(Dedicated To Corpses, The Beginning Of Ascent) 

 They are dreaming…

In the gardens of Everest, their skulls are hatching sleeping worlds,

Corpses lined in white mare tides…

In pearlescent gardens frozen fingers farmed,

A catamaran of cadavers voyage,

Peering, piercing my fluorescent boots.

At mountains foot; I, driven by the same pyre of Titan’s progeny as permafrost ghosts of yore,

Where earth dwells eternal in limbotic gloom,

And no recompense rewarding corpses ravishing……

…. that never die!
Frost nightingales, closed breath, hands crossed on chests,

Cadaveric beatific, musical marching Everest troops

singing together:
“When all the doors are barricaded,

I still have my mountain to climb.

Behold! I am at the summit!

This is my fate, to set backfires to Gods!

Beware, Sagarmatha, beware!”
Alas, I see now, they are all rather in tatters.

I continue my ascent towards the top temporally transposed.

A treachery for Man and fowl,

To the hoary bitten hell in lonesome choosing,

In airs of complacency,

Yodel-Ay-Ee-Ooo! Gods, do you envy me?!

Like Moses, He precedes me,

Through mountain glass transfixed in shatters,

I am a rock in the wind,

I am a tear in the eye,

I am a warm lie.
Embracing my bones; arid and withered,

Lips caress kiss glazier crystal.

I’m travailing cumuli under savage sky,

The snow veil asphyxiating me…

Fate turned to ruthless ragged raged,

Mountain side with feral fangs.

Assured, confidant, raise me with rope entwined,

Pledged fealty to your opal peaks skyward.

Everest, God’s temple of Dune!

The face of fear!

This insane passion for freedom!

Treachery viligancy to trick dreams morosely.

Rope hold the line!

Axe splines supine!

Skaoi divine, I implore, 

With frosted hands conjoined,

Bare me to heights whither to unknown,

Upon your brawny bow!
We could not absolve our sin,

Nor forgive them.

The world long past,

A grey remittent toy,

Housed in forlorn haunts rejoined.
All eyes upon my pitiless axe!

The axe that rends animas from dresses!

Tears spirits from suites!

Abrogates spirits from abyss’s!

I am piercing peaks,

I am slashing summits,

Eviscerating elevations,

I am murdering the mountain!

The stone exsanguinates…and so do I.
Pater meus, I will not surrender this ascent,

I have tasted the peaks plasmal lust!

Ascension/descension in ecliptic prance dance,

The stars kaleidoscope in nauseous conjunction above.

Delirious risen hiked heights,

Devout surge scale surmount,

Conquering crests crescendo.
Broken mirror, beloved shards painted blue,

Ourea in ice arouse,I am traversing you!

Mother Himalayan Chomolungma,

I am prostrate in ruined depletion dire,

With no more words to wail,

Hymns to howl,

Or Logos to lament.
Dormant worlds below melt in deviled mists,

But in brumal promethean flairs,

I’m become the monster of the mountain!

The pathfinder eternal lost,

A ghost amongst the elevations,

Loathsome…and excommunicated.

The Sound Of Screams/Night Terror

Night Terror

In dread, I embraced wisped feet in repletion,

In terror, I butterflied apparition’s breasts in depletion, 

In trepidation, ringed by obelisk blades deranged.

Entranced rascaldom gaze,lurking easily, spying scoundrelaxedly,

multiplied deception perspirationally.

Witness Athena’s whimpering visage,

Glimpse aghast, at lamentations length,

Behold at shattered tatteredeeming heart.

I am the eternal echoing in winds!

I am logos esoteric under tongues!

I am Alpha Omegacally!

I am the first things passed away in haze.


I am screams in pyretic pain,

Dante’s inferno claimed disdains,

Wiggles and diddles on moonlit fiddles,

The madman’s prance trance,

Cataclysmic in marionette pulls romance.
Circuitous, I am hoppingeniously leaping

from lucidity screaming,

Teaming totalitarian fingers,

Contriving this nightmares meaning.

Sleep hassleep ASLEEP!

O unholy night of insult complete!

The boogeymanicured boogeymaniacs approach,

and mamma is not here to quell your fears.

Scarlet she of dreams adorned with ash crown, 

And fornicatious cup,

And pearls and putrid wings.

Flickering hitheroically,

Hither she slithers, saying:Smooth sailing, daughterror…

Proclaim the testament of abhorrence!

Reclimate the ethereal horrors!

O, what a phenomenonsense! 

(The poet is moving across the field of vision…)

Tete a tete in tatters tatte!…go away!

 SKNX-X-X-X.. hngGGggh-Ppbhww

The infinite film strip salacious scritches and screeching away.

O majesticklish! Splendiddle sperdaddle!

O negativa, in eternal rolling rattle!


(The Goddess) PSYCHE:

Another nightmarena poetryingly of yours?

MYSELF: Yes, ma’am, directly from Sleep Terror Kingsdomain’s.

PSYCHE: Let me see… (PSYCHE begins to read):

“I, Nymphet in the bud, the Goddess of dreadful hymen.

An unloved goat-nymph, the envy of all Greek islands,

lulling between the crests of two mad waves.

Populated by the covetous, sweat drips from my restlessness,

pouring from my succulent thighs.

I was caressed by butterflies.

Shadows entangled in the light,

emotivity fleeting flight.

My breasts crashed against the greedy cliffs.

My womb a vanity of acrimony.

I was raised wild amongst lunacy.

A tabula rasa inscribed with psychopathy.

Howls of animus heard seminal river breaks,

beneath the gibbous moon, below the navel, 

where milky pearls drip into floods of hot rivulets,

below the eyebrow where woundingly fears

drip into eyes of undulant sadness.”

PSYCHE: Astonishingly ingloriously!

(The sounds of tearing paper in the ether and maniacal laughter closing in)

Perchance to nightmonish.

Sweat and sound and screams abound,

Echo outlandishly strident in autumnal sanguine dyes.

The red reaper chokes at throats,

In asphyxiation I quell rebel against this nightmare tell,

And awake…in heaves…and distortion fades…

But still…and abound…the maniacal laughter closes in…all…around.

Photo Credit: https://fineartamerica.com/featured/trapped-jessica-wright.html

The Sign Of Abel

Cain processed the first olive grove in history and managed to isolate olive oil. Abel was watching him out of the corner of his bloody eyes, getting up late at noon, but making sure that Cain had gathered all his, Abel’s cattle in the morning.

Abel was a cheap drinker and a destructive creature, unleashing cataclysmal force and tremendous violence at every step. As they say for Edgar Alan Poe nowadays, he drank like a barbarian.Then Abel would walk among the cattle, in a large cloth raincoat, reminiscent of some Arabic ifrit, having breakfast in the early afternoon, bread, cheese and bacon, puffy from lazy laying around

“Let’s go, beasts,” he muttered, holding a wide-brimmed hat in one hand and scourge in the other, to sit under the Erebus tree in utter boredom, carving various wooden objects with a “made in heaven” knife, pouring prehistoric booze down his throat from a wooden cup he carried in a canvas bag. The cattle knew that Abel was coming because he was announcing his arrival with a skilful crackling of the whip. The cattle would then be upsetWhenever Abel swung his whip, the cattle would pounce on him to defend themselves, and Abel would hollered for them to take off. He was screaming so loud:

“Let go of my fingers. Cain, heeelp! This cattle is biting my fingers!Let my foot off Get off me! “

But the cattle bit his hand and left a mark on him…Abel often abused cattle in moments of leisure. During the break, he would complain to the Almighty. It would seem that time was something Abel had plenty of.”Why didn’t you make some shepherdess for me, to spin, sew, tie and drink together on the pasture?” Abel used his spiky and particularly cruel whip to make his cattle move away from the pasture near the yard, and to go to Cain’s field, and when he drank too much he chased Cain with iron forks used for collecting manure: “Why do I have to carry manure to the manure all the time! Come on, tell me a story to cheer me up. ””I should tell our mother – Cain complained, kept whining, saying Abel had attacked him.But still, Cain would do Abel’s work when Abel fell asleep, drank too much, wiped straps of straw and dry leaves from the ground, and then one day decided to complain to the Most High – he engraved his submission in Aramaic on a large rock:

1. a sin against one who has grapes in the tubers

“Sir, as a diligent farmer, as someone whose oysters in the tavern are never empty, I must complain that Abel stole my pot from the tavern again and drank all the wine from my vineyard, and what he cannot drink, he is sorry. to spill .. so it shouldn’t go to waste and leave it all for tomorrow.It’s like a poison soaked into the ground- and I plowboy am diligent, there are always grapes in the tubers. As a sacrifice, I am giving you a very expensive brandy “Paradise” to help me in my difficult trouble – Abel will drink it all anyway.

2. The sin of the rabbits

Sir, Abel whip drives rabbits to my orchard and a variety of venison to damage my fruit. I protected the orchard by fencing the fruit with galvanized wire, and that didn’t even work.Rabbit raids on my orchard are his favorite pastime.I take lard, then heat it in a cauldron in the orchard, and put fishmeal.It worked. Rabbits scratched on the fat, but they didn’t bite, I guess it was too greasy… But heresies!The lower branches on the apples and pears, they happened to be damaged and everything was bitten

.3. Abel, the firestarter

Sir, Abel is a sociopath. He started a fire several times, trampled the sprouted wheat and burned the stubble in my fields. They are not worth a fence or a scarecrow. There is a hole in his psyche. He is manipulative – our parents trust him completely – he is insincere, egocentric and suffers from a lack of guilt. He is cynical and exhibitionist. Father, Abel is a destructive, perverted being. In addition, I must add that he is also an alcoholic. If you don’t do something, an unstoppable circle of crimes will take over your pastures.

Then the voice of God thundered behind the clouds, and the voice of God said,”Shoe goes on, shoe goes off. Go and walk with your sins,as in bad shoes . You see a speck in your brother’s eye, and a log .. hmm. What did I want to say .. Ah, yes! Uh. Cain, what did you do!How hast thou charged thy brother with accusations to establish what is rusty, decayu to him! And..I’ve got a pebble in my shoe, too. And–it’s too painful. Just it’s just too tedious to discuss.”

“I’m just saying ..”

“A drunk in the bunkhouse, and a circus following me – Just like in the movies, huh… nevermind. What did your father and mother tell you?”

“They say I’m a liar! They say that Abel does all that is righteous in the sight of Yahweh. All three of them sit all day and drink my wine under Erebus tree”

“Hmmm … – I’ll give you a test. – Beg for the favor of Jehovah and soften his face! Bring a gift to the altar. Whose gift I am more pleased with, I will bless him and give him the title to be the first priest of all the highlands, lord of all fields and crops, and whip made of flames, cattle and other treasures – and now go, walk on my land and no longer cuckoo on your brother”

And they both did what Jehovah told them. After that, there was war over all the days from then until this time, and it was a sign that Jehovah judged well, expelling the one who first attacked and killed, to the settlements east of the Erebus trees, because he found guilt in the murderer whose the tribe further expands and multiplies.To this day a distant cry is heard from the shadow of the exiled:

“Devil’s exorcist! Let go of my fingers!Let go of my fingers!Abel, heeelp! “

Abel sees it all from the sidelines, looking at his mark at the strip in the shape of a trefoil knot. THE MELOI KHRYSEOI (Golden Sheep) were a flock of vicious, golden-fleeced sheep with poisonous bites, a sheep that Abel especially loved to beat.

Then Abel laughs and laughs and laughs, but from time to time, every few centuries, he is looking so serious.

Just like in the movies, huh?

Gardening in the Desert

When I fled from Atlantis,

the noon was looking for its shadow,

the emporium was pounding with trepidation,

the palm trees were suffocating.

Where are you? Outside? Inside?

Above the clouds of detraction,

at night when the lights of the lagoon blaze,

and golden drops burn in the murky water…

Or below, like water thrown from one cliff to another,

for years, down, into the uncertain.

And I’ve been running away from Atlantis for forty-four centuries,

towards the Kaaba in Meccaand

while the noon was pounding with trepidation

in the drums of the bazaar, the palm trees were suffocated.

In the records of time sufferers are drifting and falling,

The Blind from one moment to the next,

The torment belongs to the desert.

Should I make a garden out of the desert?

Do hoi polloi need a barren land?

Should I open an airy magical wilderness garden?

Where are you running to, lunatic?

Behind the door of politeness,

beyond the boundaries of orderly longings?

Oh, good luck then!

Thus begins fear, contemplation,lamentation, anxiety,

to the farthest extremes a new era unfolds

My head with a double edged scimitar

They severed from my shoulders,

And stuck it on high, above this world,

in the shades.

From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

Full name Leila Samarrai Mehdi

Date of birth October 19th, 1976 (age 44)

Place of birth Kragujevac, Serbia, SFRY

The most important works:

The Darkness Will Understand (poetry book)

Puppets” (theatre play)

“The Adventures of Boris K.” (the collection of short stories)

Leila Samarrai, also as Leila Samarrai Mehdi (Kragujevac, 1976), is a writer and translator of Serbian-Arab origin. She writes poetry, stories, plays and novels with frequent use of fiction and humor. [1] [2]She studied Spanish language and Hispanic literature. She made her debut in literature in 2002, winning the competition for the first book of the Student Cultural Center in Kragujevac. Apart from the Serbian language, she published smaller works in Hungarian and Spanish. She lives and works in Belgrade.


The Existence Of Reality


The guillotine would have fallen,

But for rusting cloying chains, 

Another patron complained,

That his head still remained,

Atop shoulders of existential dread.

Others amongst the rabble more fortuitous; 

“The lucky reduction of torment.”

(from an unknown author, exasperated, vexed, perplexed).

The crowd cries for her crucifixion,

“Disappear” they jeer!

A woman who’s not here,

(head falls into the basket, the audience cheers).

I am huddled in my bed,

Covered toe-to-head,

In emerald ash borer beetles of psyche keeps me company.

Pollution profanation, omnipresent,

Aqua sodden douse, bedraggled universal,

Psychotic scorpion flies erupting ubiquitously,

The material reduction deluge inescapable.

Divinity, hear me (says another poet):

I surrender essence to amaurotic amore ecstasy,

To abet fiendish fell experiments on sapiens,

To be your fourth Anti-Christ!

“What do you want?” sighs the daemon.

Hail sweet malice!

These foul malignant mortals need eternal silencing in pyre!

There are flickering color-storms remote from my tormented sights,

The head rises once more,

The skull also ascends.

For now in the gloaming unlight,

I am going mad, by blessing of the cataclysmic midnight. …Bollocks.

