Babylonia 1


In the place of seven caves, seven niches, seven emergences,

Submergences in howls from under bellicose Kivas’ echo my name,

The Hueyapan vicar reverberances resonates the same:

Diego, – he told me – down there in Aztatltlan(tli), the Nahua tribesmen

Incise the penitent to pieces,

A slicing slaughtering sacrificial,

An offering of victims visages in sanguine – Diego, it is a sacrifice.

Chicomostoc… (rhythmic drumming shakes the stars from their hidden nests),

Rabbi Isa, Rabbi Isa… (drums throb hammering in escalating violence…from the depths).


Steeds abandoned and rothers grasped in bloody digits,

By the androphagous conqueror, the Cannibal King!

With great power and potency and primacy,

Superior sovereignty supremacy,

Dominion dominance, hierarchical hegemony,

Imperia forceful in strident marching, massacring.

Hemoglobin tyranny,

Maniacal oculi insatiably edacious.

Unis, unis unum cum nulla, in incipient tragedy,

Mater, mater, qui est Pater awaken me.

Tremble, tremble, not the night terror, little one,

But chant scream sing, in off kiltering ardency, extolling her horrible ascendency (demonic laughter).


Selena whispers spells from Luna cult grimoires,

Smearing my heart’s exsanguination from pools of blood in enchanted fixation.

Ruinous, violently, I vault my moist mortal form

Towards the tambourine stars.

U Sudd Ma’rib, La Ciudad Perdida, The lost city;

My bane, my prophet, my pit, the engine-maker, my salvation in chasm chains.

Mydeca, poro derramar, pour, pour, pour, from laceration pores;

My blood! My bane! My heart!

My pit! My reign! My salvation…

Abwûnd’bwaschmâja. Our Father, (in Aramaic)


And to this the Rabbi told me:

Talita kumi. Stand up, lass,

l’ahlâmalmîn. Amen,



In yet another dream…

In ethereal beams;

I was born…The Goddess of Air and Invisibility,

Born and dead a virgin of ancient gnostic Ogdoad.

I, Amunet, the female hidden one,

The androgynous Goddess, the serpent, the lesbian,

Goddess of graves and coffins, tombs and sepulchres.

And the moon gleams by vanta night cast by Lah illumed,

Luminesced my lucid dwam dreaming’s,

I am eternally nocturnally eidolons scribed upon in Anacreontea.

Supine the victiming to me in Cambrian chambers ancient and crumbling,

Supplications on scorched knee’s…praise me!

To receive your darkest desires, passionate rayless fires,

Your hands tremble in anticipations distress,

Caresses and quivers, flutters and touches around abyss,

Kissing my corporeal, where eyes divert from shades…

Lost in innermost graves.

In a dark land, in riverbeds exsanguinate,

From the tombstones…you will be reborn,

Reborn in Ogdoad,

Reborn of Sudd Ma’rib.

Sing thy love and thy life to me…or die again…eternally.


Fear mourns arising me,

Panic claws reactionarily at life’s rosy cheeks,

Terror spasms hard as quince flesh flailed,

Sparked fright fires to awaken dead dread,

Nails scratch and flesh rend,

The little one in horror form born.

(Love breaks all bones, the dream is interrupted).


The landlady aberration angrily waves bills, in oozing tentacles around my face.

Dread She-Cthulhu of mammon and practicality seeking to devour me.

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

I am not a lamb for your slaughter!

I am the visionary she, triumphant in ascendency!

I see the ethereal surreal in vibrant lucidity!

I susurrate prophecy!

Horus understand me; we converse in hushed whispers in Isis’s dark temple corners,

Amunet understands, she would hold me motherly in her generous embracing arms,

The cities understand, the blindness understands, the blood of the innocents understands…

While I cast the curse of a fiery tongue on the Daemonion!

After sacrificing my inner sanctums to outside world hostilities;

She burned shrieking on the spot…bills in hand.

O, how we do not forgive our debtors.

And glory be to the hellish tower of slaves!

Gorey Glory! Amen, oh Babylon!

In enigma Akkadian tongues rise chanting:

Texru sinnistu izuzzu. Little girl arise!

Saxatu salmu abu Babili. Fear black father Babylon!

Zamaru damu rossu Babili. Sing blood red Babylon!

I walk thy streets, bare and free,

Rabbi Isa, deliver me…not…from Evil.


Babylonia 2:

Work in progress, by Layla Al Kiz Kulesi – Not for you

Dedicated by Hatun Amira Crayola de Sonvabitch, Sarıkız of Gure, born in the kingdom of Kurkuma; Sultana’s Efendi, Kizlar Aghasi, general of the girls etcetera. An inscription as well as a dedication found in the Orhon valley, in the language of unintelligible speech; an enigmatic alphabet, next to a bloody dagger and Turkish runes, scribed in scrawling script.

Translated into English, by a completely self-taught idiot.

Time and place: 2019, Belgrade is under water and under attack by the Turkish invasion of Operation Atilla Code.

The poem follows a fair maiden; Dihya Layla Al, a female seer and military leader who has just returned from a 7th century mission in the Maghreb, known as Kiz Kulesi, leading the resistance of N’Nonmiton Beninin. Our mothers, amazons under the parole of Things Fall Apart; whose lady mother, Valide Hatun is quarantined in a a clinic for infectious diseases for 20 days, while reading the book of Leviticus, that tells of how to quarantine leppers and other creatures suffering from a new age zoonotic virus. And fair maiden’s mother, in a desire to overcome her naturally caused thanatophobia, even though there is no sign of any illness. She is obsessed with the idea of arranging her own funeral, as in the scriptures. The nails and hair trimmed, a burying-place mundane and out of sight. With aesthetic appeal and and a high monetary cost.

Only one person in Belgrade under the water and under the Turkish invasion of operation Atilla Code is idle with riches and is responsible for expensive funerals, and that is Hatun Amra Crayola de Sonvabitch, Sultana’s Efendi, who already bought off-street visitor parking; breaking parking restriction for Turks at the Highgate Cemetery in England.

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

This poem had a number of beginnings.

The thoughts are existence. The language is negation.
As I lowered behind tisn’t pleasant places.
I shhh the breath of screaming inside inception,
I listen to her lung congestion,
Limiting flooding fluids with damp swabbing,
Scattered pharmakeia herbage holistic,
Cybele motherly ailing and abjured.
Death rattle gales exhale,
Doth Demeter survive, prevailed.
Eyguieres cursed tabular abacus,
Offering desiccating bird sacrifice,
Trading transmission of healing and resurrection.
An ancient winged youth,
Will trap her in a sack.
A down-turned torch wreaths smoke butterflies,
Buried Spartan warriors strident sarcophagi.
Sentimental salutations signals.
In ériu–banba–fódla, a world of delights.
She’s coughing…’annwyfn, annwvyn, annwfyn!’
Outburst explosions sickly impressions voicing,
Whispering wheeze valley nearby nausea golden plated river…
Full of shit.

Pachamama continues:
Many cobbles risen from smitten wisdom,
House of Lazarus, house of ruins,
Drunk with the innocence.
Blazing bamboo flute stricken Holy Spirit,
Depart the sanguine track in wakes,
As I am silence gazing roses in foreign lands,
Where earthquakes endear the choking sighs of men.
Scoundrel clutches shekels, hammered by moistly hate,
Slaughterers sight, stubborn little twat with ego conflagrate,
Pale ghoul like the dead on catafalque cooling boards.

