rose to the heavens and despair and helplessness fell to hell… yes… my inability… to put it in writing like that! Such a mental illness should not be taken lightly.”

As the Critic spoke, Boris K.’s face lit up with a lighthearted apostolic smile. The critic moved from book to book, singing an impressive hymn to everyone in the patrician poses of the righteous, penitent, hidden envious, and benefactor. The books watched him calmly, uncomfortably calmly, from an unfathomably great distance, from the gap through which patients at nerve clinics are observed, and then, all of the books, along with the shelf, suddenly fell on the Critic’s head. Boris’ ziggurat-like room echoed with the laughter and whispers of deceived books.”

“You little poop, wipe that silly grin off your face!”

(Another ending: As soon as his wounds healed, the critic went to Tibet in search of enlightenment and Buddha-like calm.)

The books agreed to be read again by the critic, who did so, albeit suspiciously.)

Photo Credit: https://www.beautifullife.info/art-works/book-art-by-jonathan-wolstenholme/

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There’s no place like home, Version 2


Boris K. meets a man who is crying uncontrollably. Despite being a loser, he complains to him about the fact that he cannot fulfill his one passion for life, which is visiting exotic and beautiful places, metropolises, and so on.

He sympathized with him, explaining that he had had trouble visiting these places because he had learned that not every city is as beautiful as it seems. Only a few living heads were left in the bucket.

1. Scottland

It is believed that the missing 9th Legion was slain by the Picts behind Hadrian’s Wall in present-day Scotland, huge, red-haired warriors who painted themselves blue. In the dark Scottish forests, there are ghosts of the Picts that attack tourists, and even in Edinburgh, he is not safe from them.

2. Prague

It is said that there was a German noblewoman in Prague in the 18th century who became a vampire, sucking blood from tourists by posing as Rosabella Smetana.

3. Paris

Paris – a 300-year-old creepy grandpa has a guillotine in his basement in the 3rd arrondissement. Named after Robespierre.

4. Australia

Benji, a creature from Aboriginal legend, lives under the Sydney Opera House and tickles passers-by until they die laughing.

5. China

Beijing’s circus master Jo Po isn’t a master at all. You were asked to enter the box that he was going to retest, so he did.

6.

Mauritius – the dodo bird is still alive, enormous, bloodthirsty, and cannibalistic

7. Greece

You will be harassed by Parnassus – philosophers who argue that Pythagoras or Heraclitus are better. Boring as hell…

It is dangerous as well.

Serbia, the land of vampires and werewolves, should not be left behind.

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Leben (Life, Život)


a Sisyphusian average
of tomorrow’s bread
ground from today’s bones
milling from up-slant’s waggle
stirring-in leavens
of ant and grasshoper
pinch of dreams millstone heavy
oiled with sweat or tears
pelting a stone vault
whose chimney (damaged scroll)
sings in flab-cursives shards of ‘un bel di’
that turn hefted and dark
curl down again to
flickering among the blue
and stench of brimstone
dancing in the wings

curse by bullet
repetition sustains
gives endless birth to endless funerals
that begin again endlessly
as a hill-bottom fog

somewhere
a stone boat barnacles with grass
coxswain saints / Charon’ shadow
grinding in place

til then til there
til then and there
stone’s rude wheel
stirring from smoke and dust
a rut in furrow’s garb

endlessly (?…

Boris K and Nine Symphonic Novels

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Boris K. has been enjoying listening to The Greatest Pieces of Classical Music. While listening to Haydn (So goddamn boring! is what Boris thought) and later watching a documentary on Mahler’s death, he wished to hit Mahler’s head against a stone wall.

Boris K admired Ludwig Van Beethoven, even more than he admired communist leader Che Guevara and union leader Lenin. Seeking to know more about Beethoven’s personal life, he watched a documentary about the life of Ludwig Van Beethoven. Ludwig was adorned with bloodshot eyes… “Beethoven certainly delighted in creating music for mankind. It’s like being God!”

In tears before the monument of human genius, he came up with the idea of writing nine symphonic short stories based on his own exciting life.

“Boris K , the greatest discoveries of mankind are the toilet bowl and the shower”, he remembered the wise words of their inventor after the use of burts and night dishes in the 19th century. The legendary inventor has changed the destiny of humanity in that way!

Next up was Eroica. Boris K. it wrote in a dream. He dreamed he was a teenager in a Flash Gordon suit during a rocket attack fired by an evil emperor. He woke up with a shout, but not before being hit by the rockets. So, Boris K. woke up and wrote it.

Boris did not mind the third novel, which he called “the Pastoral Symphony”. He remembered the good old days, when, on his first visit to Zlatibor, he fell in love with a shepherdess, and then left her when he found out she was an assassin

Boris K. was angry as he wrote the last line of the novella: “And I saved her from the evil bear!” The fourth novella was even easier: “Remember, readers, when Megaimportante put me in jail and forced me to sing key parts of Beethoven’s Fourth as part of a prison ballet,” Boris K. wrote.

At least my voice was warmed up with ” Prille Prolle ” !! But it wasn’t! – Boris sighed, “However, I used my belcanto knowledge to escape from prison disguised as Beethoven.

“During the break I managed to conceal Ludwig’s death from the audience, and since the whole elite was there, no one knew he had died for 200 years.”

Boris rubbed his hands together after finishing the fourth novel. “This will be a hit! I was born to write short stories.” He approached the TV and kissed Ludwig’s frozen picture. (pressing the “Pause!”Pause!”Pause! ” button) Right in the head! “For his work Ludwig, you will receive a laudative,” Boris K promised the frozen TV screen.

While Boris was swept up in visions of all the glory from sales of such ingenious novels, he continued to speak

He dreamed up the seventh novella. He was the star of Woody Allen’s movie. Woody was Boris’ favorite filmmaker. It was jazzy.

During filming, he seduced the main actress, leaving Woody short of a load, shattering the movie plot!

When Boris woke up, he thought: “A novel based on real events!”

In addition to the eighth novella, Boris began writing the ninth. Would that remain unfinished?

Ludwig, don’t even get me started on it. Boris realized, “It will definitely remain unfinished.”

In renouncing the ninth novella, Boris K. set out on a new adventure, renouncing the ninth novella, but not before writing an explanation in the footnote of the unfinished book:

I and Beethoven renounce … as Beethoven renounces his symphonies, so shall I renounce my novellas. And not just one, but all nine! I renounce it. I resent them. We renounce ever knowing ourselves. Europe is at fault.