Unsought objectionable, 

Undesired detestable, 

Unwelcome unworthy, 

Rejected dejected, 

Shun spurned, bitch-slapped and friendless.

With heart alone and solus, I cared not.

Now has begun my transition!

You’ll find pleasure through tribulations,

In shudder burning water rat-a-tat, stately in flames.

We are the womb, we are the abyss,

 We are the tomb, we are exhumed,

We are the vault, torch lit,

We are the crematorium, pyre pit,

We are the womb, we are the abyss,

We are the mausoleum, crypt kissed.

I submit my ethereal dream divine;

Of a destitute penury district,

I tender the beggar’s beautiful equipment;

Ragged white tights with black polka dots,

One solitary garbage bag, and a lonesome money can.

I offer you the saint who lived as a beggar,

Vagabonds solemnise humanity spitting on mankind,

Commodity and chattels, filthy rags of vagrants maligned.

O Nature, made of mercury,

Eternal enigmatic, aloof abstruse, arcane unfathomable.

You are clement, you are brumal, you are arid, you are sultry…

Whose end…is God.

Vomiting, retched out slimy bodies from my voice box,

Grim re-echoes in the dark,

Holding failed wigs in despondent hands,

And the humored rats whose presence is forgotten.

For the corpses do not die,

For the damned do not die,

For they do not die, from The Iliad to Civid19…


Am I not also corpsed stillness for your eternal mortuary arts?!

I am huddled in my sarcophagus soliloquy,

Sheets stand upright,

Suffused with semen, pullulate and sprout,

Spread to muscles devout,

Tissue, blush, luxurious cheek,

Oculi’s a glow in the din!

Hands traverse the glacial keening gale,

Bellend, I, wandered worlds and clapped my hands.

Only whispers, then wheezing, then wailing, then sobbing, then shrieking…

Then the dogs begin to howl…

This fell monstrosity everlasting,

This abhorrence is undying,

This vulgarity villain is eternal!

Carry me.

Carry me whither to, the existence of reality.

(grave bursting)

Schizophrenic brother in need

Never again alone we bleed.

Photo Credit:


(Janus’ song
Janus’ loneliness
Janus dialogue)

Iane, es,
Own double-glazed mirror
in the room of the deaf ears
In the wide tongue of a fox
Lurking Janus,
Ianus Geminus
hollow be thy callousness
Or your poor Atoll’s
recoiled from Chaos’commingling storm.

Before and after me is a scar,
cesarean section on the abdomen
in Ianuarius.
immerses the body in the monochrome of the day
which you assemble and disassemble
as a shadow mask
under our stiff bodies

And then?
Oh, poor thing what am I going to do?
and Ianus-being-us
Janus’ masks bark day and night
to the knowledge and mischievous arts,
to obscure tunnels in hidden rooms.
to celebrate…

Marriage of Shion and Pseudologoi
(Marriage of 2020 and 2021)
of a pensive turn
In softer notes commands multi-headed dog roar,
Theory of empty shelves explained
Liar … liar
Pity me, strangers!
Ascend, January, ascend

And so began…
First the dogs stopped barking…

Photo Credit: Janus is a painting by Matthew Mezo

Anemone (Breath of Wind)

The spherical gush, gutted fish, the black ghost knife,

Verso verb velocity at the shadow fire opera,

Pitch blasted throats, obsidian soul vocal chords.

blood pulse carouse,

I become flame word on inflammable parchment,

I become the refuse that doesn’t die in dire,

You are the luminescence that doesn’t expire.

A women whom reapers fail to tread, nor scythes to harvest,

Like myself; ensorcell and spell sempiternal.

Dominion over a huge…black…whisper…

Dissolving in the teeth of death’s cut trees,

That lispers immortally in terrified misspell.

Fish gnawed cross of wood and brass,

Quick as flash lightning bound by fangs,

Four wolf packs slithe and vanishing serpents,

Exigency in hungry worlds,

Pictures scuttled on the ocean floor. 

It is the time of the dead, 

From beginning to end,

The time of the dead.

The time of the living – in the vapids and cruels;

The black is breaking…

The black is breaking…

The Ides of March, there lay the albatross,

Poor beggar – unknowing, unthinking and blind

,In a threatening verse he preferred to die.

But winged Icarus pervades,

It’s tolling the zither quietly,

And the wind cries: “Anemone”

I’m cutting the ties, the Empire dies, in entangling shadows,

Naked God crucified in the commons.

And man on earth walks alone,

Sanguined feet marching to Adam’s sepulchre.

You played God and God danced along,

You played the devil, peddled your essence, paltered your prescience.

You are:

Insurgent exemplar!

Conjurer empiricist!

Caesar executioner!

You are Harlequin!

You are Icarus!

You are Prometheus!

You are a corpse that never dies.

Poems from my travels, Barcelona, Part Two “Finio”


Part One


Don’t mind my words…,(in loud voice) 

Dead and Alive! I visit you from grave to grave, 

even though the emperor orders us to return to

where we can be happy, where inner voices whisper

for I have come into a welcome darkness, 

deep and all-encompassing, 

at the feet of the dead prince of the Roman carnival,

 in the rift between two uncertainties, two states and remorse, 

what you suspected I was and what I did not know I was becoming.
.. is here.

All this ..


it is the incarnation, the roar

of the corpses of the long-dead,
all this … digging, digging… the light of rage
I am a golden vein from which debris drips

 and I whine in the grip of monstrous teeth

I am a surreal image

moving in tense dreams under tight eyelids.

A bloody, bizarre story in a kind of book 

where one page is written from scratch, 

with variations, with follow up cacofonia of a broken record    

And crown with weeds our pandoras of mythical horror
 And warm our blind ruins with the sun,
And break our howling of tanned throats 

with the ricochet of their howling,
 Amen when it’s all over,
dust to dust, ruins to ruins
and it all goes on

EMPEROR: (noticeably upset)

As everything continues,
You will go to another planet, to another sea
and you will find a grave better than this.
you forgot a lot – various little things – that justified you enough
Down, through long links of esse all unvexed
Where birth and death meet.
to die at the bottom of yourself, in the depths of the forest, 

where no one will find you
to die in the basement of confiscated thoughts,
to die in a ghostly square, in a rehearsal in loneliness,
  Among your fairest thoughts, 

your tallest flowers,
From root to crowned elevations 

beyond pain to your crucifix ..

 I would die like that
to die, to flash bucolic,
as a stage, saturated – unreal

 in such a landscape
but not you, it’s too dry for you … 

like a pipeline vivisection
By all ghosts of hybris birds,
having appeared by night gleaming
like lightning bolt upright the Tarpeian fate
insolent the pheasant you are
behold the day of throwing the heads 

of their murdered singing cries
all told Tarpeia is close to Capitol
Let the eons of accumulated remorse pass
mine are, by Jove, monstrously large and bright
for a titanic – domineering life .. 

crammed into wobbly carriages
pulled by slaves
as everything continues sliding towards

the Music of the blue invisible spheres, 

with torches in the darkness
and I am completely alone with myself.

TRAVELLER: “Is that an order?”

EMPEROR: “Yes. It’s an order.
Press thy face to pedoliths or peds
 My immortality is there.
Now, go, a small mortal creature
Farewell has long been said;

I for I already have forgotten you.

(Sensing the Emperor’s disappointment, the Traveller retreats into the shadows)

  Disappointment, bleed or
Stop bleeding
 round this dearest neck
the illustrious descendants of kingly wretches
I offer you a fair skin of my conscience
I offer you a curled into a ball fist
 I damsel, I unblest.
All the wolf hunger awakens.
Let the old mill continue to grind

 the compulsive grain of royal accusations.
let the heirs of the amen caves proudly limp,

dragging behind them the broken pots

 from the space that the Tarpeian furies created

from the rich, thick drapery 

of someone else’s blood.
THE ACCURSED, carefully-concealed step
will finish the last turn of my course of
travels, even as I began.
you, divine cans of preserved sacred, triune,
lo, the singing of the death raven 

of our eternal phantasmagoria of death
lo, the wailing of a wounded bird 

that flies peacefully in the frozen air

 will take care of us all.
So the satiated gods fell in love cannibalistically

 with their bloody children 

blurting forth a speech of madness,

(the indolent The St National Kitchen Passion)

(TRAVELLER drinks a jug of mead and disappears)


Light over light,

Dark over dark,

Steed galloping forsaken lonesome highways.

Loud as thunderous loss – to bitter ends, to

dust, in a lifetime, before waking.

Buried alive, taxidermy beasts go flying – 


Final reapers arrow nocked, taut drawn and 

tense – unleashing!

Artlessly affluently, elegantly bouquets 


The begonia adorning my flowerpot dying,

In this philodendron skin.

In absentia I meant to paint the walls with

brain matter,

After my bloodshot eyes read the final 

murderous thought,

Fibered glass textile like the shell of fancy 

colored synapses, under the forehead, 

Imhotep’s wisdom, Lovecraft’s magic,

The inscribed bones, a cockatrice,

This piece of furious serpent tale.

No glare, no piercing visage, 

No key to perceive me in lobotomy.

Pellucid crystalline aerosphere,

The sacral dragon of vanta shade,

Across razored skies,

Obsidian wings thrumming doom fly!

Hamlet simulating in perfect movie rhythms,

Dante’s substantiating time ticks in swells,

Juxtaposed in feverish schizophrenia 


Before the throbbing of sturdy matter,

Super nova’s howl echoed hearts,

From the first and final mire – damned.

When I’m dead.

When I’m dead,

I will find you.

And speak the language of lur-horn thunder,

A cold blooded foot in combustible sandals – 


Beware the cascade, escalate electricity,

Performing at violence in the villa.

Alveolae of the afternoon reduced to straight 

jacket tactics,

Marching, stomping, acrobatic rabble 


Celebrating mental health in madness, 


Throwing the meek from palatial spaceship


Here; the sobriquet means substantial will.

The banal grift gifts for the Boeotian and 


 Humanity splays massive and witless.

Light over light,

Dark over dark,

A Pooka in chains galloping forsaken 

lonesome highways,

Loud as thunderous loss – to bitter ends, to

 dust, in a lifetime.

 The hiatus between vomiting inferno and the

 retch pyre of regurgitation resound.

Looking back

(Irrumator…)… she remained in Belgrade deodamnatus for too long,

no less than twenty-five psychopathic landlords

during her ordeal.

money-laundering nazi rednecks

inconsequential,, just look back in laughter

weird amorphous blobs with their cellphones alight in their underwear

everything worked on a clan-like basis!

If you had an opinion you were fucked

inconsequential, look back in laughter

The convulsing man pulled a knife.

like a sailor and flinging at them the last remaining copies

of her poetry book

‘Cultist bastards! Out!’

‘Damn gargoyle, I will kill your twitchy ass with my bare hands’

(The Dark Will Understand… Irrumator..)

inconsequential, look back in laughter

all of the dinosaurs resting in her,

being revived in that final clench of humanity

for her

Diabolicus in Blockus against the stalker,

and what is stalking other than a performance par excellence

just look back in laughter

D’you know how many pharaohs lived through twenty with it?

I’ve read it, I swear!

The book’s called Eight-Month Fetus.

all of it is prenatal stress with brain damage

nihil ad rem, look back in laughter

akin to the wish for immortality

survived the 1991 Ustase slaughterhouse,

a gossip keeping track of world trends

and claiming to possess ‘encyclopedic knowledge’.

not an issue, look back in laughter

or try a few different blowdrying tricks

this time to reign in her hair she was never satisfied with,

not to mention bathing, pedicure,

the bus ride from one side of the room to the next

stercus accidit, just look back in laughter

Niels Bohr was a riot despite being a dickhead,

Wish I had a wonderful dream, namely,

I was in Dubai,in a luxury hotel,

fascinated by the mint on my pillow

and that Spartan dishes make me go nigh-insane

it doesn’t matter so look back in laughter

She’s been planning her death for years

.She wrote a cruel set of laws for herself,

and for others too.

She carefully used her at times bloody shirt

to hide the gorgon

she had been secretly growing on her tit

for years.

She dug her sharp venomous teeth

into it,the skin, used her flesh, skin, tit

as a sacrifice

for she had long decided

to set the clock, let it tick, until the end.

Look – look back in laughterGive, give

the imps surround and push me.

Look at her!How she struggles,

pushes us like we were beggars!

Look, look at the proud, desperate sorrow.

Gambled away, wasted away, haha!

take a look back in laughter– Are you insane?

Why not give money to me and my kids?

I sit here all day, begging by the fountain,

sleepin the public transportation,

and I used to have money like you.

Take care of all that money.

Don’t lose it, or we will be on equal footing,

and they’ll say

Look at the poor insane thing.

What’s with your head?


nota brevis, nota parvulus, look back in laughter

No apartments here

The meter was running.

Once was a beautiful woman

,brought onto Caucasus from Egypt

by the sons of Ommaya as per ibn Shaprut’s order,

the minister of Abd al-Rahman III and Sebikhasim,

was slandered and sold,

a demigoddess of full breasts,

hair and plump lips.profectos audiit, look back in laughter

rejected the Omayyad caliph,

he told Shaprut to sell Selima (her name)

to the Khazar king Josef

to do as he pleases, and this Hebrew king made

Selimathe slave-woman of Allah

Selima was like a bamboo

while a squealing breath of disgust escaped,

a breath of a justified EW!


look back in laughter

A bunch of psychopaths

which she met along the way

grew to a dynasty so powerful

that the torchbearer

allow them to serve him,not to butcher them

when he smells competition.

look back in laughter

Not a single NOBODY.

Nobody and somebody.

All is Nobody and Somebody.

When I eat I do not take the food at the table.

Books of wisdom make me feel nauseous

The numbers mean fate.


Look back… look at you, look at us…

Or would you prefer silence?

euge euge…

(prolonged cry)

Photo Credit: Saatchi ArtJoker Painting by Carlos Apartado

The Scream of the Butterflies

My head

is full of

wonder’s wind



I may


the times


in memories

that I will

see myself

with a brighter



and a rosier


whom shall I



that I



a thousand


if the eyes

of their horses




tell me,



that you



if the horse,

or the weapons,

or the war

is so beautiful?


that I


the emerald

the bird-green fountain,


it is known

that poets

and birds,

we are

the same.

And the water,

The forest,

the sky itself.


that I


the fluttering




they will

tell me,

they know,




do you hear

how, breaking

And break

the silence

thus well spoken


on land

and broken

on seas.

And with

a tremendous





in their blood,

the wretch






of desire!




And today

I see…

so dark

and desolate!