Athena is angry:
Your gaunt grim greed advances,
Deceit to common sense appeal, pyets in stolen nests of honest men.
I will not wind long worn confessions,
Obscurities to hide my desiderata,
But augment my blisses, my expertise, my potencies,
To the carnage of little cunts and their mother’s bardship.
In dread bonum I made pacts with your adversaries.

I, a Spartan God of glowering mockery bravely battle,
Their narrow-minded provincial pettiness.
As requiescat requiem pace may rest in peace,
Their leering wars fourscore fell past last stammering noon’s,
If I depart this mourning coil the funeral toll must be paid.
Quick you purmblid brat hark bark,
And swift, push away every ounce of furore.
In all of the inferno bible writes,
Fringe the sad toothless minstrels,
Forgiveness in idleness, debt collection insolence.
For funerary, asking foes for currency.
Cast out the bitches, they are loathsome with stitches.
In case Minerva departs us…

Oh stars shining through preponderancy centuries,
Gall rival pride, antagonist sage in unfortunates haze,
Battlements soliloquy, removed from the work of divinity,
Towers fall from the sky, Persephone so hard done by…
Hera cloys despondent grabbing my Jesus tunic, mouth agape:
Tragedy! I make deals with monsters for her salvation!
Bestial and horrid Gorgona expects me!
Grasps and fracturing decentred reviled and faints.


Such malice I subdue and depart to procession,
To not so tender a creature.
And quiescence, down to the four depths,
Chasms impossible for monsters to ascend.
Adversities’ abaft nature, stood at stake and bound,
Her thorned mind, puerile in horror’s forceful face,
Obedience to common sense, glowing on idiot’s shore.
Thundering the spider’s pavements,

I preach on Belgrade’s streets, preparing for stridency’s strides,
Rescinding mid flirtation, breathing beneath blocks.
Apathetically dazed Hades,
The final act is done then remade,
Not with eager moves but cold incessance.
I dare not name it…
A sceptre form insatiate, armour shimmering initiate,
Possible impossibility, believing in unbelievability’s.
The grave is closed and cradled desperate respire.

Oh Juno! Peace be with thy possible sputtering embers to ashes,
Respirations imbibed this too shall not thrive!
Not shackles to borrows of either friend or foe,
And this one yet appals, with horn and falls,
Branding of ambitious murder rejoined.
Carnage fruitful vile and falls,
From her lips of deceit, false ponderances from peaks of goodness.
Profoundly disturbed drunken degeneracies’,

Of fortunate fate foul soul sucking ghoul.
Praise be Gugalanna, of nightmare size, of vampiric menace,
On earth unleashed!

So soft the farewell once was – snatched from ashes,
From cafes…flashback sentimental in sepia’s.
Once generous pyres loved ardency’s devotee.
Remnant madness maudlin mauling my arts,
Enacting the falsity of charm,
And sparrows to her bosom,
Her accoutrement, aureate hair memories,
Secluded before me.

I could worship you!…To funerals!

My Aphrodite! An endosperm of mirrored settlings,
Accords and horror Hades beyond the river Styx,
Daredevil sticks.
The couplet pens new novella’s,
Secret circle reclamations of esoteric enigmas,
Without repose the liquor absolves beyond.
The long buried wrecks beyond rest,
Gugalanna compelled savours my sanguine,
So saccharine sweetly bloody Rynfield’s syndrome susurrates,
Cocktails at sunrise with ice, cookbooks for cannibalized.
Feasts for sanguinary slayings, but…
Flashbacks depart, obsessive pathetic pathos ends…

All the Tartini’ sonatas in woe,
Flaming with pitiless perdition.
This being done, winged Ishtar, by Clavicula Salomonis,
Is not enough to cure a witch as her physician.
Still muse upon Calliope soul in wish to comfort bring,
The poverty foul of carrying all completion.
Polyhymnia proposals make visages of Solos,
To gather light from the might of Titans arrayed,
For her shiny, happy, laughing funerary arranged,
Lain flat on mortuary boards, washed in running waters…



And how from thence forth, I…
Facing blossoming willows of mine,
Estetica etica,
Facing anxieties and colonies a la lazaretto,
Leprosarium in Caesar’s hospice.
Before the judgment in wrath, fury and torture,
And time – kama pazam yesh leha?

Help Amira…

In patterns tawny and darkened,
Pounds, ounces, pennies box the mind,
Unsealed unlocked revealed from hearts hearth.
Triple cover blooms clouds between fields,
Dismal shrouding me, thy is the castle cacophony,
Tied to breed idolatry, scraps of foods in poverty,
‘tis some bravery that shames me.
Nothing…nothing…but miles to the cemetery, death’s vile estuary,
Differentials extinct between friend and foe,
To dire dusts we all depart in returning,
Overflowing passes requiems.
Grave thew’s in duels, magicians and mobs,
Charnel homes choked and crowded,
The open moor maw’s mewl shared souls
The box in bile vividly coloured,
Stain glass strained and blind,
Corpses worthy estranged in engage,
Faces abhorrence rearranged,
Visages of friendly foes fixate.

Thine is the repository! Thine is the tower! Thine is the castle!

Wasted shekels on broken hurts and hearts,
Disgusting guzzle’s gasps gulps avarice.
Crystal balls, crystal chandelier, Turkish marches feared,
The long nosed ballerina dances and riles,
In cruelties deadly disease.

Mistakes may require hours, Amira remarks,
Thus embarks my fatigue through fulsome fear,
Bewail I in misery motifs;

Stones in forever forgotten weep, shine’s digress,
Shine shekel savagery…for now…

But the silent dust rises in easterly eclipse,
Again…the night! Again and again and again…in night…
Drowsy thing deceiver amidst the dull deem,
The tamarind in tension arises,
From the Nemrut mountains to Kütahya fortress!
With charnel choices,
Defunct pazamnik me.
With swords and quills armaments,
Janissary agha ardency,
Haya basir tip haca giziroglu.

Sultan Mustafa, Tsar of all the Turks,
In dawn attacks swarmed the beauty matchless of Layla Kız Kulesi,
Under stygian clouds, in obsidian hoods,
Words spawn crepuscule stains swords in veins.
Kanuni Mustafa passionate zodiacs.
The battle at the dolomites peaks…

And there she reigns,
Switches and wires, toggles and liars, controllers and triggers,
Privacy and mirrors and one…single…button on surface mounts,
Pale as ponderous diorite.
In repetition without replete she is pressing and pressing and pressing,
Electrical cicadas and crickets buzz from hills to valley’s,
She presses and presses and presses…
From Vashundol to foul fells and abysmal,
Upon uncertain rests a murmur rustles in the betwixt beeps,
Implorations, supplications from stars and moon to giant Jupiter,
Until my name has cast its light upon magnesium mountains.
Less attuned voice she to the tambours,
Membranophone foe with variola visage.
The hills reciprocating repeats in outstretched outlines,
Two halves equal bisect by slouching Turks in force,
The magic works of brave prince warrior of old Kurkama,

Defending every utterance of his intercom.

Kız Kulesi:

Intercom kingdoms conquering Belgrade in 1501,
By Agha Kanuni and his beatific daughter beloved,
Sarıkız of Gure prevents, to purge pyres most maligned,
Riding a two-headed dragon to tumble towers,
Kaz with eyes of azure emeralds and ambered sorrel.
Intercom’s pallid peaked, vestal in the spire, wolved supine in silvers,
With djinn tricks and ticks flicks on switchboard buttons…

…and now, without further ado…

Darling Diana dragged to funerary pyre,
Sancta Maria tied to steaks in deep dark woods!
Blessed death divine!