Boris had a dream in which Beethoven told him that Europe was hypocritically using his anthem and that he should leave the book open to allow the audience to hope that there will be a sequel.

Boris K, There’s no place like home.

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Boris K encountered a man who was crying uncontrollably.

Being a loser, he expresses his frustration that he cannot realize his only passion for life. This is to visit exotic and attractive places, metropolises, and so on.

Then, Boris felt sorry for him and said he had a lot of trouble visiting these places because he had learned that not every city is as beautiful as it appears. His life was barely spared.

Boris felt pity for the penurious gentleman and made the decision he needed to comfort him. Boris K shrugged and said: “I wandered for eons, lost in my memory, through the cities and worlds that have vanished through time. You have not missed anything. Moreover, your loss is highly likely a blessing in disguise. Your misfortune too was for your own good. Let me apprise you of something kind Gentleman, I too befell during the course of my journey.” Boris K shook the mighty fright from his shoulders recalling the thoughts of his words.

“How so?” Said the gentleman. As surprised as he was, he stared dubiously at Boris K.

According to a legend I witnessed myself:

In the 18th century, there was a German noble woman who owned a castle in Prague and became an undead vampire. Sucking blood from tourists and seducing people while posing as Rosabella Smetana.

On the other hand, if you travel to Paris, you will also meet a creepy grandpa who is over 300 years old. His basement is filled with guillotine blades. It is located in the 3rd arrondissement and is known as Robespierre.

As opposed to this, if you were to visit Australia- which was lucky for you- you would have undoubtedly encountered Banjip. The Aboriginal spirit Banjis p lives beneath Sydney Opera House, making passersby laugh until they die.

If you had only traveled to Peking, what would have happened to you! Yo Po, the circus master, might not seem like a true master at all. Then he will ask you to enter a container, through which he will saw.”

Boris K paused for a moment to catch his breath and in a few moments said quietly:

“Yet, in reality, Yo Po will be cutting you in half with a saw.”

For this reason, it is advisable not to leave Serbia, which is a country full of vampires and werewolves.

Therefore, do not worry about your misery. The issue is of no significant concern to me.” Boris K said, opening both arms as the gentleman fell to the ground.

Alas, while the gentleman heard all this, he suffered an unfortunate heart attack, and out of dread died right on the spot.

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Poet Of The Month, Leila Samarrai, OPA (Our Poetry Archive) – The Poetry Journal


LEILA AL SAMARRAI 

OPA (Our Poetry Archive) – The Poetry Journal IS AN INTERNATIONL WEB JOURNAL PUBLISHED EVERY MONTH

FRIDAY, APRIL 1, 2022

NILAVRONILL TALKING WITH LEILA

NilavroNill Talking With

Poet Of The Month

LEILA AL SAMARRAI 

APRIL 2022

NILAVRONILL: Why do literature and poetry in particular interest you so much? Please give us some idea about your own perception of literature or poetry in general.

LEILA AL SAMARRAI: For me, literature is the liberated language of a liberated man/woman. Their journey takes place through created nature, but they do not travel like a tourist touring fantastic archipelagos in search of themselves. They create these archipelagos with their very movement.

An example is my favorite book Dante’s Inferno. Not only does Dante, like tourists, tour different worlds – degrees of consciousness, but he especially

emphasizes the ethical moment without which his work does not exist, and the aesthetic value of Dante’s work goes hand in hand with his ethical attitude. It is clear that hell must be experienced until the last round. Aesthetics has a devastating effect on conformism, aesthetics instead of comfort offers real joy – and literature is intuition and imagination spread in time and space. Aesthetically, it arises from the undisturbed action of force, expressed as the free movement of perception. My aspiration is to look to the abstraction in search of the inner core since pure poetic energy resides in it. I care about that energy, especially when it comes to destroying and visualizing the experiential matrix and everything it senses and creates. I would say that this kind of sensation is unusual and innovative. That is why it is attractive for every curiosity.

NILAVRONILL: How do you relate your own self existence with your literary life in one hand, and the time around you, in the other.

LEILA AL SAMARRAI:  What can I say? These feral times are not all too friendly to poets. But neither are we to it hence I hope that when it passes (and transcience is  ever-present), there will be enough poetic testimonials about who we were and what times we lived in.

NILAVRONILL: Do you believe creative souls flourish more in turmoil than in peace?

LEILA AL SAMARRAI: Yes. Art grows stronger in difficult times if we learn to preserve reason, and that we must ignore its dark virtues and celebrate its power and wonder. Our world is poisoned by misery, and it is as if we are wallowing in it. It is in vain to weep over the mind, it is enough to make an effort around it. There is enough strength of character to prepare fruit in the winter of the world.

NILAVRONILL: Do you think in this age of information and technology the dimensions of literature have been largely extended beyond our preconceived ideas about literature in general?

LEILA AL SAMARRAI: Most certainly a bigger audience, in wider circles.. who can nonetheless distil the crux of it all. The Internet is a Babylon where any author can both add and take away a brick laid, depending on one’s affinities.

NILAVRONILL: Now, in this changing scenario we would like to know from your own life experiences as a poet, writer and a creative soul: How do you respond to this present time?

LEILA AL SAMARRAI: You need to be a “nerd” to be a poet, that is without a doubt, and without regard for any monetary compensation. Living off of poetry is not all that doable, and success is, evidently, a category always in flux. As far as I’m concerned, I find it natural to express myself in verse, and whether I am far from any kind of recognition, well yes, I am. On the other hand, being recognized in Serbia means picking up all of the provinciality around you and publishing it. Hence I want to be recognized outside of my country’s borders because that is indeed recognition – proper recognition.

NILAVRONILL: Do you believe that all writers are by and large the product of their nationality? And is this an incentive for or an obstacle against becoming a truly international writer?