Should I



sand stars

feverishly shaking

looking around


the magnifying


of delusion

in each


of imago’s body,


on the inside

terror’s reign

of the gut,

nothing else,

as if


the scream

of the butterflies.



I shall

see them

if they have


I shall

place them

in the folds

of my garment,



the mantle


and with them

I shall


the quencher

of the kingdom,

from past riots.

Dying eyes,

let us

lament together.

My head

full of

wonder’s wind


where I



the times

that I

see myself

with a brighter



and a rosier


whom shall I


(By your





an unbroken


In solemn,




screamlike a butterfly).

Edited by: Obinna Eruchie, a poet who is very passionate about words for their meanings and sounds.

Frappadingue’s song

I haven’t kept kalendarium for kiloannum

Of all my thousand years

each they is more a sullen than the utopia before

it is pale shadow and growing paler


or corrupt data,

or transcription errors

came slowly overshadowing

All the world over that slowly dies.

No a race renowned of old have survived

and all the faces of tombstones are long gone

soon all the Shade Kings in the world will fall

the road are peopled with the fiends unmasked.

Frappadingue’s veil, ground connectors,

coronapocalypse towing whorled truck

and sky touchers carrying ack-ack gun

ack ack

looking for eye-stinging venom and sanguineous blood

Earth Candle, Matchstick.



the blue poison dart frogs habitat

A constellation of deranged chanting,

cheerleading pom poms.

A constellation of bondservant spreading Big Oaf’s


within a year there were holocaust on the phizog

on the moue

on lunges

on breather

on giblets

all your psyche

all your great gray matter

Behold the valley of slaughter

there has been flesh-eating

flesh-eating is the great fear

I wiggle

From clime to clime

Reeled into the canyon of maim

With mask, blade, and spear

Peace among nations, peace in our pigsties, acquires, bags, obtains, androids,

piece in our liberty and peace in the house of slaves.

Stay safe.

Nakot/Hunchbacks, butcher clowns, villains!

S oblakom na ledjima
Pajaci mesari
Reganine kćeri
Što mrzite moj dan
I sva moja jutra
Rođena iz rane
Blistavih narcisa
Lukrecijin nakote
Razmeniste otrove
Sabijen u krčage
Slatko melje
Da prauzrokom svojim
Uprlja nož
To umetnik celiva
Iskasapio noć
I ćutnje
Ali ja ću dalje čuti
Večni eho moje smrti

Hunchbacks, butcher clowns, villains!

With a cloud on their back
Butcher clowns
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.


Tonight, when Invisible Someone

from the bright celestial pitcher


blue moonlight on star fabric

I dreamed of Happiness in the cemetery

I think I didn’t

What I want to be,

And I am what I am not

the secret whisper of the cosmos,

a magical solution

of eternity

And slept, and dreamed till break of day

of the sun, the sky eyebrows with the bow of victory,

And a terrible tear.

A tear that calls. Phantasmagoria.

of Fireplace, of altar and refuge of all winds,

of the First Wild Horse and the First Woman,

On the bowels of wandering clouds,

Next, long memories,

And the moment of eternity,

In magic art:

To be lightly filled with happiness

and without the thread of a distracted Ariadne

no foam no sheets no thighs

Round night,

a river that flows into itself.

Here are the games,

ghosts, liturgies,

here, while everything is and is not.

for I am Phoenix in the sword

Voices not yet revived,which are yet to rush, buzz, roar and call,

I was in a headless world,

a flower thrown in the garbage

me and

caravaggio’s colors

in my eyes that spilled over you,

overjoyed palette

Tonight, when Invisible Someone

from the bright celestial jug

left the blue moonlight on the starry cloth,

I dreamed of Happiness in the cemetery

It was a happy accident

It was a dead man’s dream.


I will perforce

with some preludes


I’ll squirm in the dust

stalacpipe organ, play on

disturb the black bat flowers

biased and mutually intolerant

In return,

I will give up the drama of disintegration

I will count the beats of non-existent madness,

burn, the silver cathedral

to the nail of dawn

I stay in empty skin, a subtile fluid

I will cruelly quench my thirst in the deserts of the


I will act and speak with perfect liberty

And no one will hear the flowering of garbage

Some forces, some tokens

Some questions

some spices some aspirations

Bleed it out

Let it soak

and put down the curtain

the cloth of gold, fresh or frayed

The sound is lost with the last freight wan

she wouldn’t take a step.


Peace be upon her

POEMS FROM MY TRAVELS, Barcelona, Temple of Augustus

To right, to left from all sides slithering
the temple,
the Romans
the mutter and groan of the horses,
of Roman, the Romans, and their God, Augustus
going their rounds
Behold the steps of Traveller
while breath in fear entering wall stood high
give not up the flying fowl
miles and miles to the zunny sky,

Behold the Temple, now onrush like a thunderbolt’s book
her giant strength of letters bolted Emperor to the ground
all clothed upon with beauty
behold the flying fowl handing the bronze plate
with seven carved out letters BARCINO
crying through my years:
ere is my song, soared up to the heaven’s scream

is made by
from Traveller’s
hand invincible,
glorious but terrible
and a long time ago
and blest in all
himself unlike

I traveler, climbing rocks of emptiness
not all lost but two decades only
to Augustus shrine with undying grief
thus traveler of late so rude
long long decades of anxious waits
a passage opens across the sea of time
nor wait I more but my prosperious journey bent

in a gaggle of snakes slithering in and biting me,
crawling in my skin,
not the place where plants breathe in fear.
– It’s IT. Only IT. Waiting for me.

I feverishly dug in my imagination,
looking for shelter with my fear-filled eye.
I stand in front of roman wall
the marveling battle
stay of war god’s child

Lo! golden clay cold: remembrance, an infinite hourglass
lo towering sandstone columns by hour’s witch space
turned upside down again and again
overstepped the threshold of whimpering clock
come back, the time upfloated
could all be seen in a monstruous force of Eye
amidst my own clear waves with tear and shrieks torn

Suddenly appeared the Shadow of
aghast ghost Emperor stood in a purple tinge
in whispering tone
of unseen timbrels

“Traveler, still to weep you seem
you can’t turn back the clock”
“To go back
(how could I when I didn’t even…)
life congealed my inmost bowels
(but that’s not..)
I am breaking, like a tiny acrobat”.
“Traveler, sit with me, attend my shrine
play the brazen cymbal for this old king
on death’s brass shores
for the subversive returned to visit his ruins”
“Here, – I whispered back.
I step on the shadow.

Away fond thoughts out in the gloom
Commencing every single regret
Go, and return in glory Still is the story told,
How well Augustus kept Mars without the fall
between that night and this day

But you, Traveller, why so pale? Talk! Do mutter
some excuse
why seek the godlike kings so old
The whispering prince, Unconquered prince
are you disturbed, are you embittered
by endless changes, griefs of fortune
is it written in

El Confessionario en Lengua Tuya, your flimsie things
like stringes of wet stones
to praise the noble company present, and touches those regretful chords,
unfolding in a sorrowful directions
or is it… less marvelous deed, talk! drop it in liquid dew

Let me hear the whaesome tale, the mischief-flower
spreads out abodes of the gods in glittering splendor
with discreet art, behold a night watch flowers
they are arranged and placed
Cui bono? It rains down.
It rains down!

the traveler answers the emperor’s question in the second part of the poem
(Author’s Note)

“The Ghost Part”, sequel “The Adventure of Boris K.” Boris K, paranormal expert

The Adventures of Boris K. “The Ghost Part”, sequel “The Adventure of Boris K.”
Boris K, paranormal expert

Boris K. encounters a man who is crying inconsolably. He complains that, because of the pandemic, he is not able to accomplish the only passion he had in his life, and that is to visit exotic and attractive locations, metropolises and what not. Boris K. took pity on him and told him that he had had great trouble visiting these places because during his travels he had discovered that not every city was as beautiful as it seemed. He narrowly escaped with his life.

  1. Scotland. The 9th Legion disappeared behind Hadrian’s Wall. They were killed by the Picts in present-day Scotland, huge, red-haired warriors who painted themselves blue. It is said that the ghosts of the Picts attack tourists from the dark Scottish forests and that he is not safe from them even in Edinburgh.
  2. Prague – it is said that in the 18th century, a German noblewoman who had a castle there became a vampire and that she was restless and sucked blood from tourists which she seduced by presenting herself as Ruzenka Smetana.
  3. Paris – a creepy grandpa who is over 300 years old has a guillotine in his basement in the 3rd arrondissement and responds to the name Robespierre.
  4. Australia – Banjip, a creature from Aboriginal mythology, is a real, huge, hairy spirit that lives under the Sydney Opera House and tickles passers-by while they are laughing fit to kill.
  5. Beijing – circus master Jo Po is not a master at all. He asks an ordinary passer-by to enter the box and then saw them in half. The difficult bit is putting them back together…
  6. Mauritius – the dodo bird is still alive, huge, bloodthirsty and cannibal
  7. Parnassus – philosophers harass you – they appear and talk about whether Pythagoras is better or Heraclitus’ principle is better. Boring to death …
    Dangerous too.
    That is the reason why we should not leave Serbia, the land of vampires and werewolves

A Sea Account

I walked
on the sand
of the beach,
ate the wall
of the beach house,
and fastened
the honey limestone
with a stick
In a single sum
of scraped table
that feeds me,
I then weave
a net
that warms me,
and the dwarf
blue whale
got entangled
in the thread,
sweet-tailed, sad.
On the burning sea,
on the high seas,
there is a sail,
and hunger is in me
like snakes
to a tree of life.
In the ball,
I wrapped
around my knee.
I’m a
protected beast;
I will then
cut you,
grate you
and drink you
in a sip.
“The net
you’re chasing me
is too small
for me.”
I plunged
a knife
his back,
I shade it
with a drill,
I grease it,
while the serfs
are hungry
and the undertakers
are full.

“The voice

of your voice
is heard
in a loud voice.”

And I’m always

the same,
so different,
in the throat,
the finger,
I sipped
the windy elixir
and flew
more and more
and the whale
in the shadow
of the sail
the lacy net.

I ask the whale

what sailed
around the world,
why did the king
run away
from the pawn
to end up
on the cross,
like a dog
in a pool of warmth?
But the sea
in its depth
with laughter,
that blue colossus
is the quiet Son
of the Word.
I gave
my life
to you,
and now
I am far away;
cold and evil
It’s getting
more and more
more and more
And so the whales
are tormented
by the terror
of the trap,
dying in the blood,
living in the net,
It is a time
of silence,
when a man
washes oneself
of restlessness
at a brain funeral.

Edited by: Obinna Eruchie, a poet who is very passionate about words for their meanings and sounds.

Photo Credit: “Trap”, by Lily Iris


Another dream

The scream of three children among the leaves

Close to the waterfall and the abyss

Roses too close to them

Should I follow them or overlook them

Strange decisions

And children miracles with no self-belief

In due time the ground and constellations should be known

So the last revelation

Is not empty time

And crucified echo of footsteps in seclusion

Congratulation on birthday of White Mouse

Are you
feeling good
blaring squeak,
dancing paws?
You fill another,
you fill another
sweet tit.
There is
puffy milk
in you,
at least
for ten babies.


And when milk

a woman’s womb
to blow,
they say,
the skin grows
At the altar,
I set the skin
and spill the milk;
idols should
be worshiped,
they would
in loneliness.



it can’t be!
The celebration
is ongoing.
the verses,
the Red Rat
gets up.
I’ll make you
a rat,
a crimson
The roses
with their thorns
hit us all!


A red sign

on your window.
Another is full,
another immersion
in a vase
with water,
it’s growing.
to my sixth finger!


“You think

you’re better
than white mouse”.
a white mouse,
a pest!
It will be
a mouse’s birthday
and you
will curl up
your golden cage.
Let’s eat
a mouse
for dinner,
I let
the cats out
of their cages.



they all bring
white roses;
the white mouse,
it goes well
with fur.
Mine are red,
a drop
of gnawing hands,
the sun
in bloom
with them,
the index finger
the accident.
No, it can’t be!
The celebration
keeps rolling!



a beautiful
beautiful body,
and breasts
like balls
that children
play with.
They skipped
the celebration
and lay down
in the corner.


The index finger

jumps up
and tells them:
go away,
red roses,
the white mouse
a good luck.
(it refers to rose)
jumps towards
the window
with a bloody cheek,
it watches
the wind
without hands.
A white mouse
the cage door.
Bent at the waist,
they (roses)
jump out
one by one.



watercress sticks
and ribbons,
plasma flows
into death;
diluted air,
it cunningly
and threateningly
sharpens teeth
with dental floss
it sharpens
its teeth
with the sun.



one is filled,
the other will be.
The white mouse
the infants
out of the vase,
the other breasts
are in the cage.
the breast,
the mouse
the cage.


the breath
my nose
is stiff,
the smokes
the chimneys
have filled
the yards,
and it is
to wash
on the horizon
for the children
of evil
come out
of hiding.
for the flowers,
I’m washing away
the milk stain
I can’t brag
that I did
anything more.
I fancied it
all my thin hair,
which I left
in people’s noses.


I have

of hope
you keep
your little clown
with the body
of the face
of the lampshade
in the chamber
of light,
the source
of light
is dark.
has gone
it has
been smoking
a pipeful
of poppies
the moon.

Edited by: Obinna Eruchie, a poet who is very passionate about words for their meanings and sounds.

Beyond the ranges

Slit asunder
with lips
by contempt
and a sigh
unheard of
the purified
the charm
of short frocks.
With stitch set
close to pins
full sail,
needle swooping,
I came
I, the seamstress
from middle fingered
run thread
in the semi-forgotten
sewing kingdom.
But that damn thing
that hole…
a perfect circle
in all skirt creation…
it’s a perfect circle’s
sharp tip,
and then
and then,
I staggered
to my loom
like a wolf
dazed in a den.
When time has
in the fold pleat,
that are doomed
through the cunning
hem covers.
I clear my head
from the cloud
of constraint,
staggering out
of bright millenias.
One like presence
shall lure me
to the uppermost
on the downhill Nile,
then that one
to elixir a grave
of the unknown goddesses;
many bedridden,
a curse aghast
and over
the dream beguiled past.
A thousand sounds
of the whirr yell
towards the Suns,
less than night
and less than days
gone by.
you enraged night
with dreamers eyes;
you intricate blade
with stammerer’s cry;
bewildered soul,
and surround me.
smoothest gallops
that they breathe,
what souls
in delight
are they.
In the unkept room,
that they breathe
of the last line
of the tuneful night
of unfinished work.
I crawl
to the depths
of slimy hell.
And no stone
will usurp
the dancing door.
what names
with hooves
go forth
the ranges.