And the devil of another compelled capacity waits…in the ruins.
Pearlescent sanguinity chained to monolith mountain sides,
Bosnian buzzards teetering in last circulations,
Aphid’s abhorrence in alt-right gauntlets!
Nitroglycerin forced through our thorax,
Argon coerced between lips,
Boron liquified, compelled through corpses…in…and out…
Sonderkommando descent down gas chambers,
In pits pyretics petalled and discarded.

Two words – five syllables,
Through vapour vista voids into reverie,
Rich clouds cumulous to refuse rain.
As bladders and bags cathetered,
Urinary excreta and the shaking chills.
My halo perishes in fogging miasmal crystalline,
Ache antediluvian agony terra firma annihilation,
Becoming one experiencing fasciculation.
Shaitan unceasing twanging wiry minds,
Amoebas remains of former argosy trusts to use,
The course of years in present pretence,
Of viscerally vinal ism’s infinitesimal.
I, Shd. spectamur agendo; shedding acts, drowning in effects,
Shd. etc. also ala Philology.

(Hands that cannot afford high gates at outsets in paratheses),

Not naught absolute’s,
Cruel scorpion Sigismundo in chains
Beneath the toad and venomous web.
Fortunate golden accordant of mortal arms,
Keeping the wolverine from work in progress.
Vurryspeshul; tranquil tinctures in ageless freedom fathoms,
Quarantine is fangless tooth,
A loveseat lair, Acheron imposition.
Illegible handwriting fells the cedars of Lebanon…

And in the final cut…

You are safe…
You are free…
You are beautiful…

And as far as anyone can tell, by sub-powers of speed enhanced – Lady Athena remains existent; vividus animans! In flight, suddens of appearance and disappearance in Europe alight. With bat wings grim to capture prey, she eased the dread of thanatophobia and viruses, an avid taphophile, attending the course of gravestone arts, epitaphs and digging tombs without using wings. Someone reported a great fire near London – the Highgate East Cemetery is still badly damaged in an arson attack by pyromaniac extremist in 2022. There is a cenotaph of a famous Sir…stolen


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.

©® Leila Samarrai


Beyond The Horizon

Slit asunder with lips tightened contempt,
Sigh scattered,
Unheard of purified distraught,
The charm of short sensuous frocks.
The shuttle weaves forever more.

With stitch set close, to pin fall full sail,
Needle swooping, I came swirling sewing,
The seamstress with middle fingered run thread red.
Dread derelict in the lost lapsed sewing dominion.

But that damn thing remained – that hole…
A perfect circle verging origination…
It’s sharp tip piercing creation,
And then, and then,
I staggered to my loom, a wolf dazed in den gloom.

Time bending enfolding in pleats,
Gardens in dire doomed burgeoning,
Under cunning hem horror coverings.
The shuttle weaves forever more.

Freed mind from cloud of constraint,
Assundered chains of all restraint,
Tremulous treading from glaring millennia.

Prescient essence lures me,
To the uppermost on the downhill Nile,
Oracle of Horus imbibes,
Elixir guidance to graves of Goddesses unknown;
Many bedridden, a curse aghast,
Lucid dreams beguiling past.

A thousand sounds of whirs yell towards the Sun.
Less than night and less than days,
Less than gone by histories haze.
The shuttle weaves forever more.

Come, you enraged evening tide with dreamers eyes;
Come, you intricate blade with fevers mind,
Embittered die, the stammerer’s cry;
Mystified soul,
Astonished anima,
Bewildered spirit,
Surround and confound me.

The strained neigh pummeling breaths,
The loped gallops fluently,
The nostril splutter snuffle sighs,
The pneuma riles in dharma drench delight.

In chaos unkempt, the upper room laments,
In the last line of tuneful twilight,
The unfinished work weeps infinite midnights.
The shuttle weaves forever more.

The larval squirms, centipede slithers,
Where I crawl creeping,
In the chasms of this slimy hell.

Dark riddles resolution shines pulsing diamonds,
Primeval elementals free from forms, in the dim,
Awaiting on forever to be found.

Tonight, what names with hooves,
Go forth beyond ranges?
Riding Pooka to Elysian shores.
Self-libertine transcendence deceit,
Sinister seeker bares no retreats
No master, no god’s, no eclipses in the fogs…
Only blood and dust, rusts and combusts.
The shuttle weaves forever more.

I am the traveler behind the unfathomable.
There is a glow in me that vanishes,
And dissipates into emptiness upon the floor,
Fame and vain!
Everything I love dies, shouting my name!

My search, my quest, my quarry obsessed,
Esoteric integers scribed scrawled in enigmatic texts,
Mesopotamic matrices in cubed recess.
Quivered hands to sand dune parlays…
It dissipates, it evaporates!
Menacing nothing behind astringent eyes!
Out damned hole!

Failure mocks my footfalls,
As it has a thousand souls before.
Lunacy laughter shudders from my spirit;
Kierkegaard’s last tactical response,
To such noxious nihility, negating me.
My shade shivers and trembles this nothing upon the floor,
And no stone will usurp the dancing door.
The shuttle weaves forever more.

©® Leila Samarrai

Photo Credit: “Heart Of Infinity”~ Anna Ewa Miarczynska


Hell (Extended)

My Hell is not here!
My Hell is not sallow, shallow or hollow,
My hell is mauled miseratics howling,
Choking crimson vowels,
Shrieking in the Shoah’s.
My Hell is deep, chasmal and plummeting,
Enclosing me, existential viles with no veils.

Life without lies, lacquers or illusion,
Eyes slammed closed to it’s dread,
Everywhere their window shutters fall dead.
Their portal pupil voids poltergeists,
Barren and bleak following my foot falls forever.
From time immemorial,
Primordial progeny from God’s,
Or aliens splicing asteroid angels with homosapien man.

The ancients foretold me this Hades,
The living logos from incarnate well spring,
Flowing in dire Dante Alighieri circulates,
Cascading in Paul Verlaine’s maudit fin de siecle.
This hell in me, tempered pyretic embering!
I am carbon complexity graphene hardening!
I am diamond from coal crushed conflagrations!
Annealing unfathomable in illimitable pits.
There is no absconding escapes into chants!
No evasion nor fleeing retreating!
No avoiding awaiting playful demons,
In noxious masquerade ball swirl swells.

Seven vices slices nine l’enfers cirques:
Audacious hubris aloof adamantine,
Avid avarice insatuality,
Invidious covetous malignancy,
Lecherous libido degeneracy,
Gluttonous hyperphagia voracity,
Supine in torpored languidity,
Fury birse in iris pyres.

Conversing with, Ovidius, Eliot, Sophocles, Dante, Verlaine, Euripides, Aristophanes…
Intoning incantations, bellowing of the beasts;
Black Eros, screams and whispers,
Shackled to splinters,
Ashtray course spheres in cinders,
Transposed and poisonous,
Frozen and venomous,
Promulgated purpose:
For now, for never, forever, for here!

My hell is not there!
I am singular Hades!
Soliloquatious Sisyphus!
Day gently into maelstroms,
And the mortal eye goes blind!

Everyday is mine!
Frozen horrific infinities,
Tranquilities dire demise,
The heavens crimsoning capsize.
A man who approaches silently, does not hide…
The knives…in his hands.