LEILA SAMARRAI: I come from a mixed marriage (my mother is Serbian – Greek, and my father is Iraqi) The combination of different cultures has certainly influenced me to some extent, as well as the cultural heritage of (ancient) Iraq. It is possible that the Eastern spirit is smoldering in me, in collision with the Western, modern and materialistic world. It would be romantic to understand that I am an unusual person in whom two opposing cultures, religions, customs are united, that in the collision of East and West, unconsciously, through veins, verses intertwine, and Eastern stories flow … and they last. That the curses and martyrdoms of both worlds are united in me. But I share the antithesis of the tribe, I do not belong to any city, no road, no region, I do not come from Europe or Arabia What comes to my mind is that many would like to see me somewhere without realizing that the beauty of my entire “defiant” personality is primarily in my cosmopolitan spirit that belongs to no one. I am a stranger among people, with the feeling that I do not belong to anyone. My Arab origin is traumatically disputed in Serbia and my Serbian origin in the Arab world. I am a stranger, hiding in the shadow of the night and wandering between the walls, whose fear cannot be smelled, because I have reached the extreme of memory, in a life that is a collection of sad and tragic stories, not one, but more lives, not omitting any part, and what I am writing is just choosing the hidden to be shown on the canvas of creation. In that and such a world, I created my own ancient literary homeland in poetry and prose that are often intertwined. Therefore, my literature is marked by fragmentation, confusion, soaked in anxiety, and non-belonging to both nations. In that way, my mark determined the only safe place for me, and that is the place between the worlds, the place where everything is connected that is otherwise separate, because limits exist only in limited minds. And who, if not a poet, would be able to bridge the insurmountable, touch the untouchable and bring the divided worlds closer. So why shouldn’t this be true for others?

NILAVRONILL: Now, if we try to understand the tradition and modernism, do you think literature can play a pivotal role in it?  If so, how? Again, how can an individual writer relate himself or herself to the tradition and to modernism?

LEILA AL SAMARRAI: Tradition? – Which creator relies on tradition? He relies on the creative force, not on the dusty paths that others once walked. If a creator bows to another creator, he bows to himself, there is no distance, no humility. What is unconventional is the way out of the vicious circle, the abandonment of the rational order. The purpose of life is truth and it is only tested in truth. And those who were crucified by ideology and tradition and burned at the stake knew that God is pain and that facing pain is such an unconventional thing for a life inspired by conformism -that step that replaces lies with truth.

NILAVRONILL: Do you think literary criticism has much to do with the development of a poet and the true understanding of his or her poetry?

LEILA AL SAMARRAI: Criticism is a mediator between the reader and the work of art, in a way that asks us how and in what way this work of art communicates with me, what it tells me about society, and even about myself. If it does not exist, society will end the dialogue, and without dialogue, we cannot talk about any cultural progression. I believe that no artistic or cultural scene can exist without professional criticism, although there is no literary critic to whom a monument has been erected in his honor.  It is necessary to expand the scope of art criticism in order to be more dynamic, diverse, courageous, and to include educational institutions in this process. There isn’t even a Serbian literary scene, nor is it allowed to exist. Critics are at their positions, established authors at their own, primarily political, then literary, or artistic. In short, literature in Serbia only exists at the level of gossip. It is a complete systematic collapse here, and with zero respect for the author and copyright, nothing will get better and Serbia will remain a literary black hole, irrespective of the vast number of people willing and capable of writing something. In such cultural darkness, everything will become a critique, everyone will be a critic and a nightmare about the space of personal interests will come true. I shudder when I read ‘thunderous applause, or, for example, descriptions of something ‘beautifully conceived’ or ‘phenomenal’ because it means nothing, but I also consider radical ‘critical’ attacks that stem solely from personal experience to be trivial and destructive. Everyone suddenly knows how to assess how flat, for example, the characters are, as if I were now writing about clogged arteries and suggesting surgery.

NILAVRONILL: Do you think society as a whole is the key factor in shaping you up as a poet, or your poetry altogether?

LEILA AL SAMARRAI: The artist himself can abstract circumstances, act as if they do not exist. No power, no regime, no social catastrophe can take away the joy of creation, and that is the point. Everything that the world created, and that was sublime and beautiful, was never the fruit of a rational approach. That is why nothing that is sublime and beautiful can be rationally explained That problem, we see, arises forever. There are people who determine the suitability and unsuitability of a work of art. Suddenly, those who talk about the crime become guilty, not those who committed the crime. Things turn around and suddenly a normal society looks like a totalitarian one, life in a city looks like life in an occupied city. When the Nazis asked Picasso why he painted Guernica, he said: I did not paint Guernica, but you Picasso was the personification of an artist faced with the possibility of destroying his work forever – there is also the story of the monstrous art. Unsuitable artists are an eternal problem of society

NILAVRONILL: Do you think people in general actually bother about literature?  Do you think this consumerist world is turning the average man away from serious literature?

LEILA AL SAMARRAI: There is a Latin saying: Beware of a man who has read only one book. The age of consumerism has created a world where we solve every problem or affliction of the spirit by shopping. Capitalism has definitely done its thing, so shopping has become a kind of pleasure, psychotherapy, a part of the day that makes our lives meaningful. The fact is, we have become slaves to shopping, things, and marketing. Film, television, the Internet – all these are media that offer content to modern man in a more interesting, and perhaps easier, way, which greatly influences the fact that the book is read less and less, and more and more viewed from afar. The statistics on how few people in Serbia read books, visit bookstores and fairs or even have their own library is devastating, and such data are especially devastating when we learn that the annual membership fee in libraries is only 400 dinars and that we can always borrow books from friends. What to say? Artists in the age of technology and the fast pace of life are made up of a handful of like-minded people, and only 3 percent of people visit the theater. Although e-book reading is on the rise, there are still fans of the smell of paper and print, so the ratio is half-and-half. Although, it doesn’t matter how or what, it is important to read and enrich our lives in the most beautiful way.

NILAVRONILL: We would like to know the factors and the peoples who have influenced you immensely in the growing phase of your literary life.

LEILA AL SAMARRAI:  My grandmother, Gorica Trajković, a painter and book lover, recommended books to me to read. I have been reading since I was four. Emil Zola, Gogol, French and Russian classics, mostly. I was amazed by Zola’s brutal, in fact, life storytelling technique in which, as if I were present in the novel “L’Assommoir”, I followed the ruin, the loss of moral compass, the tragic fate of the heroine to the end, starvation, dying … as a dog. It is similar to Flaubert. I could almost taste the poison in my mouth, through Madame Bovary. The writer followed all the phases of her poisoning to the very end, I don’t know exactly how many pages, quite… Life. The way life flows.

NILAVRONILL: How would you evaluate your contemporaries and what are your aspirations for or expectation from the younger generation?

LEILA AL SAMARRAI: The world of prose and poetry is split into various sects which do not recognize the quality and poetic approach of their peers. What will come in the next hundred years from all of this, I shudder to think.

NILAVRONILL: Humanity has suffered immensely in the past, and is still suffering around the world. We all know it well. But are you hopeful about our future?

LEILA AL SAMARRAI: I believe in man, which is why I say Maybe where there surely must be a Yes.

NILAVRONILL: What role can literature in general play to bring a better day for every human being?