Edited by: Obinna Eruchie, a poet who is very passionate about words for their meanings and sounds.

Background Noise

Startup the lights, antagonists!
let there be Music!
the Dance of Death commenced to the sound
of a cacophonous piano
brilliantly commingling variations to Salieri.

As the tempo accelerated unwaveringly,
Mozart kept flooring the piano pedals
as if they belonged on a priceless car.
his diminutive skull and compact hands
alternately rising and falling,
he guzzled from an empty bottle,
cackling, basking in the luminescence
of lanterns supplied by the archangels,
spilling over the entire gambling hall.
Clapping their metacarpals and phalanges
this crepitation lent rhythm to the eerie waltz,
fellow artists, write!
Compose an ode, dancing to the rhythm with such skill!
get your bones clapping and your pens scraping,
smear the ink across your cranial bones!
here we are, performing for you the Dance of Death –
perform for us the story of a life!
Bring out your musty quills,
ladies and gentlemen and with those marvelous
brains of yours – laden with letters, quills, brushes and paints
as they all undoubtedly are – highlight the wax figures ’tragedies.
Grant them minuscule lampion houses to cram their meek lives into, dress them in patchwork quilts or golden harem pants;
make them heroes or cowards, thieves, traitors,
moralists and decent folk.
It is that flood gouache of history
wide strokes, big words
a trembling translation of our non-deliverance
reason without time
time for no reason
liquid mirror…
Is it just because it is not visible.
is it just because it can’t be heard
what is taught in other worlds
in moments of chewing
in the midst of such a song of decay
Now you can do EVERYTHING from this NOTHING
overflowing, obscure …
Let there be Background Noise from the indigestible whisper

She is never left voiceless
even when unheard


Photo Credit: Invisible Audience, Jason Craighead

The motion of slanderer. The devil’s work. Letters.

Wild and born from vestal fire
Terribly undefiled
And born of a glitter of sand

The Devil’s tongue bubbled below the Eden tree
aserpent itself with a childlike wonder.
It listens listens

And quiet sleep and a quiet dream
with a grim black
to the bitter end, to the dust, in a lifetime, before waking up,
only for some breed of men
who put night time monsters in this simulacrum
Brought a voyeur into Awakening

and all our wicked and lucid appetite for useless life
With loss of Sight, who here is an Earthling, a
and who an extraterrestrial

From hell, from heaven, hieromonk apostate
yester morn us, And afterwards proclaims us blind
And when I jot them all down,

I will await my trial, I the spirit who follows her fate
as if it were the fate of an avenger,
my head on a stump, the only given possibility.

A dissonant interval. Music banging in the dark.
A calm before the storm.
Then all of the scribblings, those in my treasure chest
as well as my head, will be swallowed by flames.
Then I shall sing from the ashes and embrace the walls
as I burn half-spoken

Both the light and shadow,
both whirlpools and abysses
of the deeps, merge with vile contours of envy.

Fearless, doubtful shame wallow in dunghill
In the edge of the lost world,
none shall hear the truth, its monstrosity,
but also its shininess

Unto Innocence cry lies the reverberation
by the slanderers burnt in
Through all our mazes of Ire and Fire,

An attack of the innocents,
a finger of fantasy pointed at dire events
to avengeance a discord of (thy) listed names.

The honourable citizenry slandered.
and the quill’s wounds scream
These eyes of mine get me to the windowsill,
while sweat drips onto the dark maps
in my enraged cranium and the ink spills.

For it is all written. Their claims.
In my sleep
Irritant, gluttonous tongue of the serpent
to craft a tangled state, to down with this living man
through the scales of slander, and those letters…
oh, such letters!

For all, it had done and for all hast not done
That I did a mightier service to stumbling block and weep
of something magnified, nesting nowhere in my spirit,

for it appeared in the clearest,
nigh-apathetic shape based on true love I once felt

And in those letters I openly,
helplessly and naively checked all
…through words and pictures
opened the tense mind, through the heart, stabbed
As leans in crawling pincer

A beastly howl of the desperate,
undiminished, swim through the similes
But said Prowler of the Desert:

” Picture Cupid dipping arrowheads
in phenylethylamine. It is poison,
to undergo the mournful shades?
Why is thy sight pedestal on the top of earthly kingdoms,
a Carpenter – Shephard, crowned ruler of all artists,
The hell is this damn wooden bench!
Two massive bits glued together and a piece of plywood…
…plywood in the middle like a cork!”

Among the mournful, mutilated shades?
Anything but lights, carpenter’s fashion as a guide,
Consider, if to count Apostles be pipe players
did a ditty

for numerous books in a single passage,
a secret of that slanderer trash whispering
behind the scenes, with a filthy rag
and uttered verdict, razor-sharp.

Observing through eyes unseen,
that silence tears through applaud,
at times shrugs and as if shaking
of a stone, then like exhaling in pain,
The motion of slanderer.
The devil’s work


Lye thus unpitying kingdom crushed
offered up as a REPLACEMENT does,
Perun himself spoke to me,
or an Arab Djinn of sorts
I got the Serbian and Arabian war gods mixed up.

Seizing the first
Seizing the second, distorted drunks downing that final glass…
of poison.

– If only plastered cinnamon and rose perfume onto her moustache- it’s cold, even for the disconsolate when lifeless living
clenched a thiyab al-mounadamah…

or whatever robe of striking colours,
seized with its claws.
if robbed by a mysterious fever,

hardened backs bent, scared and careful
of the impending knife strike,
like lab rats, yet bloodthirsty.

as if those of drunks downing that final glass…
an option

And now the moon errands in the doomy pit
Behold Dat and Dis, the wicked spirits
galloped back through time
moon teeth corrupt to their roots and bloody..

Too well I blind and rue the stare at me
with a flaming eye.
Aflame in anger.
The moon has nothing to do with it.

That with sad, enormous chunks of time
Has lost us blocking the thorough research of vile

By right of Irre, diabolical actions,
By right of Slime, rash must go behind
By right of War, taken out insidiously
By right of a lipstick-wearing actor, taken out comically.

By right of treacheries, idiocies, taken out vigorously
From fell to fell descended Iscariot’s slanders
to set asag – disease of the benign red shores.
Strongly to enumerate a hysterical wretches
in muck of mud and blood –

In horrible destruction only impurity essences
The hours of night taking away a restful pistol
my bullets are ready, my drawers are gone

Vigilante (Divine Mercy Chaplet)

INTRO: Execution

The guillotine would fall, but
The chain was rusty
Another client complained
That his head was still on his shoulders
Others had more luck
It’s called happy shortening of torment

They wish she could disappear,
A Woman Who’s Not Here
(head falls to the basket. the audience cheers)


If I surrender my being to you in blind ecstasy of love,
If I’m yours assistant in your sadistic experiments over humans
if I was your fourth antichrist….

There are some flickering colours
gouged from my tormented ears
The head is rising again.
The skull also rises.
(For now in the dark I went mad, by blessing of the night.)

What a man desires to live more
With heart alone, I cared not.
Now has begun my transition!

You’ll find the pleasure through tribulation
in shudder burning water rat – a – tat stately in flames
We are the womb, we are the abyss, we are the tomb we are exhume
We are the womb, we are the abyss

I offer you my divine dream
inside of it is just a poor neighbourhood
I offer you the beggar’s beauty equipment
ragged white tights with black polka dots

I offer you the saint who lived as a beggar
beggars celebrate humanity
spitting on a man


You Nature, you made of mercury
You are never visible
Yet you are warm you are cold, you are dry
You are moist

Whose end is god

It took me ten years to vomit slimy bodies from my voice box
The rest are grim reechoes in the dark, holding my failed wig
in the made up hands

along with the humoured rats which presence is forgotten

For the damned do not die
Rejoice, we are Gods
maddened jumped out of the dark

I pass through world and clap my hands,
spin and dance in the graveyard.
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.

Bastard never dies

My tears after awakening
Are crocodile dung
Tears soaked in bathtub

The smelly bath
In the embrace of blindness
high ceilings, the pendulum

Vigilance interrupts an idyllic life in a nightmare
I am a cosmopolitan widespread disease
The urn with the hairs of my cat is on the edge of the table

Carry me
Carry me there.. to
the existence of reality.
(grave bursting)


I AM the verse without fresh air
my irritated imagination
my twinkling lights
good-looking to be sniffed at
The intermitent the appalling pictures…

My schizoid brother in need
We will never be alone, again

Light Bulbs

Light Bulbs
Dedicated to my Krnjača landlord

Beam sunnier,
Beam sunnier,
Beam sunnier!
And by the deadline,
beam out, bulbs,
as you stretch
across the minefields.

It’s daylight,
the men with no name
like spectres
are walking past
clean window panes,
back in the day,
they had quite a sight
of the blazing bronco
dashing in a ball
of fear’s vibration.

On the terrace,
in the blue of heights,
on wuthering heights,
a dead man sits
more full of breath
than ever,
& laughs
& laughs
& laughs–
with pain from Heathcliff,
dark as the medusa weed.
He dragged
the pain with him
from that village,
& dropped it
on our house
like a ton of bricks,
a ton of puked out
pain from Heathcliff

The heap
of expenses
electricity bill
& toilet paper’s
The couscous jerk
my six months rent,
to trigger in him
the sense of his breath
& the vibration.

The Commander Starfleet
& in his wake,
a parade
of slobbering geeks
with one hand
on their crotches,
& the other hand
on their wallets.

for this city
in a corset
tightened bulbs.
A terminal phase
of pulmonary flow,
the breath of a rot,
a collapsing alcoholic lung
and he says:
I will sleep
with their mothers,
from the shores of death,
with a thousand eyes.
His dung gut
is falling apart
& painfully
like collapsing caves.

Will I blow them out
to smithereens?
Deaf and dumb children
with neuroses and psychoses
and their diabetic mothers.
When I gave them a room
with flared handles,
with the moans of rats
in the washing machine
and the hibernating
deep cooking vessel,
I called the furnace,
its heat so good
on my skin.

By donating them
my waste
it may be
my last one,
and it must
bear fruit.
The thought
of not making it
fills in me fear.
A worm feeds
on their blood
and flesh of the dead.
Shall my hands
be fists
to pummel
their skins?

And they have their eyes
on anyone
who is coughing blood,
and they’re already whispering
if anyone is panting
like a poacher’s cur
the wuthering heights
up and down
the landscapes full of bugs.

My forefinger
will press the switch
to turn off
the electricity’s light!
Ha- ha- ha!
may you die
until my death.
Here I command
on my warm heritage
with some dead ancestor,
the army branch
of the tenant stork

Door handles,
fall in spasms.
Let the rat squeal
and computers burn
to the ground.
Let the universe
and the whole machine.

In one room,
two people
are snoring
without oven
and stove
and a hundred euros.
The pot filled
with casserole
to its lid!
In short,
a space
once had
an ashtrayed man
dungfaced a moonshine
down his black gut’s rot.
Yes, a man –precisely.

Edited by: Obinna Eruchie, a poet who is very passionate about words for their meanings and sounds.

The solemnly deep toned infection!

This poem displays a great amount of high – quality madness.
You are reading it at your own peril*
*Author’s note

The solemnly

deep toned infection!
(Trumpet! Lock! Lock!

As you are brazen to buzz:


All the howls adrift adeck,

half the roars below,
(violin (sobs) in its zing

and here’s the prison sighing,
while years have rolled

in their passing).

Locked within

thunder pounding

upon mountains.
Locked within

sad burbling rivers.
Locked within

ho ho!

Within the murmur

in the shell,
never mind

the lamb baaing

all alone.

(Unison: “Blossom on

your barriers and bars,

Locked within

haha haha!

She (snoring in her sleep…)

wears a goatskin piece of rag.

Shoot, shoot, shoot for beggar
was nothing much before the rag.
Curse, curse…
Lock, lock, lock,

choke her mad!
If key is what key seems,   

Quick and chuck her…

(Delaying not,

crawling not,

What time is it?)

Be a festival of massacres
Of infected parts
Down… go go go!
Grab many silences

Caught an eye,

where you’re pointing,
where you’re sweating
Rapped out an oath Brain,
and the scour of the stormy tide
is declared.

Crush her by intent

and crucify her

by stakes of crackling fire,
on the river of blood

by a tangled wood.

Put in a nutshell,

the nerve of the true nobility.

Storytellers do
lie down, lie down,
lay bare.

Not all the circles

that encircles us….
Travelling uplifting

by a route obscure
…. will hunt us.

Not all sighs infection

till this

all this
to a trumpet’s veiled blare.
Out! It plots!
Not all our fame

by black angelic company’s

tenanted will…

Din din!
Lonely death

at last,
whom the caged universe


The ring is set,
front straightforward

collapsed so best…After a stimulus of a sick man’s command,
walk at a snail’s pace
weighed down by serpents. 

Edited by: Obinna Eruchie, a poet who is very passionate about words for their meanings and sounds

The Balkan Cross (a dark vilayet)

Inspired by homelessness as a burning world problem
“Stay at home”
what about those who don’t have a house?
In the world, only a couple of paychecks separate most citizens from homelessness
“Stay safe”
No one is safe
I recommend the youtube channel The Invisible People

Let’s play

a dark vilayet

Let’s drive

the pistons under her wheels….

Let’s be

unswerving judges

of her bloody and insane wit

let her scratch

with the hands of a confused researcher thrown

on a Serbian street that she did not like

By the will of the landlord

walking on his hands backwards

in his eye

he carries the artifact of truth

to his future grave

as he passes away

without ache

with a crystal conscience

I waited for a spark

to light a fire

on a migrant box in the parks,

while the police chuckle

at Byzantine roses.


from Arab bazaars

rummage through

the petrified ashes of exotic misery.

For bitcoin more,

it will pay off

in the navel of the world.

We pull a chariot of bloody gold,

while we left our beggars

to whom we made them like that;

to be warmed by a prison garden

in the freedom of parks,

to bloom behind the walland,

sing ode to the gallows,

where they are like kings and leaders

like monks passionately naked

and cut to black bones

let on the park pasture,

that the voices of thugs spit out their insults.

In an even deeper picture

they came with the keys

with inquisitor’s pliers.

Like Columbus discovered America

I discovered you by accident

It could all be solved

But tomorrow without tomorrow,

the mirror of the margins will be

and I am content with my day and nights

as some sick man or woman,

especially if I’m going to die

painless, calm, in forty years

until the blood

from the open wound

rose up.

A begging blanket

which covered the neck,

set the themes in the air

around that Greek Arab Turk.