©® Leila Samarrai


I Walk alone

Now, I shall proclaim, hear and listen,

To the wrongful and to the righteous,

To a legion of locusts, larval and terrible.

I dimly dwindle to dread winter solstice,

Drowning in dust, dead embers and sanguine roses.

Under the sign of the black mark,

I signed the cross with hades scented canter,

Built by rotting fetid shrouds,

Tearing the fine filaments of Ghoulies’ lunacy.

A thousand sparks fissure and fall,

Ember to ash.

The serpent’s hiss echoes and prowls,

And in the eye a roaring lion,

The true majesty glory smolders.

Falling magma magnitude,

Penumbral phantom smoke in fungus mirror madness.

Oh insanity, oh mania, repletion rue and daisies rise anew!

Lyssa’s and Ophelia’s flowers,

The bouquet of Persephone rose, 

Crocus, violet blooms in asphodel meadow.

The destroyers came, rapt in flame,

Baring menacing sentencing.

The noose chokes the throat,

The sword aims at my heart,

Polished Philistine sting,

Betrayers in the shaded dim

.Depart thee oh accursed one!

(Father Lankester Merrin from our village Umm Qais 

old priest,

Its sun-shower’ruin Gadara,

Came before this power of the beast.

Through inverted flora of hades,

Through The Tree Of Zaqqum forests sighing

conjuror, druid, to battle!)

I am the heart of Mesopotamia,

The delights of damnation,

With perpetual inroads,

Molding the tombs of the ages,

Epochs cycle to cosmic ballet,

Revelations eternal unrestrained.

With double edge sword, with pig headed feather,

To execute fierce vengeance.

Voyagers unholy pyre, this wicked shining,

Of bliss descended…Arrival of damned perpetuity unended.

Where the acacia mirror fell,

The great red dragons legions storm,

Mad marches of Marduk,

Tiamat treads upon temples,

Baphomet’s boots boom pound and stomp innocents to ash,

Fiends of the black flame forbade,

Revenging revenants enrage,

Envy envoys emblaze.

Lies blithe Prince deceit,

The spirit of the world prowls,

No surrender no conceit,

And seeks only ruin in the viles.

Bile reek, lust, glutton rise,

Illuminating forms of darkness freezes.

An abbot and conjurer at wrought havoc feast,

Retch regurgitate foul disease.

And the ripper ascends ready,

To the darkened days of last storms,

Born revenants to rend flesh from screeching bone,

Atone not in brimstones abode.

Blessed be my hellish awakenings,

 From hollow vaults to murder cacophony.

There are no ends to this.

Worshipping in whisper,

Murmurs in fissures.

Soon, plume,

Pitiful spirits and the shambling dead,

From the Christian graves by the moon,

Will waver to the sarabande.

Skeletons sway with ease,

To dulcet tune sounds false doom.

Terror howls,

Tempter clarion clear sounds:

“I am things unseen!”

The murderer from times beginning came,

Cane at the door to a pit of a dream.

And the shrill on hell’s black coal sings,

The left hand prance off kilter,

You’ll see, of the deep sun that rings,

Courage as never loved before burdenless. 

In thick chains blackened and imponderable mass,

It whispers at me so near, unimaginable aurals:

“Ah! ha! ha! ha! See child, the cruel dawn erupts eternal!”

Binding bird and beast crucified, composed…

Hard struck with insolent inspirited instrument.

The Hammer thrown into the keen and hell ward flame,

With ash crimson-dashed thus obtained.

Clamorous beast caterwauling, just below surfaces,

In the flesh in excellent preservations,

Screeching and squalling, wailing and weeping.

Is not It bound to me, or I to it?

Did I summon it?

Was I the ravager to eviscerate inhabitants?

The slaughterer of Samaria?

The eradicator of villages through the centuries extended?

In black emblazoned skin the deceased point ashen fingers at me.

In gulps the gluttonous drown in grand indigestion.

There’s a pitch black aching heart,

In a dark, unlit sound,

A den of bedevilled mazes,

Commencing every night eternally.

As arises the Chalice!

As arises the Maiden!

As arises Saturn!

Saturnal’s radial radiational hate,

With hellish hues turns concentric.

Dark Prometheus ascends mockingly,

With a wry smile he knows,

How the fire to our use unfolds.

And I orbit the infernal thrall,

In circumferal twisting’s.

I turn again,

To trudge through aeon,

The ephemera,

The emphasis,

For the unknown,

 I ink hair-raising notes grand,

Last strands, last stands…

And I walk— I walk alone.

Photo Credit: Man walk alone in the post apocalypse landscapeby Marc Henauer


WELL, WE BOOKS GOT FEELINGS, TOO/Serbian Original Included

© Written by Leila Samarrai

Translated by Leila Samarrai

Photo Credit: Jonathan Wolstenholme, 1950 | The Surreal books

There was once a critic who became so famous for his criticism of Masterpieces of World Literature that the Guild of Acquisitors and Traders of the Phenomenopublic erected a monument to his praise and since then he has become very conceited – he undermined writers, by any means necessary thus abusing his honorable position. At the same time, he was a passionate reader, as much as he was a bad writer!

Then something unusual happened – angry books, criticized, without any guilt, decided, at least self-respecting one’s such as Mein Kampf and the Epic of Gilgamesh to refuse to be read by the critic, let alone be commented on.The Bible and the Master and Margarita and Der Steppenwolf as well as the newly composed trash commercial book for nerve relaxation. (“The Art of War”) closed their covers.

Magnificent literary masterpieces refused to be read by this “poor wretch”. Even the newspapers joined them. The written letters rebelled –

“On behalf of the authors of all the centuries you have satirized and tortured, we books have decided to embark on a path of outrage!”

And they clapped their covers.

The critic fell into a state of despair – he might not have had to read, but books were chasing him everywhere and jumping after him, slapping him, some would hit him on the head, falling from the highest shelves. And that backfired!This Poor Devil quickly fell into an unusual state – a mysterious, deep, unknown land of delusions and apparitions, opened new vistas for the Critic – at night he saw things that did not exist, he heard noises he did not know, he trembled without knowing why.He became overwhelmed with fear.

“That fear grows more and more and turns into terror. I feel a terrible discomfort, as if a metal hoop is squeezing my temples and my heart is beating as if it will suffocate me.

” The noose is tightening. They’re closing in on me! “He opened himself up to Boris K. the painter, while drinking in the cafe” Optimist

““Who’s closing in on you?” Boris K. looked at him over the rim of his glass

“Books”, the critic measured his interlocutor with a provocative andwith a cheeky look.

“I feel … I .. felt my power waning or … maybe it’s less emotional and more neurological.

“Boris K. seemed preoccupied with very serious thoughts. Finally, he said:

“I think it’s time for psychotherapy”

The critic stared stupidly, but managed quickly, so, suddenly, he began to laugh hysterically, making a toast for Boris K.Boris K. said:

“I assure you that your“ great matter ”has become a state issue known to the Minister of Culture, that books, long unread do not feel good, that they feel dusty and that it is important to start a joint session as soon as possible.

The therapy started badly. The books in Boris’s library were all convulsed at first by the rage that tore them apart, and they opened their mouths to tell him, with a torrent of insults that were coming, all he deserved; The critic could not defend himself. Despair gripped his throat.