LEILA AL SAMARRAI: It teaches us how to think, how to express ourselves. Teaches us compassion. There is a quote there from Heine: ‘What does this solitary tear mean? It so blurs my gaze.’ Poetry gives deeper insight into that which we might have missed in the daily rush of things.

LEILA AL SAMARRAI was born on October 19th, 1976 in Kragujevac, Serbia. She writes poetry, short stories, and plays, her work largely containing the motives of fantasy and humor. Her debut collection of poetry „The Darkness Will Understand“won the First Prize in the competition organized by the Student cultural center of Kragujevac in 2002. She has had her work published in numerous local magazines, both in print and electronic form. Some of her notable works include the collection of short stories „The Adventures of Boris K.“ by Everest Media and (as co-author and critic) „Poetry Against Terror: A Tribute to the Victims of Terrorism Kindle Edition“. Her works were published in Serbian, Hungarian, and English. She has won numerous awards for her written works, including third place as a representative of Serbia for the aphorism „Stars and Us“ of the „Beleg“ competition and three separate awards in the „3-5-7 – A Story in a Moment“ story competition, as part of the „Helly Cherry“ competition, both in 2011. She currently lives in Belgrade with her three cats. Samarrai uses absurdism and the elements of farce in her plays. She favors surreal short stories, horror fiction, satire, and humoresque, enjoying the vaudeville style of structure interwoven with the style of “Pythonesque” stories. Her goal in literature is to weave fantastic realism into horror fiction, as well as utilizing magical realism and the surreal.

Posted by Our Poetry Archive 

Labels: POET OF THE MONTH

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You can read some of my poems published in the April issue of OPA – AN INTERNATIONAL WEB JOURNAL PUBLISHED EVERY MONTH at the link

***

Penny Dreadful

Butterfly Idyll

Thus Spoke My Mother

Looking back in laughter

I’m dying Roman

This is the last stanza from my poem “Butterfly Idyll” * alternative title The Screams Of The Butterfly

BUTTERFLY: Death, I heard you while you were breathing…

I heard you while you were sleeping…

I heard you while you were weeping….

I heard you while you were screaming…

Centuries of noosed escape,

Eons of eluding fate.

Shrieked clarions called silent,

On immortal heights.

The laughter of the butterfly.

https://ourpoetryarchive.blogspot.com/2022/04/leila-al-samarrai.html?fbclid=IwAR3xa82yEDx67VhREFu6Y1ScR5ug9e92MN8_Lj7q19L4nZ20C8gURcKTxRc

Ianus

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(Janus-song,
  loneliness,
  dialogue…

Lane (es’es)
two-faced mirror
inside a deaf room,
lurking, geminus,
broad like a fox-ed tongue
or of a daily atoll
recoiling from monochrome chaos en route –
hollow be thy callousness

among us is a scar –
c-section in January
immersing our day in monochrome beams
which you assemble and reverse in-
to masks
shadowing our own taut steps
needing song
lonely’s ghosts
dialogues that work

and then
(O probrecitas) what
are we going to do,
with you beyond us
beside us inside us
masks barking day and night
with knowledge and vixened arts
from obscure tunnels in hidden rooms,
to celebrate…

marriage (’20 – ’21)
of Shion and Pseudologoi
sets-adrift in pensive voice
commands for a tree-headed dog
to snarl by theory
about how shadows lurk in empty shelves
Liars…liars

ask me, strangers!

ascend, January, ascend!

and to begin (backs
arched) the dogs stopped barking…

Me solum relinquatis*

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The Kapellmeister is up!
Ah mastery…

hell’s spider blossoms
lilies of thunder
to swallow the passerby
(are you able to ponder?)

one, two, three, four…
hangman measures his rope
digger digs and clutches
hauls to fore
madness
  death-fires
dis
    death-fires
madness
    horse
madness
    death-fire madness
horse
    running
dis
    horse running
running
      running
horse

let me walk in peace
towards morning softness
sun measuring the hours
with ancient precision
upon a sidewalk
along a road that plays Rossini
whose asphalt is cratered
like a mix of steps and cloven

here and there
guardian bats follow me

the world can be horrible, but not dirty

against all disgust
I kept my good taste
and laughed
    laugh

but you, Kapellmeister,
are pathetic
obsessive
pathological
soft
    and weak

  • Me solum relinquatis: meaning in English: Leave me alone

Revelation Woman

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It hurts being clothe with a moon

As that woman about to give birth in front of the dragon

particular misshapen fiend

deal a powerful blow,

with a knife in the chest,

and then to devote insane

and grotesque calls

in pain, when dark places paints still water with spit of the fire

The blade was laid in the carved bone

and the altar, an ancient image of divinity

will speak the tongue of bones tonight.

that.. Being.. Revelation woman..

Her head peeked beyond all countless spirals

painted much in the same manner,

that way putting herself in the center of microcosm

of all-encompassing universality of nature,

becoming a role model for human (it – with monstrous are performed now)

y – axis whirl moving of the let – ergo going into nothing

My look at the city was one of prison. I

am here – behind bars.

This is a city in the middle of a prison.

Into the wilderness as is a desolate place

And full of serpents and scorpions,

“travailing in birth, and pained to be delivered”

The forest unbathed by an ocean of blood

An unhealed wound beneath the hot navel

The unpierced rib in the deciding battle

A lonely nest devoid of it’s eagle.

from the clime of the blood

walking in possible dragons

salute the woman over the infinite sea breasts!

time stuffs the sincere belly

and eh the oh beastly shrapnel

itlike the sharp knife

ping of fadead stomach

as around as death around me you

imagining dragon tail’s rise

My mortal body with immortal progeny!

I summon the Heavens to bow down to my tentacles

Folded into a clenched fist!

Photo Credit: William Blake, The Great Red Dragon and the Woman Clothed with the Sun

No photo description available.

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~ twins

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we are Layla –
two nights
backlit from within
dancing with castanets of faerie claret
and moon-cakes,
partnered with blood-wise bats,
shape-sharing crowns,
throats, lamps-in-waiting,
Egypt, too, (among missteps –
wild Salukis, red sea hounds,
wilderness bloodhounds,
skillful leapers all
over where our breath palettes the wind
rumpling with drums,
trumpets triangles painting in lit dusts
rebels, prayers, and, as template,
canon draped with drunken sailor
we and all embarking the streets (Paris-like, say,
harbors of salvation – ) joined by gypsies, prostitutes
the Uruk lion, door of Ninus, Barab-
bas, Aladdin’s rub all dancing dancing all
on accursed ground in a circle-’round-and-round
until, in churchyard’s way,
twilight meets itself again

let the bells toll
toll in a freeze-frame of star-smear
shivering, tra-la, in copy-cat measures
that of madness and fear

Oh, we are happy now

one day
if our scent of blackest laughter
comes before the smell of Nineveh
it would be…

and drunk with duality

O que lastimas
probrecitas –
we are vexed and grieved

fade
to the sent of fading laughter

Ophelia

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Ophelia

from the cycle of poems of “Ophelia’s knitting patterns”

I am Ophelia (far from madness)

a world of blurry, innumerable images in a tangle.

at peace with the diving veils ….