Whoever goes into the water,

in my lies throws a cloth on the feathers

and so much of what will become of me

is not all mine beside me.

I have a pet in Karadjordjev Park, I didn’t feed it

the postman will bring it all

and the rest are my property framed

sealed by my dark goodness

I have to go back if a washing machine comes tomorrow

and gives me washed clothes

for merit and a pair of tents with a pair of barricades

In an eye that looks astonished,

in an eye that suffers and listens

for several silent centuries,

an eye which was thrown

onto the sidewalk

by a dwarf with the face

of an assistant firefighter

near the locomotive

while his wife sang

a mysterious song

that has not been deciphered

for twenty years.

In the park, in the attic

where I combine the divine and the Christlike,

with pissing from a height in a deep dark forest,

where they are rings.

They are tropical beggars

who have already been printed.

They move away, more than anything,

to seek a break.

The Other did not take revenge for anything.

In addition to fate, she cries and cries

the whole poem is square in three silences.

Warmth, sheep, almost transparency.

Let’s look for her beyond the Ranges

on Cain, Ptolemy, and Judek

dissenters and forgers

for the Elohim has commanded us:

Be fruitful, scoundrels,

for those who perish

will then become visible

and give birth

to future children of scoundrels

and those who read this will be zero

for a new fossil will be born

for that is why the Universe

was built for us

to multiply and multiply.

Alone in the last consequence

in our metropolis,

in our millennial civilization;

washed clothes for the beggars

we are made to breathe over the orchids;

just be careful,

Edited by: Obinna Eruchie, Nigerian poet who is very passionate about words for their meanings and sounds


Marijanina k(o)runa, radni naslov


Govori se da su, posle bombardovanja Talbišeha u Siriji ispod ruševina izvučen video sa uznemirujućim snimkom koji je prikazivao 12 civila, ispostavilo se, begunaca od režima uspostavljenog u februaru anno domini…
I pored toga što behu obliveni krvlju i prašinom, snimak je bio jasan, a ton je bio dobar i moglo se čuti i videti sledeće:
Osedeli bradati Arapin, bivši pravnik, ispostavilo se, odrastao na talasastim poljima Rake, uz uzvik: Sirija, rat i hrabrost, okrvavljene glave i rasečenog obraza, kezi se u kadru, započinje pricu od koje prosečni čitalac ne treba da očekuje mnogo.
Naoko činilo se da je to dobronameran, mnogobožački svet, patnički i ozbiljnog izraza lica kao kad se završi kakva važna teološka rasprava. Sedeli su privijeni jedni uz druge, bosonogi, evropocentrični, te beše jasno da među njima ima i Britanaca i Srba i Crnaca i Francuza, ali ništa toliko nije teralo suze u oči, čak više od očuvane hrišćanske crkve iza leđa od muke osedelog Sirijca, do potresnog prizora devojčice sklupčane među ruševinama, stisnutih usta, zurila u – prazno.

  • Ja sam Hamam, Bašarov fotograf (ima li glupljeg zanimanja?) i profesionalni proučavalac lica. Živim na ivici. U stalnom strahu. Ovo kraj mene… to su moji opozicionari. – kez od uveta do uveta isijava ponosom. – Sve sam ih pronašao u Srbiji. Neki su turisti, a neki tamo i žive. Kad su čuli odakle sam, svi su krenuli za mnom. Vatre su gorele, a oni su, ipak, bili srećni. Neobičan živalj. Jedan od njih se već nagutao dima u požaru koji je izbio u španskoj firmi. Španac, čini se. Ili Peruanac, meni je sve to isto. Ili Srbin. Ili Crnogorac, meni je i to sve isto. Najpre strujni udar, potom eksplozija. Isto. – Arapin se na tren zamisli, a onda nastavi da pripoveda -Tada je bomba pala na severozapadni deo grada, baš u trenu kad smo nas jedanaestorica i jedna Srpkinja, a ime joj je Marijana, onako po francuski, večerali u Sirijskoj opservatoriji za ljudska prava. Bila nam je to poslednja večera- Hamam zaplaka. Potom se nasmeja.
  • Ali – Imamo sreće. Sreća u nesreći, dakle! Mnogi su danima pod ruševinama. Gledamo s bezbednosne udaljenosti spasioce kako podižu delove zgrada. Ovo je mala Aiša. – Hamam uperi kameru u devojčicu. – Osmeh, Alaha ti!
    Devojčica sporo kimnu glavom.
    Hamam vraća kameru ka sebi i mrmlja sebi u bradu:
  • Njena sestra je mrtva jer se na nju srušio napukao deo zgrade.
    I majka. I otac. Na sve se srušio petospratni stambeni kompleks. Neki bi rekli da nismo posteđeni. Da je nama još gore. Da će nas pratiti krivica preživelih.
  • A onda se dosetismo da svakog dana svako od nas ne bi li smo ubili vreme uz limenku koka kole koju je ispustio američki vojnik i o koju smo se grabili kao psi i da ne bismo poubijali jedni druge.. svako od nas ispriča dve priče iz svog života, na slobodnu temu. Ne mora to biti bogzna kakva priča. Samo da drži pažnju dok glad topi poslednje naslage sala. Ideju nam je dao Italijan, vlasnik fabrike u Srbiji, omražen jer je radnike oterao na kolektivni godišnji odmor usled prvog talasa pandemije.
    Đankarlo Buonaroti umorno podiže ruku kao da želi da mahne u kameru.
  • Iskoristio je pauzu dejstva virusa tokom izbora da pređe granicu zajedno s ostalima. Ovim, kaže, okajava teške grehe. Zauzvrat će pripovedati o nestašnim ljubavima. Do njega je Žan Fransoa s zanimljivom pričom o kokardi. A ovo je Bretonac Patrik, s beretkom… nekakav žigolo, reklo bi se. Stalno pominje ružu Tjudora.
    I tako se okupismo, sva naša jeziva lica od kojih bi pobegao džihadista i ne možete da zamislite olakšanje koju nam je donela jedna jedina priča.
    I ne bi se trebalo zadržavati na njegovoj prici, ne duže nego korona na čvrstim površinama ili joj dati onoliko pažnje koliko se daje izgubljenim slučajevima, da ne progovori Arapin o iskustvima, najpre svojim, previše licnim i predubokim, a da se na njih ne bi obratila gledaočeva paznja.
    I da mu priče nisu bile iznimno interesantne.
    Ali,- Ubedljivu pobedu odnela je niko drugi no Srpkinja, Marijana, sa 80 novela. Zbog nje niko nije ni dosao do reci. Finansijski potpuno iscrpljena – iz Srbije ju je, kaze, isterala previsoka zakupnina. – Nisam je bas razumeo. – podcrta Hamam – Zar nije divna zemlja u kojoj se stanovi izdaju na rec i bez ugovora? No, ona je tvrdila da nije tako.
    I zavrsi Arapin recima: “Stoga smo ostali u zabludi da ce se sve dobro zavrsiti kad smo se toga dosetili i sve dobro osmislili ko ce kojim redom da pripoveda. Italijan o nestasnim ljubavima, Francuz o poreklu kokarde, ovaj Englez Bretonac s beretkom o soljici caja koja je presla u katolicanstvo i tako redom”
    Ali, Srpkinja nas je pretekla u mastovitim zamislima te smo je se siti naslusali, a sad cete i Vi.
    Kako to Namam izrece, tako pade jos jedna bomba na Talbiseh i raznese kadar i sve Arapina u njemu i jos dvanaestoricu pozadi i malu Aisu s njima, a pouzdano se zna da je Hamama u glavu pogodio geler. – spasilac, novinar BBC – a je pronasao jednu jedinu prezivelu – kameru na zgaristu grada koga su iznova zatresle nove eksplozije koju je drzala Srpkinja prkosnog izraza lica i okrvavljenog, besnog oka dok je strastveno skrgutala zubima: – Ne moze. Ne dam. Ja nisam zavrsila svoju pricu. – gladeci video snimak sprzenim prstima.
    Spasilac je kidnuo s mesta zlocina.


Neki moler koji je imao moć da osim što provlači ruku kroz stiroporska vrata i spopada stanare kraj kojih je živeo ume da ozida svaku površinu koja je do juče bila hrapava, i razume se u sve nijanse boja, a beše iz Dimitrovgrada, hvalio se da je tokom pandemije ozidao srpsko bugarsku granicu, tačnije terminal, podigao torbu u koju je natrpao ženske čarape i reče gosparu firme u kojoj je radio da je to alat, i trajno se vratio u Srbiju kad je čuo od stanodavca da konačno pristiže nova stanarka.

  • Imaš sad majku i kćerku – reče mu gazda – i to ti je sad dvesta evra rente, a ne sto osamdeset, ako ti odgovara. – gazda je bio debeo i mrzeo je svoje stanare te je s njima komunicirao preko sms – a a nikako lično, osim ako je trebalo da se nešto dojavi, za šta je postojao cenovnik. Nešto slično portiru iz Euripidovih drama.
    Obradova se moler koji je zatrpavao svaku rupu na prelazu na koju bi naišao kako se ne bi prelazila granica i dojadi mu taj posao silno, a njegov iskren poziv mu je silno nedostajao, kao i prethodna mentalno nestabilna stanarka koju je srbijanski polis osuđivao jer je u njemu izazivala moralnu nelagodu, a moler se kleo polisu da njemu (a ona beše prostitutka, ako je verovati moleru) usluge nije naplaćivala jer joj je em plaćao kiriju em redovno krečio zid em su joj klijenti bile lezbejke, a mušterije uglavnom robovi, te joj je moler bio i ostao jedini svodnik, a potom i cimer.
    Kako ču radosne vesti, oseti da mu je torba postala preteška i baci je u rupu. I zatrpa.
    Moleru torba često beše preteška jer je moler imao fiksaciju na nežive objekte. Neumorno je davao otkaze u firmama u kojima zapravo i nije radio, zarad svog istinskog poziva…. voleo je da se pred živim objektima prikazuje go ili u gaćama, istovremeno odvrčuči glavu kako od teme, tako od svoje golotinje, tako i od žrtve dok bi go golcijat negirao pred zaprepaščenom žrtvom da ga ista uopšte i zanima.
  • Ja sam jednostavan. Prirodno iskren. Ja sam čovek za koga su reklame napisane. Ima li koga? – žrtva bi vrištala, a moler bi za njom jurio okolo mlatarajući rukama imitirajući žrtvin vrisak dok se drao:
  • Ima li koga, ima li koga! I potom bi pozvao policiju nezainteresovano pokazavši ličnu kartu, dočekavši policiju svež i okupan i odeven za sibirsku zimu. Zbog toga je stalno moralo da bude tople vode u bojleru jer moler nije trpeo hladnoću. Zato je uvek preko svoje golotinje, čak i po ciči zimi prebacivao frotir.
    Žrtva bi bila privedena zbog buke, ometanja, prostitucije, ometanja zidara u radu. Jer takav beše zakon srbijanski, u doba korone i velikog vožda.
    Gazda bi mu posvedočio, uz neznatno povećanje režija, razume se.
    “Park je tako passe.. Ali, dečja igrališta su strava” – raspakivao bi spakovano i govorio da se već privikao na nemoral stanovništva jer je voleo samo decu, a da se više i ne trudi da označi taj trenutak kad je shvatio da mu jedino toaleti i deca preostaju i da ih voli na isti prirodan način na koji voli svoje dete koje nije imao, a koje je isto tako uredno prijavio.
  • Ne želim ništa da znam o okolnome svetu, a ni oni o meni, to je istina – a slike moje porodice i etno kuća koje posedujem na Staroj planini neka govore o meni.
    Kako ču da pristižu nove stanarke, vrati se moler u Srbiju, ponovo se zaposli da bi dao otkaz nekoliko dana kasnije jer je bio potrebniji gazdi firme nego gazda firme njemu.
    “I podigao sam kredit. Dva miliona”
    Makar je tako tumačio stanodavcu, iako je znao moler da bi ga zidanje ometalo u poslu, a opet se ne zna ko mu je taj kredit odobrio.
    Tako je moler konačno imao dovoljno vremena a i olakšica kad bi s hrpom novaca upadao u ženske toalete ne bi li im se (i toaletima i ženama koje bi se tamo zadesile) prikazao u veličini i slavi.
    A valjalo je i stanarke propisno dočekati.

; i gle, otvoriše Mu se nebesa, i vide Duha Božjeg gde silazi ..
Matej 3

i dođoše k vratima gvozdenim koja vođahu u grad, ona im se sama otvoriše; …
Dela Apostolska 12