“You don’t understand us!”, the books made crazy jumps all over the library.And we, the books, have flaws just like gods and people with all your virtues and flaws. Despite that, unlike you, we are immortal! I, The Epic of Gilgamesh, was carved into clay tablets and I am 1700 years old! I was a fresco of Sumerian folk life, written in the Babylonian language on 11 tablets! And you said I was bad because of the hastily carved 12th fragmented tablet. It was written so badly that the Uruk people could no longer tolerate the abuse of a book of poorly written style, so an unknown shepherd created a hero who would be able to oppose my cruel appearance. That because of me, the Persians destroyed Nineveh, precisely because of the 12 tablets that are more like the car’s mix of stolen parts, and that the false translation aroused the delight of the readers, many centuries after I was born.

“That’s right,” Kafka’s “Trial” became angry – and I have my flaws. I’m burdened, full of frustration, ripe for psychoanalysis.

“A few more fell off from the top shelf of Boris’ closet.

“And here, you mention us, the books of Paulo Coelho. You claim we live in denial because we don’t want to agree that we really aren’t too much! We hid from shame and anger … at the top of Boris’ closet, back of the boxes

“The critic smiled slightly. Boris K. lit a tompus. A light layer of shame with which every critic of high society entangles only the surface, the Critic now enjoyed that debauched game, amused himself madly indeed, in his element, realizing, complacently, that his opinion meant much to books.Then a deep peace reigned, a terrified and silent anticipation crept into the room. Boris K. tilting his body to one side, looked at the Critic obliquely, in the stiff attitude of a very cautious copyist.

“It’s time to talk to the Zen book for beginners. You have to know your inner selves so you can understand what it’s all about. I’m touched by the sincerity of the little immortals. Confess to me like I’m your priest – because there’s a secret.” You look to me like a man preoccupied with just one thought: “What will happen if they find out?”

Boris K. winked at him.

“Yes … I am moved by the books sincerity. Especially you, Gilgamesh, your sincerity touched me more than the nice words.”Gilgamesh bounced back and screamed desperately. Then he cried.”I criticized you with false enthusiasm, with enthusiasm, intoxicated with pleasure, thinking of nothing more, in the triumph of my glory, in pride for my success, in some cloud of happiness from all thatof adoration, of all that admiration … What I always admired about you, you, Mesopotamian treasure, I felt uncomfortably small and unimportant in relation to the boundless distances of the universe and the forces beyond my ability to interpret … “

Then a deep peace reigned, a terrified and silent anticipation crept into the room. Boris K. tilting his body to one side, looked at the Critic obliquely, in the stiff attitude of a very cautious copyist.When it was Kafka’s turn, he began to speak in a learned tone, solemnly as in the proclamations, smiling smugly and ending with one eloquent attitude:

“And I would never hurt you, Trial. Your neurosis is not for contempt but for praise. I myself wanted to write a novel full of repressed and forcibly suffocated rebukes that climb directly to the accusation, you knock into the rock of my inner cataclysm with a gnarled stick, in which hopes and expectations rose to the heavens and despair and helplessness fell to hell … yes … my inability … to write like that! Such a personality disorder is not to be underestimated.

“As the Critic spoke, a benevolent apostolic smile flickered on Boris K.’s face.The critic went from one book to another and sang a magnificent hymn to each one of them, in the patrician pose of the righteous, the penitent, the hidden envious and the benefactor.The books watched him calmly, uncomfortably calmly, from an unspeakably great distance, from the distance from which patients are observed at the nerve clinics, and then, quite suddenly, all the books fell on the Critic’s head, along with the shelf.

Boris’s room, which most resembled a ziggurat, resounded with the laughter of deceived books, alternately interspersed with their whispers”Whipe that silly expression on your face, you little poop!”

(Alternate end: As soon as his wounds healed, the critic went to Tibet, seeking enlightenment, as calm as a Buddha.

The books again agreed to be read by the critic, which he did, albeit a little suspiciously.)

2Leonardo Mikoye and Michael Brent Startup-Writer3 Comments

I knjige imaju dušu,

“Avanture Borisa K”

© Leila Samarrai

(priča je proširena i promenjena u engleskom prevodu)

(The story has been expanded and changed in English translation)

Beše jednom jedan kritičar koji se toliko proslavio kritikama remek dela svetske književnosti da mu Esnaf Akvizitera i Trgovaca Fenomenopublike podigoše spomenik u čast i od tad se silno uobrazio – nije birao sredstva kako da potkopa pisce. Zlorabio je svoj časni položaj. Istovremeno, bio je pasionirani citalac, onoliko koliko beše loš pisac!Tad se desi nešto neobično – razgnevljene knjige, iskritikovane, niti krive niti dužne, odlučiše, makar one koje su držale do sebe kao na primer Majn Kampf i Ep o Gilgamešu da odbiju da ih kritičar čita. Nekmoli da ih komentariše. Korice je zauvek zatvorila pred njim i Biblija i Majstor i Margarita i Stepski vuk, i novokomponovana trash komercijalna knjiga za opuštanje živaca. (“Umeće Ratovanja”)Veličanstvena remek dela literature odbila su da ih ih kritičar čita. Čak su se i novine priključile. Pisana slova podigla su pobunu, rečima: “U ime autora svih vekova koje si satirao i mučio, mi knjige, odlučile smo da stanemo na put javašluku!”I zapljeskaše koricama.Kritičar pade u stanje očajanja – čitati možda nije morao, ali knjige su ga jurile svuda i skakutale za njim, lupale mu šamare, poneka bi mu se obila o glavu, padajući s najviših polica. Tad je odlučio da se obrati Borisu K. za pomoć. a Boris K na to reče:”Mislim da je vreme za psihoterapiju”I ugovori zajedničku seansu…Knjige objasniše na seansi kriticaru kako ih ne razume. One imaju svoje mane i opterećene su – naročito Kafkin Proces koji je pun frustracija, zreo za psihoanalizu, ali tu su i još neki recimo – knjige Paola Koelja koje su in denial jer ne žele da pristanu na to da nisu nešto. Kritičar, razgovarajući s knjigom Zen za početnike, shvati da mora spozna svoje unutrašnje ja da bi mogao da shvati o čemu se radi.”Oduvek sam verovao u geslo leb bez motike”, zamislio se kritičar – izbegao sam jedno, a nisam se najeo drugog”Tad se knjige sažališe na njega, dohvatiše se i izudaraše ga motkama na mrtvo ime,nakon čega kritičar ode na Tibet, tražeći prosvetljenje, miran ko Buda.Knjige ponovo pristadoše da ih kritičar čita, što je činio, ne sa malim podozrenjem.


Time 2

All equally facing the sun but the fate of various …

There are those who sprouted where they were never sown

There are those who bravely sprouted but never got used to themselves

There are those who loved anything but anything on the high branch

And on top of that suffering, we didn’t even call them

Obsessed with the time that violently enters us

Does anyone remember a time that didn’t let them down.