There’s blood on the water lilies somewhere,

at the Kronborg CastleBall

where crime is celebrated crimson

over the hearth of the Golgotha circus,

standing erect in the deathless truth

the life of the reaper and the sower;

my prayers are the prayers of dark silent marble crosses

my prayers are the seeds sown in the cooling magma

(Enough saint’s blood, the tone grows into madness, overstrained, demonic)

come cheerful death

come, fear not with revelation or impatience

come uranus moon

just come

Author’s Note: Ophelia in the fourth act of Hamlet is demonstrably insane, but the direct cause of her slipped sanity is something that remains debatable.

Belgrade, March 21, 2022, 9.52 PM Monday

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Listen to the Mussorgsky in tune


their thermobaric prey
fast 76 seconds
to a lung explosion
did grab and swear, centrifugally
desolation unconvinced
catastrophe kievgated.

but you suspect you are on the go
    and that some mr helps you
it’s me and you backless copies
wear each your ribs, o tears turned o never
turn around, denials are in reality, imagine

Departures and ordinary people
Nice departures
sudden turns
of controlled drops, droppingly
goldenly gate
goldenly float

Something we are not aware of
Not now, not in moments
When we ruled suspiciously
While panting and deceived
you suspect some
god help my ego

forged a web dissectors, funny anyway
whisper nostalgically Enola Gay drops
plodded through a voluntary long tonsils
  cloudy and bloodshot eyes,
soaked throat

In nuclear plant fire
their very x-radiation heart
with salty intestines and cobalt eyes
open a  Kiev’s gate,
fire
but Kiev
the Kiev of bombast – flimsy what
a waste of time

listen to the Mussorgsky in tune
subdued with a su large throat bloodsuckers
a drunkard of darkness, miserable sick and thirsty
god pity me hoo!
who helps you
in blue water playing like hell

putr
id id
spikes of madnesss
collidingly absorbs arabian hoo
explodes in a krash
from deathly laughter
by the way chrome
high class audio tapes
washed with tone

non nuclear deployed
explode lungs
terryfing
The TOS-1 Buratino
o crushes, o sky
pour forth, the flames opened
to the carnival

skies seasons rocket

darkness reigns now

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Oh, now at night unknown someone
hanging black flags on houses
shakes the handles

I am mild towards my alienígenas albertosaurus murderer
masquerading as a being zipped inside a skin suit.

and the secret alignment that chords over us
while bombs and people were falling around us

While bombs and people were falling around us
I’m jeering from one end of the full stop to the other.

Goddess, God or Lord puts on a pair of black gloves,
though she – the black spaz is not the son of a glove maker.

My heart is pounding,
chaos spit fire and pain,
and you beat me, wild man, Pérvaya mólniya

I lined the idea that failed to flow forth
I lined the idea that failed to flow forth
as I hovered over the Shrapnel soap
while the 1999 Shrapnels were whistling around us

the dark chords of a funeral march,
with bombardments and flügelhorn,
with the thunder of cannons in one sound

Mainly
There is nothing in the shallows
Sludge, shrunken heads and kiddie recreate

Only the fence is bound
A creeping rose on a black table
color

And the withered bush is there
Rusty, odorless

darkness reigns now

The Screams of the butterfly

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In terrible airy alofts, flying high,
Adrift in anima amnesia’s,
Floating in fernweh forgottens,
A low birth in abyss’s,
Radiance in replete radials from rages
…In furious vortices.

You chase enchantment phantoms in Elysian fields,
Drips and drops tell tales to pebbling
flowers.
And sea’s shimmering sparkling spray,
Soliloquy’s shadowy opaque on gloaming coasts.

Butterflies, lonesome lighthouse sewn
shores,
The cannibalistic roses sanguine swell in opening horrors,
The star language songs sing and
susurrates,
Tower of Babel nations are euphoric in linguistic relates,
Your Jupiter cult divine drowned in
sacrificial wine.
The great oceans with brumal iced crest glistens luminesce,
Turning their faces in adorations to
eloquent suns.

Fires birthed from hollow
clouds eruption,
Butterflied veins in vain combust without refrain,
Butterflying flits in solar circles, dying in flaming cycles,
Swayed wings desperate, flutter flails
waves weave.
The sea shudders wide and the earth
gasps despondency,
It’s ceasing deceasing pleasing, powers
Gods.
Deserving of death, deserving of life…
Let him live…let him die…
Despised executioner, I…
But let departures be without
punishment.
The triumphant arrogant live…
…but if only…for one more moment.

It floats through sullen azure arches,
Delicates warbles sinking on failing ash
spark.
Strained in chained,
Fallen empires cycle timidly,
The swath mutes bitterly.
The screams of the butterfly.
In this witchly silence, the birds have no
name.

Howled realizations of impending
demise,
Roars in restless logos, linguistic
anguishing reviles.
The icy knife lunges, twisting in chests,
The dogs went wild from the scent,
Snake holes sent, trails for sour spent.

Icarus unspeakable without wings,
Eternal falling resonance in eternity
sings.
The unsettling crackling of film off it’s
reels,
Whooshing winds of terror revealed,
A thousand knives trembled eyes,
Broken winged horses and broken sighs.
Winged intimacy with deceasing,
Can you hear this breaking mercy?

Dropped to knee’s from flight, in front of shining seas light,
Womb burst swallowing lightning, torn
harsh flesh darkness in vain,
A new beast is born from the stain.
The cry of the caterpillar.

Falling lightning, beast in nerve cell
mornings,
Beast in miasmas with air on fire, breath a blazed!
Permeated atmosphere suffused
imbued.
She hoods submerging stars and turns
off the sun,
She transcends death threshing and flies
in the whirlwind storm,
Lunacy grasps the winged with scorn.

Transfigurations to sinister,
The harmonies collapse in desolation,
The intestines scream dissolution.
Sinking stars feverishly shaking black,
Red retch blood glares,
The veins swell chthonic flares.
Unquenchable expires,
Unsatiated thirst…fires!