Marijana se s majkom uselila u zemunicu početkom avgusta meseca. Bila je to izborana, smežurana kućica, rahitična, ali ne i ruinirana. Unutra je bilo namešteno i toplo. Moderni laptop, ukrasni dodatak za podizanje cene stanu i davanje značaja pogurenoj, maloj i sedoj starici od doma. Marijana i nije imala izbora do da se u zemunicu useli jer nije imala gde da prespava i jedina alternativa bila joj je park – oaza prepuna ožiljaka, ta beogradska kineska česma, a srpska fontana okružena zelenilom nudila neudobne klupe za počinak ispred hrama Svetog Save. Pišala je u grmlje. Plazila se statui vožda.
Armagedonska korona se, barem kažu mediji, širi poput šumskog požara. Maske su obavezne. Maske su spale – Crveni krst je zatvoren, a Prihvatilište ne prima nove izgubljene slučajeve.
Uskoro će zavladati masovno beskućništvo. Štampane novine su ukinute. Zavladale su maske. Stanodavci traže depozit. Udvostručuju rente. Uz pojavu dva sunca, Trampa, apokalipsu i nuklearne eksplozije, reklo bi se da je to najgore što može da zadesi senzitivnog podstanara, Marijanu, čija tišina u mislima stvara zvuk i sliku živopisnih boja, kojoj otvorenost ovolikih razmera smeta, a apsolutno privatnog prostora više nema – najezda skakavca obličja molera sa špahtlom i skinutim gaćama poslednja je kap u poslednjoj knjizi Zaveta pogubljenih živaca.
Pošast u kontekstu nove infekcije koja se širi okolo molerovih nakrivo nasađenih usta koje je nacrtalo šupljoglavo, netalentovano i moralno nerazvijeno dete. Molerova usta su okružena crvenilom, a gljivice su istačkale i bradu, ta kandida, taj virus i parazit koji gosti stanovnike crevnog trakta na lkarikaturalno fantastičnom licu koje je predgovor za molera, njegova izistinska lična karta opskrbljena pozamašnom količinom infekcije, moler koji poznaje svaki stanični kiosk i svaku sapatnicu istrgnutu iz infekcijom zaražene normale života kao svežanj istrgnutog papira.
Ponekad su poređenja koja Marijana pravi u glavi pravo mučenje, ali bi joj bile potrebne još dve hrpe.. da dočara molera, sa sve zlobno duhovitim komentarima, stvorenje krajnje jadno u svojoj manijakalnosti, da ga optoći i saseže pred njegov gest izlaska (gol!) na pozornicu kroz stiropor vrata – kad oseti moć dolaska one što će mu biti buduća žrtva, kad namiriše krv, kad od nje načini autsajdera i rezigniranog gledaoca vlastitog života, a sve će to biti, tako moler zamislio, pre svega neka slučajnost, igra života, pravila igre i nekakva nužnost kojoj se Marijana mora pokoravati.
Pre nego što otvori stiropor vrata, moram da naglasim da moler zamišlja da je večno mlad.
Pre nego što nastavim, reci mi, čitaoče, šta treba ja da uradim?
Ne mogu ti to reći, Mari.
Čelo s kosom mu pada na dole, isečeno borama svrhe, a niz svaku se cedi kap znoja. Stub nosa pada. Dočekuju ga usta iz kojih izviruje nešto mračno i tečno kao voda iz usta gargojla. Oči deluju kao da su pridodate nešto kasnije.
Ipak, molerova usta nisu razjapljena. Ona su stisnuta da uspostavi ton koji bi on u svojoj imaginaciji nazvao “ljupkim”. Uz ljupki ton, ide sleganje ramencima koja nesvesno odiže ka klempavim ušima iza kojih strši seda kosica uokvirujući nesretno sklepano lice iskrastano gnojanicama. Moler je ružičast, a ruke žute i vampirske, te šake koje mile kroz stiropor vrata, ruke koje pohlepno pipaju zid tražeći prekidač za bojler, usred noći, u mraku, u strahu, ili je objašnjenje jednostavnije – spisateljica glumi nesretnu podstanarku koja deli stan sa seksualno aktivnim manijakom, a u stanu sluša sablasno kašljucanje manijaka koji bludniči noću ispod frotira s druge strane striropora i koji joj se već dvaput prikazao u goloj sili, snazi i moći.
Uskoro će nas sve poslagati u zajedničke grobnice i poškropiti krečom, k’o svetom vodicom. Baš kao zidove nepravilno omalterisane zemunice…. u ovakvom času, u ovakvom istorijskom kontekstu – ona neće upasti u zamku pandemijskog podžanra. Već samo ovo: Od bubonske kuge ne bi ovakvog molera i kašlja koji s gađenjem sluša prestravljena zbog bolesti majke koja je slučaj manijačenja prijavila debelom gazdi.
Ništa se nije promenilo. I sam gazda je uz paket uslugu rent – a – stan uključio paket porno filmova za redovnog stanara platišu.
Ćutke su se svi u dvorištu dogovorili da ne pričaju o tome. Pogotovo jer je moler podigao kredit, pa deli novac okolo gazdi koji je rešio da počne da viđa stanare ne bi li skinuo koji kilogram, dok moleru uši strše, a usta mu sve manja i sve krivlja. Žute obrve ulaze u gnojem omekšano meso čela. A pred očima joj igra molerov paćenički pogled pun nade.
Ne skida krečom prekriveno radničko odelo, dok su mu cipele ulaštene, a lična karta spremna. Rutava prsa otkrila je razdrljena košuljica.Molerov ponos. Nekoliko puta se lupio u grudi kao king kong.
“To što sam sed, to je genetika. Vidi grudi. I dlake. Vidi stomak. Ti si samo jedanaest godina mlađa od mene – zapilji se moler u Mari manijački – i ponovi kao što je to obično činio i ranije, ali i kasnije, sve do kraja ove pripovesti:
“To je genetika” – opet se upilji u nju pogledom ushićenog frotiriste – pa još jednom: “To je genetika.”
Nagonski je pomislila na knjigu Viktora Frankla: “Zašto se niste ubili”.
“To je genetika!!!!! I doda: ” Ja sam se u tebe zaljubio i vodim te pred matičara” – bulaznila je frotir verzija čiča Stanojla iz filma Slobodana Šijana.
A Mari i njena majka su se tek uselile. Ko će biti izbačen? Ko će dobiti džek, a ko pot?

Usled pandemije, vojska je odlučila da grad u kojem su se pričale priče izoluje, a s njim i izbeglički šator gde su se pripovedači krili.
“Ovde ćemo umreti gospodo, ali za sad nam je utočište” – rekao je Hamam.
“Osluškujte i luvajte se automobila sa zatamnjenim staklima”, uverljivo doda tamnoputi visoki Maurin na čijem kromanjonskom liku beše ispisano mnogo krvavih pripovesti.
“Predlažem da se upoznamo i da svako o sebi kaže tek rečenicu dve. Ne previše, već onoliko koliko je dovoljno da nam vreme prođe, dok spasavamo svoje živote. Ovde smo bezbedni. Ako izađemo napolje, ubiće nas ili snajperisti ili pandemija. Inače sam iz Dare, gde sam bio hapšen i mučen zbog ispisivanja antivladinih grafita. Prebegao sam u Srbiju iz Alepa gde sam studirao kompjutersko programiranje. Ali, u Srbiji nisam pustio čvrst koren. No, gde ste svi vi to krenuli? Šta ste mislili da će ispasti s vama? Zar – svi ste s oduševljenjem pošli za mnom, a ja vas prošvercovao kroz anti – lebanonske planine k’o Mozes Izraelićane”.
Hamam izvadi svežanj pisama. Na svakom beše napisano ime pripovedača u šatoru.

“Ko je Fazlul Hak? Neka istupi”

Na to ustade visoka prilika u pandžabiju, kaputu i sandalama koja pocepa bangladešku ličnu kartu. “Ime mi je Fazlul Hak. Pobegao sam u Srbiju zbog lošeg života. Bilo mi je dosta niskih delti, ciklona i tajfuna. Nekako sam sve to istrpeo. Ali, kad nagrnuše Rohinje iz susednog Mjanmara ciljani napadima budista, vreme je bilo da se kaže – Ja Fazlul, a ime mi je Fazlul Hak i – da, pesnik sam, kontroverzan sociolog i pantomimičar, sve u svemu istinski umetnik. – mešovitog nasleđa i nesklon migriranju u inostranstvo, stavljam tačku. Sa pet godina recitovao sam Rabindra pesme na Akademiji Šilkapala. Zar meni nekakva zaprežna vozila teheranska i indijska da preče put? Ja Fazlul zaslužujem više od uskih ulica i svakodnevnih požara, nezaposlenosti i manjka vode….
A dvadeset godina kasnije moji rođaci me prevariše i dojaviše da u Srbiji koja se značajno rehabilitovala posle humanitarne krize 99 traže pantomimičare za imitaciju aktuelnih političara na vlasti. Da pozorište, čak usled kovida cveta, da im repertoar blista. Kako u Srbiji, tako u Bosni.
Zapravo sam se kao Ilegalni migrant najpre uputio u Bosnu, ali sam se nekako našao u Srbiji za koju sam pomislio da je Bosna. Ali,rođaci su me prevarili. Lokalci su mi se rugali. Krali su mi kartonske kutije u parku, zvali me Bangla, a ismejali su me kad sam se prijavio za stalan posao nastavnika mime arta u osnovnoj školi. Kakve rohindže, kakvi tajfuni. Nije meni mesto u Srbiji, već u Svetoj zemlji. I tako, eto mene ovde, u Siriji, na proputovanju kroz Bliski Istok kako bih samostalno usavršavao svoju umetnost”.

“Fazlul, tvoja priča nam svima pruža toliko hvalovredne utehe da mi suze naviru od ganuća pred momentom ljudske genijalnosti. Grehom fortune i tebi i našoj Marijani dogodiše se svakojaka zla koje ni lučonoša ne bi smislio. Vaše postojanje u Srbiji, a sad usled pandemije na svakom delu zemaljske kugle isprepletano je viticama teškoća. Sreća u nesreći – naš šator mu u odnosu na izbegličke kampove za Bangladežane i Sirijce u Nemačkoj i Grčkoj dođe kao Tadž Mahal. Samo da nam koka kola potraje. ” bila je to oniža verzija mlađahnog Sandokana, u crnoj kurta pidžami s jaknom i kosom svezanom u mali niski rep – “Ime mi je Dipankar. Imam crni pojas u shotokan karateu. Avanturista sam i Indija mi je mala. San mi je da živim u teglenici na reci… recimo na Rajni”
“Ti bi u Nemačku, dakle?”,zamisli se Fazlul. “Otkud onda u Srbiji?”
“Nemačka nije raj, Dipankar. Ni sami Nemci nemaju kuće. Otkud ideja da možeš da naučiš tako komplikovan jezik. Znaš li koliko je meni trebalo da naučim nemački jezik?, zahuktao se Hamam koga je Nemačka iritirala koliko i zanimala – kakva teglenica na reci? Gde je tu učenje jedrenja od iskusnog mornara?

“Šlep. To je život. Ne treba meni kuća. Niti posao. Moja nesreća je što sam mlađi brat trećeg najbogatijeg čoveka Indije. Stalno me zovu: Dipankar, dođi, pusti Himalaje, pusti potragu za Staklenim gradom, pusti džip na putu ka prašumama Amazonije, pusti Srbiju i vrati se u svoju tajkunsku kuću. A kuća – piruetska! Arhitekt pustio mašti na volju, sva je u valovitoj cigli, a dinamični elementi kuće svi rasplesani i bogati. Što se mene tiče, uočio sam samo drvene daske u dnevnom boravku kako bih od njih načinio derengiju, praistorijski šlep da u njemu spavam. Da. Drvene daske mi se čine zanimljivima i zbog njih bi se možda vratio, da ih nekako ponesem”

umesto da srkne kolu, Dipankar steže limenku kao da bi je zdrobio i otpi poveći gutljaj, na šta se na njega baci crni Maurin i opali mu šamar.
“Sram te bilo ti, bedniče. Ti, prokletniče. Prljavi zlikovče. Ne biste imali Tadž Mahal da mi Mavri nismo stalnim migracijama po Indijskom okeanu vašoj kulturi ostavili traga. Otvorili smo vam vrata ka modernom svetu dijaspore. Ne britanska imperija, ne talijani, nego mi – Mavri. Ne biste imali Šekspira da vam nije Mavra bilo. I to ne beše bilo ko nego general. Ne biste imali Mavrov poslednji uzdah, ni Ruždijeve stihove, ne biste imali ništa, niti Al Andaluz. Ništa! Čujete li, Evropljani i bedni Hindusu? Tako se i moj rođak iz Srbije, a ime mu Staniša, kod kog sam odseo oženio belkinjom k’o Otelo. A ona lepa. Kao Dezdemona. A on – Stane, izmešao se tamo i više nije Mavar, nego Mandov. Sram i njega bilo.”
“Šta bulazni ovaj hiperseksualni lascivni Mavar?”, razgoropadi se Đan Karlo, dok je Mavar gladio minđušu u uhu. – Ja sam Korzikanac, krsta mi svetog Đorđa sa četiri odrubljene mavarske glave. Tu su i Alkandre. I Linkebek. S pet Mavara. I pet glava! Kako ti je ime, nesretniče?”
“Mavrikije. Ova tkanina od koje je sačinjeno moje odelo je platno kuba koje je inspirisalo umetnost Matisa i Pikasa. Ima kraljevsku licencu – izradio ga je kralj ratničkog plemena Bakuba u nekadašnjem Zairu
Uistinu, Mavrikije je nosio neobičnu haljinu složenog geometrijskog dizajna.
“Svila, lan, pamuk, filc, koža i krzno. Sve je to naše. Došao sam u Srbiju da trgujem. Da budem strani investitor jer Srbi slave naše pravoslavne svetitelje Viktora i Mavrikija, baš kao i na Baltiku… Ali, opljačkaše me cigani na buvljaku Crveno barjače i gastarbajteri i prevariše me uvalivši mi robu sumnjivog kvaliteta. Ispališe ovcu, tako kažu. A ti Romi, to su Hindusi, mada me rođak Staniša uverava u suprotno. Opasan je on bio naročito kad dođe do obračuna noževima. Policiju Borče Srpske u malom prstu drži. Ide s njima, a u ruci nosi staklene opletene balone, a u balonima rakija za cajkane. O njemu dopre glas do ostrva Fidži gde se borimo s Hindusima. Zovu ga Staniša Neustrašivi. A što voli da omanda, pa to ti je”
“Utišajte ga! – vrisnu Marijana – ima nešto što još nisam rekla. I ne bih je mogla ispripovedati da nije bilo ovog sramnog uvoda Mavrikijevog o svom rođaku koji hara Borčom Srpskom. Stalno mi ta priča visi nad glavom kao kratki mač Đenarda Neustrašivog Portugalskog koji drži u desnoj ruci, a odrubljenu glavu Maora u levoj ruci.
Kad ću je ispričati? – Marijana je kršila ruke – Kako ću to učiniti, pripovedanju nevešta. A sve se desilo naoko brzo, a opet tako sporo.. u močvarnom predelu Krnjače, zavijen maglom, dok sam bežala od sumanute babe gazdarice iz Klenka gde mi se dogodilo nešto.. nešto o čemu sam verovala da neću nikad progovoriti, no jedno se zlo u drugo uliva, to vam je kao dokumentacija logora Aušvic, moj život, kad mi majka beše u karantinu, bolesna, a meni javiše da umire, ne beše jedne ljudske reči, niti gesta odobrenja, a biti sama, to je značilo smrt, život bez majke i…”
“Slomiće se. Vidite. Duh joj je slomljen. Ta od bombi više neće zazirati”
“Dajte joj stolicu da sedne”
“Stolice nema”
“Ja sad više ne razumem o čemu ona priča”
“Jel to neki efekat zaprepašćenja, uvod.. u storiju koja sledi. A nije ni završila prethodnu. I kad ćemo mi drugi doći na red?”
“Ne tako skoro. Pripovest mojih jada knjiga je teška 75 kilograma”
“Onda započni. Dovrši priču o grozomornoj zveri, Marijana, heroino svojih bajki.
“Zar ja da tumaram močvarama, sliko sotonina!”
Marijanu je uzdrmalo obično ludilo u neobičnoj situaciji.
“Da nije obolela od… onog virusa”
“Živeti tako u smetlištu neponovljivog smrada. Nešto smrdi u Beogradu. Smrdi kao na deponiji. U oblacima nepodnošljivog smrada, tu sam svoja krila zaustavila. Došao mi glave. Mandov. Sve mi stvari uzeo. Policija ga štiti.”
Pripovedači zastadoše zbunjeni direktnim, optužujućim simbolima. Sve je to njima bilo zamršeno. Dok se teturala i padala po šatoru, mahala je rukama kao da tera traumatične slike,ili nešto još solidnije, pravi artikl zverstva. Napadala je slike u svojoj glavi pesnicama, istovrtemeno je delovala udaljeno, odsutno i van domašaja.
Francuz je zgrabi za ruku. Njegovo meso sudari se s njenim kostima. Ona se otrže i pipa okolo po šatoru kao da traži nešto. Gomila oko nje se unezveri dok je ona vitlala okolo u mini tornadima.
“Daj joj kolu, da se osveži”
“Nestani, sotono! Neka se svetlost razlije bolesničkim sobama, u meni je još humanosti ostalo iako bejah isterana u mrklu noć, dok kiša pljušti i život sam provela u Srbiji kao logoraš među zidovima krematorijama. Neka konačno vešticu spale. Sirijo, domovino!”
Tad započe da pripoveda:



©® Leila Samarrai

The smell of a dying flute
in the fields of weeping reeds
noon caught between the
roses bound like criminals
chipped bottles stinking of rubbish
containers in which we packed the invisible shadows that followed us
and those frightened smells of sweat, of
lace scraps with a posthumous lip mask,
horrible, rotting walnut-marrow,
we all die a little
only, someone should perform for death

Scents …
between sweat and drafts
when they start to stall
a serene bath against the wall
though frustrated in the pulmonary bush
drowning rainwater down a rusty steep gutter
with the first breath
hellspawn not on this plane of existence and without identity
the smell of rotten moldings plunges into empty vision
humanity needs a sense of smell
and will tickle the restlessness, the fire, and the torment

It is time to make delicacies amongst cramped rooms
in the midst of the broom sweeps and old receipts
they tried too hard to grasp the delicate
they become dead, they die alive
in sleep and awakened, like never and always.