Author’s Note on “Resurrection 2”

we live in the eternal Sisyphus loop of rediscovering our own stone, in rooms where broken chairs stumble and people with a blind spot in their brains humiliate come out of the dungeons of consumerism, resurrecting again and again to preserve that little bit of humanity

the invitations of Jerusalem were spent
faded desert caravans
cold Siberian singers
Kentucky chickens died
I don’t know what happened to reason

we are all Zombie Lazarus in maintaining decency in moving and pushing stones, lime in hair and souls in nose … and other abominations.
Narcissus drowned long ago in a beloved lake.

illusions, projections… what could not be realized was dreamed up, what was objectively allowed was created.

effort to effort, will to will
method, procedure, instruction and effect
a quick penny and finally a stake

clean bill and dirty laundry,
poisonous milk conclusions
four walls and a bastard, all that fever
and all around, emptiness, is hungry, exhausted

deadly health loans and lighthouses
the only thing left of the renaissance
forced union-voluntary spacing

and calling witnesses


Resurrection 2

© Leila Samarrai
Photo Credit: Rob Woodcox “Surreal-Photography”

Down beneath’s a mud murkiness
tender, have gone missing in oleaginous waters
from a black void ball,

And every person dead
docile, lamblike, yet disillusioned, peremptory face,
But endless now,

In my wake the abyssal gap
The room travels, the furniture travels rotten,
long, wet, rubbed planks travel.

Everything moves in the room:
nasty displays and masks move,
stumbling forward, heave a sigh free,

Innocent lunatics from the store,
then they bore humiliation
The bleeding pupil in the brain
as medals

Narcissus, he deserved that lake
With his amorous look
he drew shores

Sisyphus, he deserved that stone
Emerged a hundred years ago
Dead, they penetrated deep towards

They come back like Sisyphus to exploit an existential loophole
to expose that discourse, that scumbag

Blowing up varmints from the subtext, finished and exhausted
all gravity, discarded
all packages,

Burnt lights of Zion like phoenix eggs
hovering like the sound as each dead fell
fell, rise, dead, falter
dally dilly-dally
a wind quadruped, maddened then

of those who’ve died, exhausted beyond sense, in blood crawled about
Belaboured flame, the throes of dying around the infinity of the Crucified

IR – Nail, skull-shaped hill sanguinary the adytum
staples screws hairpins for bandits
Judas’ Mystery Dip at the Church Table
a fish sauce used by rich and poor alike.

I listened to breathing of firesteel
Reverberated as if like an onion layered star laughed
in the Street of Burnt Woman,
Neptune erupts

I rise from the dead tenebrous depths
Candle flickers, like packs of limping devils;
(the diablocojuelo)
Outcry moans. In the candlelight

“Lazarus, come forth.”

Blessed be, you, sublimely unreasonable
Among the reasonable


This Beggar’s Night

Like night, like death
be quiet, be apparition
grew near the nether region, from copper wires
at the bottom of the river, from the roots of the water
this wrath’s thrown to the ground
and brings a revolver to the temple
this anger defiled by isotherm primitiveness
this hunger of green blood; this night;
these combat boots, all horseshoes buried in the spine,
with breasts parted to the womb
this .. bumpy night; this night, this burping vampire
this …
a brothel night from the past
this caesarean section from the uterus of things
this desire for a world that is spit out;
four walls and a bastard, all that fever
and all around, emptiness, in the mud, among the pigs
through the seventh hole at the end of the flute
through rotten rags of sputum
this beggar fell into the mud quite fresh;
this night; this impossibility of light; her rotten rags
stained with violent shadows
her shod shoes – like open cemeteries
We buried her in that toga pulla and it’s all mud, and here are the rooms –
by which the brains in semidarkness rot.
these old scars, rebled
they did not spring in fear and trembling
They let Evil sing with owned words

Measuring life like measuring death
boiling wax from the nostrils of an enraged angel
a mountain that does not call upon god
but on Hamlet’s waiting.

Smoke and puking, a saturnine gob
muttering phosphorus
from fiery insomnia.
Firefly. Bursting. Eternally in existence



The eye of heaven (AllHallows)

Through the looking-glass

I see the suns passed away

So I parasite Moon,

In rye flour, soy and marmite

Love it or hate it,

Turn, turn

Try slathering on sauce

Praise the gods with scant ceremony

.Frightened and worriedis a breath

Moon. Cold-blooded

In the Sisyphus travelosity

Will chase away the contours from the marble stones

Where silent Sols burn between the rocks

impelled upward in the dark

If I attack the mirror

I’ll maim my tooth structure

I’ll eat the Suns, I’ll devour the Moon

I’ll tear to shreds tapeworms and flukes,

I’ll lacerate their shy bodies

Cornerless, vile corruption,

The scrape of distorted rhythm

The dryads sunbathe incensing the altars,

Onto high-heeled Vault of the Heavens

Animate droplets swept through onto a river’s flow.

A well-done job macabre

Alive, with glossy eyes

I will evanescence

On Dread’s blade

Of smooth mastery

Freeze in an enchanted night,

Looking someone else’s dead man in the eye.

Shivering in Selene’s moonlight

With fatal mouths gaping on

The eye of heaven will sovereignly rule its nights

I hate…

You,You and you and you

Though I love you all

For Allhallows.


The Esquimaux kiss

The word got drunk, in constant fear of death
she is realistic again
as a marble statue
mutilated by insidious claws
… echolocated that chiropteran organism,
  releasing a contagious breath.
As if It had once been…
corpse decomposition in the salivary ducts. – a gaping wound
How can they gape so much? Oh, rima oris
elastic moduli
ooh, wonder where it leads, through the trachea, buccal cavity ..
You could fit the carcass cavalry internally.
And what about that ornamental trimmings slime
of a pious monk curbing his sensual desires through contemplation
on an impure decaying body
his leaf-patterned undergarment covers with all that sticky mucus ..
the Suffering Servant, With the attire of a harlot,
her feet abide not in her Master’s house
had her hair and ears cut off, whipped in a state of nudity.
I was dreaming about metaphor,
The Esquimaux kiss.
“.. as sinnliche Scheinen … er ……. dee “
give me a break on the ästhetisch
things fall apart because they want to be left alone
I array myself, to extirpate the evil,
the prey slides into the glossa, 
to eke out a subsistence.
faced against the wind, my throat’s cut facing Qibla, 
Halal to all
In vain henceforth,
and yet rise up in the unknown powers
uff-da, blacksmith chains for the gods,
persevere in the mud
In unsuccessful attempts to endure the night
fear wielding its freezing slasher
you’ve done exactly the right thing every time and again.


Photo Credit:



Kafka’s Jar

In formalin aqueous the unciphered poets throat rests,

Reserved for crooning, preserved potential pretense. 

The gardener shapes the earth’s intervals,

With surgical gloves and gardening gauntlets.

Helios above, warms us when he finds us worthy.

The music box, densely lacquered wood delirious, 

Retches swarming wonders; crepuscule cicadas,

Bastioned by sandblasted desert squall,

Attested by twin anima’s.

Kafka slumber supine screams roars from burning bush,

Searing the Emperor of Troy sighs;

“Beware the Trojan goat…”

Telenovelas splashing waves of liquid pasts in transplanted organs,

Freaks from a bottled history. 

Small towns encirculate, 

Mountaineers, with murky ireful eyes, would wet their maws,

and the stygian lags of Cimmerian shade are permeating virally.

Onyx octopus tentacles dread spread eternally.

Kafka precipitates to emaciate.

I am still at the throat.

Kafka ululates Don Quixote’s tragedy;

Not misfortune by imagination but by Sancho Panza.

A decade after deceased formalin poet,

Tuberculosis throat takes Kafka too,

Deprivation of nutrition, starvation, inanition,

Kafka departs the coil.

Kafka in čavka, in the daw the obsidian woods rise horrible,

Two decades too early to prostrate at Shoah’s door

…And fall…in smoke.

Just as the formalin poet he enunciated…with notes.