This dawn of tamed passion possessed,
Mantles tremble in lowering laments,
The black forests gloam obsidian under
black moons,
The earthquakes grumble morbidity too
soon.
Dying iris turns transient,
Swallows hushed in sallow hollows,
The Hearances reviled,
The howl of the butterfly.
On this heartbreak soil
Deathly modus’s susurrous’s shipwrecks.
The Reaper ravages us all…
…For loss of her.

BUTTERFLY: Death, I heard you while you were breathing…
I heard you while you were sleeping…
I heard you while you were weeping….
I heard you while you were screaming…
Centuries of noosed escape,
Eons of eluding fate.
Shrieked clarions called silent,
On immortal heights.
The laughter of the butterfly.

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BERNARD”S HOURS, The story of a schismatic misanthrope, Leila Samarrai


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image found here

BERNARD”S HOURS

The story of a schismatic misanthrope

“The basis of hatred is fear” – Friedrich Nietzsche

Part I

00.00
I have always hated people. Always or after one woman stabbed my heart with a knife? I have no excuse, because hatred is a gift we receive upon birth and not some acquired imagination.
They hated me too. But, I was exceeded by the persistence of my disbelief and my hatred which was, contradicting even their own, pulsed stronger. Petty illusions were bringing short term relief, so I would, at times, mercifully get carried away to awaken love in some woman. When you are a dark hero, you are not pure in your soul and the demons pursue you. You see evil in everything, or something special in which evil lays (perhaps the handsomeness of evil) When there is no longer any tenderness within you, it is a feeling of a constant thwack. You are cold, and some mute perpetrators are ripping the clothes off your body, again and again. While they are doing that, hatred and disgust is clearly visible on their faces. In the imagined laboratory of my mind, heavily lit and full of rats, there is plenty of poison and weapons, and you, the common humans which I hate, are the main experiment of the Great Scientist. Like a dead drummer, I yawningly hit the little drums while walking the streets of some dark city. You are present in it, and I am like a hollow tree trunk among blossoming trees bearing exotic fruits. I am not saying that an occasional exchanging of warm words or touch does not feel good. A cold coffee is just as drinkable as the hot one. Sometimes, a woman with an hourglass body makes me feel like a man, like everybody else does, directing herself in waves towards my genitalia. But, you cannot believe the same lie twice. It is a black sun that only glows partially. At times it manages to replace the suns of other people and the ways in which that luminous trickster shines to them. Those moments last short, therefore I am my own sun, at the same time a shadow, I – the used puppet who observes the remains of the humorous theater play from which he was removed, by having his legs and arms torn away from his limbs. He is angry at the actors of the play. By the course of time, a lot of water gathered between me and other people.

00:23
Maybe my hatred was born 23 years earlier when I have met a boy with curly hair, near a murky body of water, during a very dark time of my childhood. It was warm and dry. The sun fried with its whips. Like the golden mask of Medusa, it grinned above the forest of my childhood.
– You are the one whose father hung himself? – said the little leader of the gang, whom they called Dirty Josh, and touched me with a stick.
– You are already five minutes late. I hope you brought them.

I did not answer. I offered him the lead soldiers.
– Here is the replacement for life.
He took them and lined them up on the wooden bench, surrounded by trees the color of ebony. His hands were sweating while he was arranging them into the little battalion.
– This is my battalion and that one is yours. Since you were late, the punishment for defeat will be death. Don’t ever forget it. Let us see who is stronger.

With the best of my strength, I would charge his figurines with mine. Perhaps you think I shouldn’t have shown so much zeal? I would act differently now. I would spit on him or cut him with a knife. From this other thing, I always feel a tingling in my stomach and realize it is disgust, mixed with fear. From MY soldiers he picked all the strongest and prettiest ones (my father carved them before his death, but not all of them were equally pretty). Some of them were really badly made, but it would depend from how much did he drink that day. When a soldier was done, my father would stick him into the ground and say:
– Son, this is your army. And your strength for life..

When he was making Achilles and Spartacus, he was drinking moderately. So they were, even thought Josh’s soldiers were prettier and greater, my Achilles and Spartacus, successfully protecting the flank, so I won the fight for an equal battle with my effort (or perhaps hatred). I could only imagine how much agitated was the evil boy because of it. Seeing he wanted to show himself in front of his gang, and that he chose the strongest soldiers, he could not lose. His were, in tense expectation, drenched in sweat. That is when I realized that human greed, hatred (and sometimes lust as well) smell like salt, a salty bath in which a woman lays with her open legs and the smell of her sex, like with animals, merges with the stench of fear and salt. All hatred begins in childhood. You have not been lied to. Innocence can only produce crime, because within what lies the vanity of the crime if there is not some nostalgia in it due to innocence lost. I am convinced that the man does get born clean. People become evil in time. And all are, with no exception, evil. Crooked and evil.
I showed Achilles to the small man:
– Yesterday his tooth got chipped, so he is not well, otherwise he would slaughter your entire battalion . Just HIM ALONE. If he was well, he would’ve done it already. If only his tooth was not hurting so much. It still hurts him. You see. He is great, strong, powerful.
– Ah, like that! Ah, like that!
Dirty Josh wrenched it out of my hand, and while giggling, threw him onto the loam next to the bench, because he thinks he is powerful. And he stepped on him accompanied by the laughter of the play actors, until, with his torn limbs, sweaty and satisfied, he pardoned him. That is when the evil boy threw Achilles in the dirt, into the murky water, far away from himself. Dirty Josh laughed. That is when I saw he was also missing a tooth. His corpse was found three days later, in the murky water, wormy from piss, dirty from blood and mud, with the lead stick figure stabbed into the center of his forehead. The wound hole was too big, almost grotesque. The spike, once corded inside, had layers of the brain mass stuck to it upon being pulled out.
I still keep Spartacus, and I never made a new Achilles. All hatred starts in the childhood. You have not been lied to.
Sometimes I hear tapping on the door. I first thought it was the rain. But no, it is Achilles. In the robes of a strong, Greek hero with bare, hairy feet, slowly stepping into my home. He looks at me and I look at him. We are cold, we do not speak and we eat fish.