Time of time.



the smell of a dying flute

in the fields of weeping reeds

noon caught between the,

roses bound like criminals

chipped bottles stinking of rubbish

containers in which we packed the invisible shadows that followed us

and those frightened smells of sweat, of

lace scraps with a posthumous lip mask,

horrible, rotting walnut-marrow,

we all die a little

only, someone should perform for death


It is time to make delicacies amongst cramped rooms

in the midst of the broom sweeps and old receipts

they ripped the stars from the sky, they become dead, they die alive

in sleep and awakened, like never and always.

Time of time

Leila Samarrai


Soon, this poem of mine be published as part of a beautiful anthology. I do not want to spoil the surprises, but although I am tempted to set the whole poem for the reason stated, I will not do so.
In any case, I have decided that until further notice, in general, until the publication, the concrete publication of my new book of poems, I will post only parts of the poems on the blog.
As for prose, I may make a paragraph, but the whole thing is worth the wait.
The poem was edited by Simon Hutchinson, leader of the Synau group from Czechoslovakia with whom I have the pleasure of collaborating occasionally and I do hope that our cooperation will complete a wonderful book in the near future

I chose to illustrate my poem with sounds of Synau’s great musical piece…

Tamni vilajet

TAMNI VILAJET©Leila Samarrai

Hajde da se igramo tamnog vilajeta

Hajde da joj zabijemo klipove pod točkove

Hajde da budemo pouzdani dijagnostici krvavog i pomahnitalog razuma

neka grebe rukama zbunjenog istrazivača izbačenog na srpsku ulicu

koju nije volela voljom stanodavca koji hoda na rukama unatrag

u oku nosi artefakt istine na grob budući da umre bez bolova

čiste savesti sam čekala iskru da bih zapalila vatru na migrantskoj kutiji

po parkovima

policija se smejulji

a vizantijske ruže, jednorozi sa arapskih bazara

čeprkaju po okamenjenom pepelu egzotične bede

za bitkoin više

isplatiće se

u pupku sveta vučemo kola od krvavog zlata

dok smo svoje prosjake kojima smo ih takve načinili ostavili

da ih greje robijaški vrt u slobodi parkova

da cvetaju iza zida

i pevaju odu vešalima

gde su ih kao kraljevi i vođe

ko monahe strasne gole i isečene na crne kosti

na pašnjak parka pustili, da glasovi lopuždara bljuju svoje uvrede

U još nekoj dubljoj slici došli su s ključevima

s inkvizitorskim klještima

kao Kolumbo Ameriku ja sam te otkrila slučajno

Moglo bi se sve to rešiti

Ali sutra bez sutra, ogledalo margina će biti

i zadovoljna sam svojim danom i noćima kao neki bolesnik ili bolesnica

posebno ako ću da umrem bez bola, smirena, za četrdeset godina

dotle krv iz otvorene rane ustalasala prosjačku ćebad kojim je pokriveno

vrat, teme,vazduh a ona Grkinja Arapkinja Turkinja

ko krene u vodu, u mojim lažima baca platno na perje

i toliko toga što će postati od mene nije sve moje

pored mene

imam ljubimca u Karađordjevom parku, nisam ga nahranila

doneće sve to poštar

i ostali su moje vlasništvo uramljenizapečaćeni mojim tamnom dobrotom

moram se vratiti ako sutra dolazi mašina za pranje duša

i daje mi opranu odeću

za zasluge i par šatora s parom barikada

u oku koje gleda začuđeno

u oku koje trpi i sluša nekolilko ćutljivih vekova

oko koje je na pločnik izbacio kepec s licem pomoćnika ložača kraj lokomotive

dok mu zena izvrištala tajanstvenu pesmu koja se već dvadeset godina ne da odgonetnuti

u parku, na tavanu

gde spajam božansko i hristoliko

pišanjem sa visine u dubokoj mračnoj šumi

Oni su prstenovi.

Oni su tropski prosjaci koji su već otisnuti.

Odmakne se, bolje od svega, slomi!

Onaj se nije svetio ni za šta.

Pored sudbine i plače i plače

čitava pesma kvadratna je u tri tišine.

Toplina, ovca, gotovo prozirnost.

Hajde da je potražimo iza Pojasa

na Kainu Tolomeju i Judeku

sejači nesloge i krivotvorci

jer je nama Elohim zapovedio:

rađajte se, nitkovi, jer oni koji umiru tad postaju onda vidljivi

i rađajte buduću decu nitkove i one koji ovo čitaju

i oni će biti nula

i rodiće se novi fosil

jer zato je i Svemir pokrenut da bismo se množili i umnožavali

mi, sami u poslednjoj konsekvenciji

u našoj metropoli, u našoj hiljadugodišnjoj civilizaciji

oprana odeca za prosjake koje smo načinili

da dišu nad orhidejama

samo pažljivo, ne dodirujte ih rukama.

Dark Province

Dark Province©Leila Samarrai

Translated from Serbian Original “Tamni vilajet” by Leila Samarrai

Let’s play a dark vilayet

Let’s drive the pistons under her wheels….

Let’s be reliable diagnostics of bloody and insane reason

let her scratch with the hands of a confused researcher

thrown on a Serbian street that she did not like

by the will of the landlord walking on his hands backwards

in his eye he carries the artifact of truth to his future grave

as he dies without painwith a clear conscience

I waited for a spark to light a fire on a migrant box in the parks

Police chuckles

and Byzantine roses, unicorns from Arab bazaars

they rummage through the petrified ashes of exotic misery

for bitcoin more

it will pay off

in the navel of the world we pull a chariot of bloody gold

while we left our beggars to whom we made them like that

to be warmed by a prison garden in the freedom of parks

to bloom behind the walland sing ode to the gallows

where they are like kings and leaders

like monks passionately naked and cut to black bones

let on the park pasture,that the voices of thugs spit out their insults

In an even deeper picture they came with the keys

with inquisitor’s pliers

like Columbus discovered America I discovered you by accident

It could all be solved

But tomorrow without tomorrow, the mirror of the margins will be

and I am content with my day and nights as some sick man or woman

especially if I’m going to die painless, calm, in forty years

until the blood from the open wound rose up

a begging blanket with which it was coveredneck, themes, air

and that Greek Arab Turk

whoever goes into the water, in my lies throws a cloth on the feathers

and so much of what will become of me is not all mine beside me

I have a pet in Karadjordjev Park, I didn’t feed it

the postman will bring it all

and the rest are my property framed

sealed by my dark goodness

I have to go back if a washing machine comes tomorrow

and gives me washed clothes

for merit and a pair of tents with a pair of barricades

in an eye that looks astonished

in an eye that suffers and listens for several silent centuries

an eye which was thrown onto the sidewalk by a dwarf with the face

of an assistant firefighter near the locomotive

while his wife sang a mysterious song that has not been deciphered for twenty years

in the park, in the attic

where I combine the divine and the Christlike

with pissing from a height in a deep dark forest

They are rings.

They are tropical beggars who have already been printed.

They move away, better than anything, break

The Other did not take revenge for anything.

In addition to fate, she cries and cries

the whole poem is square in three silences.

Warmth, sheep, almost transparency.

Let’s look for her beyond the Ranges

on Cain, Ptolemy, and Judek

dissenters and forgers

for the Elohim has commanded us:

Be fruitful,scoundrels, for those who die then become visible

and give birth to future children of scoundrels

and those who read this and they will be zero

and a new fossil will be born

for that is why the Universe was set up for us to multiply and multiply,

alone in the last consequence in our metropolis,

in our millennial civilization

washed clothes for the beggars we made to breathe over the orchids

just be careful not to touch them with your hands.

Boris K and Ad, edited by Simon Hutchinson(Synau)

A 73-year-old neighbor invited Boris K. over for coffee, for the millionth time in a row, and told him the following:

“You know, honey, now that my old bones are aching I’ve been thinking about whom to leave the apartment to after I die. I baptized several children, but they all did very well abroad and they were all financially secure. My first son threw himself under a train, my brother’s son died as a teenager and, my husband is also dead. I have no family and you have been my only companion in the two months that you’ve been here, so I have decided to leave you an apartment, but only under one condition.”

Boris K. choked on his coffee, shifted in his chair, and decided to continue listening to the old woman. Grandma lit her cigar and continued:

“Boris K, I trust only matriarchy. The foundations of home depend upon women, so I would like to meet your future wife. It’s time for you to get married, Boris. You are 49 years old. But, only under one other condition!”

Boris K. listened intently.

“It must be a nice girl who must promise me that she will regularly visit and honor my grave and the graves of my closest ones.”

After talking to the old woman, Boris K. published an ad in “My Love Romance”, searching for a life partner.

The ad read:

“I am looking for a life partner, a Believer who loves the cemetery. We will split our apartment into equal parts. Come to the interview… ” then the ad stated the exact day, time and place of the meeting.

After the candidates gathered, Boris K. asked them the following questions in the form of a quiz:

  1. List the exact location of all the cemeteries in Belgrade.
  2. Know the exact dates when the memorial services are held.
  3. List all of God’s commandments and fasting schedules.

The competition is still open.

Besplatno preuzimanje Borisa K u pdf formatu

Nakon sto je knjiga sklonjena sa serbian foruma, odlucila sam da knjigu postavim na scribd.com

knjiga se moze citati na engleskom jeziku, kao kindle e – book izdanje. Pojedine price se mogu naci na sajtu Beleg. Sa sajta Afirmator su mahom sklonjene. Mozda je ostalo par njih.

ne pitajte mene zasto je to tako – cesto se i sama pitam.. Verujem da su fenomenizacije ucinile svoje! Pogresila sam, tu je koren. Omaklo mi se da napisem dobru knjigu.To se ne prasta od strane iskusnijih kolega. U svoju odbranu mogu da kazem da sam dobru knjigu napisala slucajno, bez zadnje namere, niti prednje nor sideways.

Omaklo mi se.

Ne mogu da obecam da necu vise nikad.

A word or two on Boris K, The Adventures of Boris K


The Adventures of Boris K.

Boris K. – The First Loser of Phenomenization

Some countries were ruled by the Inquisition. Others were subject to questionable privatizations. Boris K’s country was exposed to inexplicable phenomenizations. For Boris K, a man with no permanent occupation, phenomenization was so unexpected that he had no choice but to come to terms with it.

He got into different time periods without the use of a time machine. He found himself performing strangest of jobs without ever applying for them. He kept adapting to the situation, akin to a player advancing to the next level in an unpredictable computer game.

“What have I ever done to deserve the things happening to me?” Boris K. wondered. “I am no different than any other semi-skilled worker who got carried away by the idea of equality in our Republic. I enthusiastically neglected to further my education for the sake of blind faith in “better times” when the voice of the small, the ordinary, and the nameless would be heard as well.”

Boris K. was prepared to endure greatest of sacrifices in order to achieve this goal. As one of the deserving participants at the end of the great Revolution he was offered great benefits – which he promptly refused with utter disgust. It was against just such privileges that he had fought in the first place, he claimed, hence benefiting from them would be contrary to his beliefs. So he settled for an assembler’s job on a car factory production line, where he happily worked 12 hours a day fitting mirrors on the passenger doors.

One day he was laid off. Introduction of new technologies and reductions in work force, or at least that was what he was told; he was well aware the real cause lay in that ultimate evil slowly but surely corroding the fabric of humanity – the profit. Disposed of like an exhausted battery, empty hearted and with eyes full of tears, he moved from his humble but furnished apartment to the so-called “Lepers’ Valley”. The place was nicknamed for its inhabitants: hardly true lepers, but merely desperate souls befallen by a fate similar to Boris’ own. It was dubious in which of the two skins they would have thought themselves better off. The ancient buildings huddling together in irregular patterns, the abodes of unhappy families, were not made of concrete reinforced with Pittsburgh steel; they were built with eco-bricks with insulating layers of pure asbestos, which almost certainly guaranteed the tenants a case of lung cancer. As if there was not enough trouble in their lives.

It was in such a building that Boris K. found his new apartment. It was not the vacancy ad that attracted him, but rather the unusual appearance of the landlady – who was in a habit of swatting at the heads protruding from the adjacent manholes using the highest-circulating newspapers of the City.

“Like swatting flies,” thought Boris K, eyes fastened on a greasy rosary. Frau Suzy (as the landlady was called) and Boris K. exchanged just one glance and immediately recognized each other. Brushing his graying hair back, Boris K inquired about the price. The Frau leveled one measuring, scornful look at him, flicking the ash from her cigarette holder straight onto his hole-pocked shoe. Boris K glanced at her defiantly. Frau’s response came in a raspy, ancient voice.