An empty throat. 

Trachea enflamed unrestrained,

Formalin and Kafka deranged wail in the wasteland,

…Of pale riders on deathless equine.

Do they keep Kafka’s throat in a jar?

Like pickled cucumbers, carrots and beets brined?

Or formalin in formaldehyde, pharynx, larynx, thorax and vocal chords.

Jericho trumpeting blares billowing,

The seven Kafkaesque howls.

Destruction and fire, wrought iron spirals,

Linguistic deconstruction detest,

Kafka crawls caress, donning intergalactic invertebrates.

Kafka ever awaits at the closed doors of terror,

Apocalypse armies annihilate across barriers,

Zombie carriers, mummification legions,

With rotten fish flesh flailing,

And snipers in Cathedral spires scoped.

With the abomination of these desiccating defences,

Contemptuous angular jagged edges,

A new world holocaust arises,

Coronal coronation of viruses.

And Kafka beetled is king,

From within his diaphanous jar.



It would be romantic… to imagine…

I was an unusual personality

In which two opposing cultures, religions,

Traditions were united,

In the collision of the East and the West

Unknowingly, through the veins, the verses overlap,

And the eastern stories are running.

It would be exotic to say, like Leo Africans

“I am a son of the road, and my land is my caravan.”

As such, I define the antithesis of the tribe

I do not belong to any city, nor any path,

nor any end or beginning

Nor I come both from Europe or Arabia

Nor I belong to anyone.

I’m a stranger among people,

I’m a stranger who is hiding in the shadows of the night

I tumble between the walls, whose fear cannot be rid of,

For I have come to the utmost memory,

Until the end of mystery, in a life that is a crowd

Of sad and tragic stories, not one, but more lives

Without leaving apart,

And what I write is just a hidden choice

To appear on the canvas of creation.

I’m walking eras and worlds, through space,

As in a dream.

I stumble like a ghost in a stormy night somewhere,

Trapped, confused in the darkness of the human dream.

My solitude lasts three thousand years.

This is the place between the worlds,

The place in which everything merges

What is otherwise separated

It would be expressive to say ..

But what am I psychobabbling about?

I’m rambling again, aren’t I?

I thought my secret’s were bigger than the clouds

I had never stepped on

I laughed and was







I had my private double, a lunatic

Whom I could show

For the show

Restrained by my unprofitability,

With the halter embroidered

Of small guilt and great remorseI pass by you

o immortal gods with a million hands

I nocturne by the walls from which the shadows had escaped

Let ‘face it, I’m a misfit


Squirrelly meshugge

(Do you know … sometimes the morning cries in fear that…it will never dawn)



The otherworldly letters I received from Charles Baudelaire on the nights of August 20 to August 27, 2000

Mon petite marquise,

I see you found me somehow. You have a long reach…
your heart is truly aching to be heard and mine constantly aches in search of its songs longing to be heard.
This sounds wonderfully challenging my petite marquise and I am eagerly awaiting these bountiful re-words 1st glanced upon inspirationally shared reminder of your gift’s surpassed rarity of achieving one’s goal’s of inclusion’s all encompassing uniqueness of percerving life’s ongoing reflective self empowerment’s abilty’s unto others seeking solaces redemtive fully understood compassionate mysticisms carefully laid before them in hopes of seeing someone’s mirrored imagery right behind them backing their own stories no matter what stands in front of these attempts to be in the moment’s where just knowing someones guiding the hand you’ve held is all that truly matters.
Please lets begin chapter’s one’s onwards in and throughout your book of knowledges page by page turn of events.

I will maintain a 2 hour window daily throughout my work week in offering any guidelines acceptably sent back and forth between us until you are completely agreed upon its fruition of beliefs deemed suitably acceptable with your ideas original intents.
1 in the morning before with the 2nd when I arrive back in the Hotel de Lauzun, 17, quai d’Anjou usually before 9 pm.
And then the weekend’s like this one past will be my own recuperative times narratives focusing solely on my own similarly poetic journals of rediscovery and literally letting go of what needs of mine allow me to by penmanships sinking like a stones repeatedly cast 1st 2nd and 3rd if my own needs are not met.

And please, if you have any ideas of how mine could be more easily understood in the manner of fluidity I am completely open and have been eagerly waiting for creatively intensifying its representantions effects?

votre ami dévoué, Charles


Please lets take it a much more carefully paced assistance this time in hopes of recognizing eachothers needs in hopes of inspiring one another’s creativity rather than stifling each ideas potential.
I know I over stepped my bounds in offering assistance immediately and then having to step back from being overwhelmed with my inability to realistically carrying a weight of responsibility that was in no way meant to be cruel in doing so rather an admittance of my artistic hearts reaching out to help another’s but then breaking each time mine weakened by years of being broken itself by over 30 years of disappointments reoccuring that it simply could not bear your disappointments in mine as well.
I have thought regularly of how you were doing but was scared of upsetting you again by visiting your poetry grave in the Cimetiere de Montparnasse

Engaged with ones
Beckoning sky’s kissed
Encaged with suns
Reckoning lies missed

Hunched over gatherings
Along freed loved fences lengths
Bunched clover, rather brings
A strong need of defenceless strengths

Hunger urged
Backboneless cuts
Wonders purged
Lack shown less guts

Souls scared of
My poetic responses
Tolls, dared love
“Show ethnic free nuances”

Woman obsolete
Through bliss Am I
No man robs, though elite
To this damn try

A known readjustment’s
Inconclusively thunderous applause
Alone we had lust meant
“Grin on whose give under us collapsed laws”

Reducing this beliefs brethrens
Clevery lasting laid upon hand’s
Seducing kiss, beneath heavens
Everlasting praid up on lands

Unproven life’s free sentence
To try hopeless dependency’s
One proven knife’s repentance
To my “hope less tendencies!”

Souls scared of
My poetic responses
Tolls, dared love
“Cry no ethnic free nuances “

Embrasse Josseline pour moi

Ma petite marquise,
Incredibly well pictured moments of humanity’s inhumane devoutly followed faith within their encouragable society’s abilities of poverty’s eagerly sense less concerned with entrapment than freely offering kindnesses returns.
How beautifully choreographed these rarely heard rhythmic beats fall from your uprisings literary thought as if to invite and invoke penmanship’s voice to dance across your tongue of a spoken word longing to heard from your song of choice.
Ok my maîtresse Josseline just called and is on her way over.
I’d like to pick where we left off when next we converse ?
Yours truly prefers to stay anonymous Charles
p.s Your secretly sought after poetry’s portrayals turn abouts, opportunity’s beliefs best suited points shared beliefs are offering in this our written life’s transfigurations contracts placed in times accordance of rebuilding these once broken doors of opportunitys that we now stand for by reminiscing poetically of be fronted justices cause to unite peacefully before the those forgotten within reveal themselves rejuvenated by our rights left uncharted perhaps by their own fears blinded efforts to remember love’s potential as well.

p.s I need a loan, My petite marquise.. no more than 200 francs. My lucrative publishing contract is just around the corner, but the situation I find myself in is too difficult to turn to Caroline .. my mother has always been sad about my inappropriate behavior. Oh, what a grief!