00:46
I am never late. I posses an enormous collection of antique clocks. A pile of beige boxes full of the second hands, some pocket watches with monocles, huddled into order, peeks from a Victorian jacket. My hours is what defines me. No moment is worth more than that bare notion. The tick of the clock industriously warns that I am already five minutes late to the opening of my own store. Then, with the speed of a rabbit who heard a hum and trembled and leaped, I exit for the street with a smile. My antique shop is located in the trade area of the K. city, in one solidly built house with walls out of brick.
On the board, hanged upon a fir door, a headline reads “RARE BOOKS” (photographs, postcards, old charts, maps and musical instruments). Modern electrical heating under the porcelain panels and economical stoves are in the kitchen compartment. Vis-à-vis to the kitchen and the small bathroom (actually, it is composed of a single lavatory and a soap selvage) is my work desk with a computer. The work room has a low ceiling, and the sockets are on the Spanish wall, for phone and the satellite dish. The work room exit leads straight into the room for welcoming customers in which there is a big stall behind which I show antiques to customers and receive money.

7:23 AM.

Today somebody wished me death. Like a dog’s grimace in the corner of a yard that’s not his own. A short shriek over the phone and wheezing:
– Die!
It was an open invitation, a desire for neck breaking. What should I answer? How should I defend myself, so it never crosses their minds to call again? I stop before the gate, then open it indecisively and enter a narrow field that surrounds the hovel. I kicked the dog, but gently. The dog moved away, and then fixated on me with his eyes. Right next to the window frame, I sneak a peek inside. A darling character used to be huddled in the bed, covered over his head, and the sheets above him swollen from breathing. A naked void is under the covers now. The sheet does not give away someone still breathing and thinking under it. Like a corpse. I imagine how the sheet stands upright, the corpse fills with semen, pullulates and sprouts, grows up to the muscles, tissue, blush, luxury of cheeks, an eyeful glow. A young girl, with her face dirty and yellow from some hidden melancholy, gets up from the bed, takes the full laundry basket, and then beats him with a stick. That there is a mother! I extended my hands to her. My hands miss and touch the icy cold air. She passes through me and claps her hands, spins and dances while observing the miniature paintings lined next to the barrels in the yard. I sit on a stool and with smooth moves of my fingertips I touch the masonite. Then only a whisper is heard and that wheezing, the crying, wailing. The dog begins to howl.
– Who are you? What are you doing there? – the old man from the house next door points his slim finger at me. Then he recognizes me, spits on the side, opens the bottle which he uses to refresh his face. He refreshes himself on top of the empty snow. Then looks around, at least it seems so to me, the endless sky, stretched into nothingness. That infinity can never be remembered and neither could SHE ever paint it fully. The snow sticks to the inner part of my suit. Sticks to the skin. I entered the cold shanty of my once home, and observing the paintings mother painted, I knowledgably distinguish patterns and colors. I notice some of them were done rather badly, or perhaps are not so close to me anymore. The old man and I light our cigarettes and look at each other. He watches me through the window. While he watches me, he murmurs into his own beard and raises his head to the sky again. Then, like a defeated peacock, he bends his head into the wet snow, where the peace of death reigns. I hear some kind of a people buzz, but it is too far away from me. I am amid the cold, vacant garden, surrounded by paintings, wet laundry, dirty glasses and broken mirrors. I flip everything that is dirty, touch it gently with my hand, move the dust and put a few miniatures into my bag.
– How will you clean this?
– What?
– How will you clean all of this, now that all of your kin has died? – the old man asks.
I am completely close to the wall, and then, leaning through the low window, I throw the dirty glass over the fence, directly to the old man’s wall. It shattered, and dark, greasy liquid sprayed out onto the wall. The old man ran away frightened. After the old man leaves me alone, I become concentrated enough to spot the gramophone which I came to pick up. It was, certainly, very old, with a handle. The mechanism is completely upstanding, and it has a special record compartment as well, I will tell to a customer on the same day. I wash my face with cold water over the dirty lavatory and I play Beethoven’s violin concert in d minor, which spills through the room through the whirl of Poe-like terror. I pick books. I flip pages of each of them and rip them one by one. Not for sale. Can a man be more alone?

7:46
I see myself among skyscrapers; they grow me like I am a plant. I was ripped from the surrounding smoke, but I am sprayed by it. I stagger around like the poisoned sewer water. The asphalt is hit in the middle. Cloven. Like on the clavier, my feet mingle the sidewalk. Eyes are gripped into the darkness of the glasses. Here and there, I hear a bat of footsteps behind me. The head of the people orchestra is the Kapellmeister whose massive truncheon, like thunder, hits the naked, pissed on concrete. The world can be horrible, but not dirty. In all that disgust, I kept my good taste. During all this time, the sun was, wanting to fulfill its primate at any cost, trying to pierce through the curtain of smoke. Devouring, intoxicating sun pierces into the softness of the morning, whitened sun, a powdered ball. I noticed the way it twirls, how it rises and powers the sky like a giant, yellow bug on batteries. Like some clock, the sun measures the hours with ancient precision and swallows the passerby with immeasurable fever of eternal existence. You are nobody and nothing, and the yellow bug crawls over you, and each of her prong points a finger to you, accusing you of transience, of tardiness. It often exists like counterweight, but also a help to the grayness of the clouds who are like bulletproof vests. One selvage of metal pulses with a glow and illuminates the parts of the overcast architectonics of the city. Sometime later, the city is filled with moonlight and the light lasts deep into the night. Arctic star, as enormous as a plate with two curious eyes, will soon crack in the sky. Eternal light, the eternal peace that bothers me, for I demand the darkness that brings me joy.

8:19

I quickly opened my eyes and saw the first ray of light in the short jerks. In fact, I blink like a bird, and my face is packed with muscles pressed against the bones. The day had bitten me. He discovered me in the position of a fetus, with arms folded and is now unraveling, elongating, stretching his legs, moaning, and calling his mother. The palms sunk into the darkness of the armpits, the fingers were exposed to injuries, and the feet pushed against the bare wall.

I’m about to be born. I emerge from my cocoon, the self-larva squeezing and drooling over the pillow. Imagine a man who gets up and breathes life! Smell the divine’s irony. Consider larva in this situation. My hair is pinned up by numerous hairs, tiny fields of curled bibbidi-bobbidi-boo, all intertwined with each other, hair, blood, nails, piss, shit, all listed in the Mower of Reason manuals. Man. But a man is not without accomplishments, I rubbed violently – sellotaped lashes – the temple in Ephesus, for example.