It was a mantra that meant one thing and one thing only and was uttered by the old woman only on the rarest of occasions. Boris K. liked mature blondes with an attitude, so he decided he would start his mission in that very unfortunate place.

Mission? What mission?

You will find out soon enough.

* Phenomenization, phenomenosition, from fenomenon (gr. φαινόμενо, occurence), something observable but utterly mysterious and untraceble, and better kept that way.



Res Publicus Phenomesationem The people of the Republic have fathomed the secret of the phenomenization by the agency of a mysterious clairvoyant gammer: since the Parliament was hit by a lightning at the moment when there were 111 storks on the roof, 222 members in the building and 333 rants under the foundation – the famous phenomenization occured. The thoughts of storks, rats and Members of Parliament commingled in the air and fell to the ground. Thus certain individuals realized they preferred living in the sewer, others keep trying to fly and carry babies, while the rest just keep babbling about politics. Anything is possible in the land of phenomenization.


Reč dve o Borisu K., Avanture Borisa K

Reč dve o Borisu K
Boris K. — Prvi Gubitnik Fenomenizacije
U nekim zemljama vladala je Inkvizicija. U drugim je dolazilo do sumnjivih privatizacija. U državi Borisa K. došlo je do neobjašnjivih fenomenizacija. Fenomenizacija za Borisa K, čoveka bez stalnog zanimanja, beše tako nepredvidiva da mu nije preostalo ništa drugo no da se sa njom pomiri.
Upadao je u različita vremenska razdoblja bez korišćenja vremeplova. Nalazio se na najneobičnijim radnim mestima, a da na njih nije konkurisao. Prilagođavao se situaciji nalik igraču koji prelazi na drugi nivo u nepredvidivoj kompjuterskoj igrici.
„Šta sam ja bogu zgrešio da mi se to događa?“, pitao se Boris K. „Isti sam kao i svi drugi polukvalifikovani radnici koji se zanose idejom o jednakosti u Republici. Kao entuzijasta zanemario sam dalje školovanje zarad slepe vere u dolazak boljih vremena, onih u kojima će se saslušati i glas malog, običnog, bezimenog čoveka.“
Boris K. bio je spreman na najveću žrtvu da bi se taj cilj i ostvario. Kao jedan od zaslužnih učesnika, po završetku Revolucije, dobio je velike beneficije koje je sa gnušanjem odbio, govoreći da 14 15
se protiv takvih povlastica upravo i borio, te da bi prihvatanje istih bilo u suprotnosti sa njegovim uverenjima. Zadovoljio se poslom montera na traci za finalizaciju u fabrici automobila, gde je sav srećan radio po 12 sati dnevno, postavljajući retrovizore na suvozačeva vrata.
Jednog je dana dobio otkaz što je bila posledica uvođenja novih tehnologija i potrebe za štednjom. Tako su mu bar rekli, iako je dobro znao da iza svega stoji ono ultimativno zlo koje je polako ali sigurno izjedalo tkivo čovečanstva — profit. Odbačen poput istrošene baterije, praznog srca i očiju punih suza, preselio se iz skromnog ali uređenog stana u „dolinu gubavaca“. Ovo mesto dobilo je nadimak po stanovnicima, ne istinskim gubavcima, već očajnicima koje je zadesila sudbina slična Borisovoj i za koje se ne bi moglo reći u kojoj bi se od te dve kože bolje osećali. Stare zgrade, koje su se zbile u nepravilnom rasporedu, gde su živele nesrećne porodice, nisu bile od betona ojačanog čelikom iz Pitsburga, već od eko–cigle, sa izolacionim slojevima od azbesta, što je stanarima gotovo izvesno garantovalo rak na plućima. Kao da nisu imali već dovoljno nevolja u svojim životima.
U takvoj jednoj zgradi Boris K. našao je stan. Nije ga privukao oglas, već neobična pojava gazdarice koja je imala običaj da najtiražnijim novinama u gradu udara po glavama koje su izvirivale iz okolnih šahtova.
„Kao da ubija mušice“, mislio je u sebi Boris K, pogleda prikovanog za izmašćenu brojanicu. Frau Suzi, kako se gazdarica zvala, i Boris K. razmeniše samo jedan pogled i odmah se prepoznaše. Zalizavši sedu kosu, Boris K. upita za cenu. Frau ga odmeri prezrivim pogledom i otrese pepeo sa muštikle na bušnu cipelu. Boris K. je prkosno pogleda, na šta Frau, staračkim hrapavim glasom, reče:
Beše to mantra koja je značila samo jedno, a koju je starica izgovarala u retkim prilikama. Boris K. voleo je starije plavuše sa stavom, te je rešio da svoju misiju započne baš na ovom nesrećnom mestu.
Misiju? Kakvu misiju?
Saznaćete.16 17


Is it applicable also to stone?

Behold! Should you not dying, live;and living;die.

.. from the veil outward…

Ornaments and objects

A shrine to

Malleable walls

Cave jewelry

The falling through

The respiration by spilled images

Blazed with the day

In which I drowned

My inner Bishop

Bring back the change

Merely muffled roars and groans

In time.

You sing that song


Read that song.

That same stupid song

For the last three decades

This song you sing every morning

Where’s the song you’re gonna sing?

As the Deep is going down


You plunge into maelstrom of

Recycled paper

I saw, I felt, I sank

You got tased

You experienced extensive

Art production.

Surrender, fighgting and fighting  surrender

Is it applicable also to stone?

Ah I hate when liquid rock

Dips like that.








House of Lazarus

House of Lazarus, house of ruins

Burning bamboo flute beneath those shores unfold

Beneath the dreadful moon

Divine Dryads, while letal shades cheer my troubled hour – leave

that bloody track behind

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

Where an earthquake endears the choking sighs of men

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

Slaughterers sight –

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

Where broods the horde of ravens putrefying.





The car whose beeping I heard tomorrow
don’t transcend
let me see
the suit I put on tomorrow
let me see
washing machine
propensity for trinity
let me see
pulmonary powder, used
is just another part of the harassment details
in the wake of tissue and in the wake of tomorrow
tomorrow tomorrow tomorrow

The other, unhappy, I, in rapture, full of cry,
I secretly bow my ears to the air,
It’s bitter under the tunnel
Almost transparency
Everything was crying.
Be whole in the veil

I washed my hunger in my stomach tomorrow
in a sentence with a short lifespan
you walk alone and you walk alone
and you run into the bars
and skip the bars
you skip the bars

The memory started that the bars were simply the bars
in a gas puddle
in the fish trail
in the flesh, my machine did not wash it
for the bars is the bars
now especially when the veins are close to the bloodstream
then, it won’t be

in unmodified veins, scattered bottoms seek etiquette
in my forgery of canyoning
What smells like announcing the space of individual songs is reminiscent of home
I know how it is, you know how it is, not everyone is beside me
a canvas for a feather and all things

I’m someone else’s hallucination
Scattered remains of will, Unknown Someone
Where the views have reached, the future memory is constantly delayed in its arrival
the stonecutter, silent and shaded, did not utter a voice
And we just didn’t leave it all out.


I’m not ashamed
of inspirations, veins, and tendons of terrible snakes
I love stinking flies, heavy in copper
I love sick roses
It’s just a little thorn left on my cheek
and I have no allusions
and I have no illusions whatsoever
and I do not deserve relief
I ate a mirror from a counter of fifty young bunches
in someone’s stomach,
so my home became a little cramped.
I ate a motionless spider immortalized in cobwebs

I’m floating on a tray of a busy Belgrade street
in a deaf room
I was bent and hungry looking at the sky
from an ideal angle
behold, hands are peeling away in glass,
at an incomparable address restores faith
in the mortal covenant with innate signs

Here, my hands are quite a clear
Part of the speech on the other side of the sheet
she misspelt the right words,
he collected the blurred images
all that was spilt and collected
into one flashing point
between locks and secret places

after much effort and hard work
I managed to turn the mythical river
towards the old man from the beginning
that doesn’t get off track
he is alive, but he is away from home
whenever I pass by

You came out of yourself finally like a pigeon from a cage
and the symbolism of the tiny sparks that disappear
I collect
sometimes absent sometimes
all around with irrepressible actions
emptiness, freedom of oblivion,
successful metaphors swallowed symbols
tamed snake, the foremother of small intestines
you shine a green light like a mythical image
there are many great secrets in orientation
and I play the game I found myself in

I drag toys behind me for people to hear
a flower came out of the way to pray to the god,
a sail, red, juicy like hell on a grill
The glassmaker rolls from conviction to the throat
between the heart and the abyss
his cheek dropped, a glint in his speech
which house is burnt in flames? – I see its reflection already growing in the stone

I switched roles with the one I hunt
now it’s lurking inside and luring me inside
help squeeze my lips to miss me
close my door so my days don’t go away
toss a grenade to slow them downs
so they didn’t see us go through the mirror.

the end of silence

socks under sandals
holes below
pork rinds
shiny bare heels
Take that to your goddamn death
where you so disgraced us
when so trips over her damn shoe cousin
ascends to dark
between toilet and scaffolding
it couldn’t, it couldn’t be anymore
there in the pigeon feathers

from massive fat steaks
dense ground clusters
sparkling in the shadow of the warehouse
for medical waste
well sprinkled with rust of iron bones
under the window sill, balcony
from which the Crown Prince’s worm will be processed
Verklaa war on
the beginning of the stench and the end of silence

Forgiveness Poem

There is no death except for one.
That hour is yet to come.
However, time and space do not exist.
And I remain a naked hungry ghost.
a faded fire in the eyes,
a numb hand on my chest
as I lay dying, among the graves.
a wide-open mouth spitting
hundreds of poisonous flowers.
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,
Bastards over the world:
malvados, screams, bloody ravine, villain
Schwein, everywhere,
now and to come:
I absolve you all.



written by Leila Samarrai
edited by: Obinna Eruchie

The Birth of Narcissus

My eyes look down to gaze upon the lake
and I found my face dressed in the sun’s light;
upon the lake’s surface, the radiance
of my face yields me to kneel before it.
My prized face, beside I, your fond bearer,
you are my one true love with fair features
I gaze to touch with my newborn stretched arms;
recreating myself, but in my own image.
Lithe mirror, what pure formed creature I am,
I do get pricked by piss-poor perfection
I have no room for this damned society
of humanity’s thoughtless castaways,
Now that I have found my mad reflection!
One vanity, one ilk, one jealousy
that gazes at what she can never touch!
No more! And one love always responded.
With this new love brought from Heaven to Earth,
with this eye-catching life hove into view
from the freezing water, no more head-path,
no more dark clouds overhead my shoulders
with the selfsame sharp-tasting smell of storm
there will be…No! No more waking life, no!
No more wounds in my back, no tears at night!
No more…at the end of the sun’s journey!
My mind crystal to see love is the key;
my hand is taking the silvered mirror;
my keen lips are kissing the lips of God;
my first date I am having with Myself.
written by Leila Samarrai
edited by: Obinna Eruchie

Whither, midst this glimmering dew locked

Whither, midst this glimmering dew locked
Poised on one crystal sorrows of all might
While glow the loitering through a vast
with its adamantine

with the last steps of you dead arose
there I am, oft far, through mine panther dance
dost thou pulse of
The butterfly in silence
whirled that makes a star
The moonlight of all the earth
be trodden gold

Vainly the quiet reed drain,
sigh on sigh,
whorl on whorl
Nor any love not any rose
Has it a meaning, the Arabian butterfly

Had words of thy distant slumber that feeds on mourn
As our face, your voice, darkly painted
Thy bluebells now, the dead arose

Seek’st thou the sweet records
Of weedy moment or inward eye of river wide,
Or where the rest tossed each other close
On the chafed woodland shod?

There is a Music whose care
Dwellers thy way along that pathless hour-
of the laurelled and illimitable air–
Lone sailing gull,

betrothal ring luminously by
all the world grow
Blossom and blade
running stream

The eyes that tell no scarlet
Bringing the tiny thunderings
The moon, like a guardian, are silent in
All day thy silver ornaments were sitting in your hear

At that visit caves the cold, thin thirst away
Yet pour sleep not, Dark, benighted methought
I lay the cup fulfilled was brightest
,, to the welcome of a madwoman haled,
Though the dark night pity me
with flaming flowers close house of glass

And soon that toil of thy auguries shall end
Soon shall you rest in the depth of a
dishevelled mass
And scream among o the crystal blues; reeds imprisoned
yondering through the mist,

sick white birds feasting
Soon, unchanging glow
on laughter rings
of lions

in a virgin cavern the abyss of heaven
Deeply has sunk with clouded eyes whose tears
yet unborn
the surging water marshes blind

ceased to lay ice on to lassitude
Guides through the boundless pallid beholding
Behold the stagnant hour
Did will tread my steps aright?

Killer Poet

Through the assaults’ subtle gas
sprayed on the body of sentences,
I quench life of the impish people
to bring them down as wooden blocks
after reading my letters.
My sentences I order like soldiers.
They are gunning down my victims
in dramaturgical strokes and pathos.
My sentences hit without warning.
Let eyes face the truth – I am a killer poet.
But, still, I say something.
written by Leila Samarrai
edited by: Obinna Eruchie


Who could voice from lips the language of Gods,
and stay not in recall’s room yet unloved,
a sailor who dreamt of bridging the wings
of earth, the blind man who stood the sirens
and stayed cold and recognised on the shore.
I swung in the rain within Hades and
torched the warrior’s burgh in windy Troy.
I cried over the misery of a
stone forgotten me, a solitary
woman in solitary confinement,
the sun of a day warped, a skeleton
waving, a bird in the pink afternoon,
my sigh sparkling towards the horizon…
Fires shrieked!
Lord! My chorus burst forth
and all wishes evaporated
into the all-seeing, faded margin.
Storm raging inside,
my head aching out
a grain of salt
in this driblet of blood.
Et Vous… pagans who gnawed my manuscripts,
listen to the wind of centuries
tangling the strings of a gaggle of pissed off gods.
Unloved, peckish heart!
Rainy absence on the shore
becomes my name!
I saw these images
on the bloodied road:
first: me falling to my knees.
Second: back on my feet, struggling.
Third: the lips of Judas.
Words speak silence,
not lust nor curses,
emptying in darkness,
fragmented, apart.
My nothingness announced.
Everything was said,
phrases like
crushed glass
in the mouth,
heard only as lies,
if heard at all.
As I trudge through the light-trickled night
I wonder why, is it just me,
my heavens, my restless darkness.

all rights deserved by ©Leila Samarrai, 2019

edited by: Obinna Eruchie