Herostratus, but not Herosiphron, is mentioned in the literature. With his bare, bruised hands, he sculpts ivory and gold. Then there’s a pig who wipes everything out. When they destroy beauty, I feel intense pain. Every day, with one lush sprout of fruit, a thousand ravines burst open and scream.
When I create, I am no longer a hollow tree; the foam of creation boils within me, mows me down like grass, and carries me on its wings. I get out of bed because I am aware of the possible perfection that would cure me. Poison can also be used as a medicine, or something along those lines. Then I get the urge to write a song or paint the wall in light brown dots to absorb some of the sun’s rays.

For all these years, I’ve made two stools for sitting, a table from which I drink coffee from a pale blue pot, burnt at the ends, on which I’ve streaked colorful flowers: white radish in the middle, yellow beetle in the middle, and egg white around. I drew a seven-winged angel on the other side of the glass, which I frequently use to drink bile instead of milk. Wet laundry in a squeezing machine that I repaired myself, folding chairs. I create infrequently, but I am a cannibal of those occasions. I exist solely for them.
Every ten years or so, one good game for cannibals. I am not an insensitive man, despite the image I created of myself by twisting my own mask in the air. It’s like we don’t want to admit we have a disease. But now that I’m in my forties, I realize I’m mostly stuck.
Hatred has overwhelmed me more than ever before.

7:12

This time, I knew that hatred would overwhelm me like the sun floods the sky, or the smoke from a chimney soils clothes that, once clean and new, absorb the heavy smell of soot and become a lure for moths in the hundred-year-old closets of old houses.
They are eternal, and the three-winged cupboards are their tenacious heart, pillar, and gateway to the new. One of these houses’ witch’s heart points its ugly, noisy chamber on the asphalt, which is repaired repeatedly by the same, smoke-masked people. A massive hole in the asphalt will eventually suck everything in, including the house where I live, which has a three-winged closet, stool, and coffee table.

I-House, as a clumsily put-together mechanism. This morning, I felt hatred rising in the waves, followed by an erection, but I didn’t know what form it would take when it would triumph over Herosiphron, snatch the chisel from his grip, and insert a bomb into it. I dipped small pieces of bread in freshly brewed coffee and gazed at the TV screen, which was adorned with savagery and reeked of lies.

They’re talking about terrorist attacks and a new bomb that will walk the planet to the edge of space and back. Then there were the smells. I have a foul odor, like a ferocious beast. Bernard, take a deep breath! So, forward, backward, everything is fine. Isn’t there something that stinks? It’s probably from a nearby dairy.

The fist morphed into a black fist, slid down my face, and straightened with my hip. The stench of goat’s milk could be smelled. Bernard, smell it! I stood up, uncombed and trampled, and approached the window’s movable shutters. I used a double-bar shutter to open the window.

My home was old, but it was well-designed. While designing it, I paid close attention to the woodwork. The stench from the dairy was spreading. I notice that work is being done in front of the asphalted yellow strip with a drill and a thousand screws that turn with Henry James’ pen.

It’s a beautiful woman, a Hilti drill, and a Great Horny Cook that burns human feet, embedded in asphalt, carved into the flesh of concrete, walled up like the Hollywood feet of a movie star trampling the carpet of fame, and unstoppably devouring popcorn in the darkness of her home. They are inexpensive and filling. A greatness’s smoldering flesh. I’d kiss those feet, as if they were the Savior’s, and wash away my sins.
Drill. Mammal. Workers in orange suits and rubber boots fix us, like questions at the end, tense, expressive, carved, while devouring popcorn, stand, led by actors, very tired human beings. They are imitated by cockroaches being devoured by bankers, and bankers being devoured by watchmakers, and madmen from hospitals being devoured by nurses with their large mouths. They’re all there, empty like garbage cans, exchanging identities and lives.

The line in front of the dairy completes the image that I despise, and whose odor irritates my facial nerves. Point one is the cheek. The nostrils are out of this world.
The sight of a human crowd devouring my flesh, as well as the interstitial tangle between points A (ears) and B (skin) (nose). The main headquarters, where they will strike, is located in the cheek. People attack me, a disgusting little man, in the crowd, sideways, from behind, from the side. The main focus is on the eyes.

Pluck them to death and boil their cheekbone nerves. The careful observation and analysis of the situation in the dairy began when I sat on a chair with my legs spread and my yellowed pants leaning on the windowsill. Then I crawled to my bed, which was a small puddle in which I sweated profusely and smelled like a terrified fetus.

I was left numb and exhausted by hatred. I didn’t pay attention to their paired vocal cords, but I smiled sympathetically, hoping that I could catch them. The stench from the dairy was spreading. Oh, how I admired myself for summarizing them all! Even Herosiphron couldn’t have carved them out with a chisel any better than I did. The line in front of the dairy is made up of a postman, a failed abortion (failed womb) of a local whore who dedicated her life to thinking, and a peasant who wears corn cobs under his armpit harvested from the highway fields where the whore lived.

Then comes a gypsy woman, a famous prophetess from a nearby building, who sells her disgusting nylon crochet made in a Thai factory where a child’s life is worth a bottle of juice and a portion rice.

And finally, the unfortunate computer master, the melancholic who arrives last at the place from which he set out, cursing the evil fate and all the conductors of this world, I thought all this while listening to the screams of a neighbor from my house next to withered old woman, a candle seller. – on the cobblestones on which the postmen pass, carrying letters that never arrive, and are written by unfortunate virgins and failed lovers, bypassing her in a hurry.

They irritate me. Do you sense it? But I’m also terrified of them.

Bernard, I’m a lot like them. I have a history. It has a room inside. At certain times of the day, I wake up with a pointless calculation in my head: sales, purchases, running costs, utility costs, food, goat’s milk, transport tickets and running costs again, Halsystem for garbage, aluminum Coca-Cola cans from 1997, glass in a bottle, all those cargo areas, the storage that must be paid for, the garbage machinery that is nearby, the water with brown rust particles that I paid for.

Crunchy rust that has already devoured my lower lip. My hands have mutated, and I am tense as a result of the final solution delivered by terrorists who stab the fuselage with needles. A snobbish brand with a lorgnette on its face transports several Arabs, Alladins, gnawed to the bone, all of them transporting a plane with a crack, in the troposphere, with a hard-hitting and flourishing crack, to all the major points where the free plane will eventually split and crash. if the open wound does not heal if the terrorists continue to stab the plane with needles The plane’s secret is revealed by a massive scar.

I took a glass of water with crunchy rust in it and reddish worms floating on top. She waits for me on the oiled floor next to the book “Illuminati,” with the serenity of the dead, the disabled serenity that was embodied by only past pain, through further, eternal emptiness and fruitless desire.

This story will envelop further….