Mon cher ami Charles,

Pour reprendre les propos de mon cher ami, Mansa Musa, the ruler of West Africa and the wealthiest man who has ever existed la meilleure réponse à cette question est sans doute “non”

I cannot imagine your monumentally struggles, engagement within to be heard without suppressions ever listening suppressive fears of you and your message’s whispering scream of awakening society’s deafened sense turning a blind eye whenever freedom’s mentioned hope of for all literally scares those self descriptive elites from their point of views never ending nightmares readily changing wills of casting their first stones throne high archy based solely on being dead set against those daring their set in stone’s refusal to be held responsible for holding back free wills neverending dreams to not let go of your hopes to inspire others

La Petite Marquise

Ma petite,

Though my efforts to change societally influenced attitudes struggles with the minutest comparitive of yours,
My own similarity as a small part in our spiritually orated potentialities to change today’s water making attempts of flowing idealisms, recreates its intoxicating effects seen right before our eyes always half cupped optimistically looked up on as sideways towards life’s hand in hand journey to never look down on others as I have, simply because I can.

My selfimposed state of hell which dominated my life’s neverending hell’s of isolation’s keenly placed prison states of thoughts terrifying thoughts into continuing my torture for that 30 years sentence of solitary confinements nightmares of never allowing me to wake from its steely barbed wired fenced in and off from others grasping direly to the hopes of me breaking free.
Since then self admittedly starved to bone of sunlights promise of a new day only long for even a moment’s touch of any sensation other than darnkeness preludes of fearfully returning me into its waiting crushing paralyzing me with fears presences always seemingly lurking in its unbeknownst shadows of opportunities once had and lost by mistakes neverending conclusion of its lifelong sentences of documented guilt!
My greatest fear is of returning to madnessess reign of terror. My guilt which I have spoken of and finally faced after all those years of running from myself left scars so unbearable to let me live my feeble attempts to secretly bury them within myself represents drove to the brink of a madness so indescribable in its descriptive unforgettable unfathomable certainty of literally a fate worse than death.
Blacking out was my only saviour.
Leave me alone?!”
And BANG !!
I hit the floor, Josseline heard the crash, came out and stayed with until I came out of my reverberating position on the floor and looked up at her wondering where I was while convincing her that as I went to get a broom to clean up the mess I had made

“Everything is going to be alright!!”

My thrashing up and down on the bed as each time I bite a small piece of my tongue off while spitting out flem and turning red with heat and eventually waking up to see the fear as I stumble around the place mumbling incoherent words of confusions hinted immently waiting dementia until I finally come out of it completely the next morning.
My entire fate is in the hands of the spirit that has guided me since I was 4 years old.
I cannot take any opiates due to my elongated method of returning for increasing the dosage to its point of no return.
I had been an alcoholic since finding its temporary numbness of childhood tears since the age of 12 years old.
My addictive highs led me lows of adjoining suicidal thoughts that have confirmed over and over again its waiting for me if still interested? Time is the only valuable boundary I humbly ask in need of your freely offered suggestions of your invaluably creative words of art.
I am in a completely and never more happily challenging at times it seemingly all consuming lover’s relationship.
Josseline’s love literally saves my soul from it’s own innate self destructive longing to write an obituary’s requiem of what could have been if only….
I need her needs of my undivided minds attentive states of varying unwearied readiness within its ever changing illusions placed before me so its after effects of realizing what I have either accomplished unknowingly or let’s it been known of her concerns about the lack thereof.

When I make and then mistakenly turn away his guidance of peacefully admitting its making of ammends to my obviously showing after effects while incomplete denial from my part of and in its promised never again reoccurrence is suddenly rebuked by my guiders compliance of asking its presence temporarily depart until I figure things out for myself.

I now have no where left to run, but the faces of those asking for help and my cowardice in my eagerness to say yes and my delays in doing so after in realizing.
I once again have overstayed my bounds of realistically abilities to do so.
I wanted to be your hero and foolishly thought my hidden weaknesses would somehow continue your belief in me as one.
Truth’s cannot be suppressed until realiziations of my obvious unlimited limits for me personally has become better than ever as my escaping personationations impostering as unto e arrogance.
… to have any affect of suturing my torn souls inevitable agenda of literally do or madly face a fate worse than death.
Madness itself.
I finally faced this hidden secret that I too had for my own sanity erased from my psyches memory.

gros bisous,


This is a compassionate cry from one spiritually connected poetic heart to another hoping yours can remain so in hearing mine cries out for yours but is beaten to point where penmanships sails have set in motion a dawning darkness whose forever changing destructive forces seemingly strengthen in due course their abilities of altering our creativily shared hopes well designed horizon’s reaching out with both our hands but all ways seemingly just out of in doing so.

Ma petite!
How beautiful is and was your true intent all along when seen as yours of a truly reflective heart in search of an artist’s longing to be finally understood in her search perhaps to understand why she has been given this gift to share yet is burdened by her fears that no one else will be able accept its offer from her based freely on their acceptance of what they themselves may or may not be ready to accept?
Truly I am honoured and humbled upon your gracious and inspiring belief in my abilities.
And yes I believe ours could be an ongoing life’s enhancing looked forward daily challenged and faced together separately and yet their for each other whenever in need of guide in either penmanship or suddenly awakened by one’s momumental poetic moments of need and in to be spurred on by an encouraging word to continue its ideas potentiality through to seev this time and hence each and every time from this and that moment on where it takes you and myself as adventurers in rhyme and who will join us in our soon to be fabled journey.
I had awoken in hopes of perhaps sharing with you my thoughtful throughought the night thoughts inspired acknowledgement of your inquiries and was eagerly about to see if they actually rang true with yours?
However yours far exceeded any hopes I had dreamt of.
I was hoping though I could continue to share these with you?
Were you pertaining to how man’s uniquely shared abilities of attaining the highest forms in spirituality can only be attained upon the realization that he is the sole proprietor in this inherent ability to lose himself on this neverending search for why he seems to be eternally a loss while continuously questioning why this time he is always within himself lost
Please accept this first acceptance of another’s shared guidance with mine that each beautifully orchestrated language has its uniqueness that transcends translations attempts to clarify when an audiences sought after idealism’s transcending ability is found in their own lifes search to be found and finally understood in at times even one stanza or well worded soliloquy.
Beauty truly is in the eye of the beholder and those truly seeking beauty, from what I’ve seen in your gift will truly find it themselves through you when they themselves cannot put to paper what so artistically yours continues to help them grow through and along with your ongoing growth as an artist.
Thank you again as the spark of intrigue can ignite the flames of hope’s peacefully offered warmth through its well lit darkneses of inspirationally shared interests and yours in mine calmly and reassuredly has added fires to the flames.
At the age of 49 I have experienced 5 physicians shared diagnosis of separate nervous breakdowns.
4 I kept to myself out of fears of being returned to the this life hospital.
I had a rare reaction to my addiction to opium which only intensities my isolation’s effectiveness to separate and destroy.
Please take care and be reassured that I am earnestly looking forward to our continued conversations


(a few nights later)

Long story short…

The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde was written on a six day cocaine binge, and I … I dream of hanging on a pipe, I am in trouble and in distress, madam. I would praise anything that is immoral, unhealthy and disgusting.
You must be tired of my deep self, full of mystery, indefiniteness, horror, dark and vague forebodings.
You are but a disorganized and scattered multitude of images and labels that get their meaning and harmony only in the imagination of the creator and thus turn into his subjective reality. Your poetry is a big scandal.
See what you made me do!
You, demon, martyr and damned. I hope they will deny you access to the church. You are a monstrous mongrel, a lying, ruthless, self-confident black Venus, which I turned into a beautiful girl.
I even corresponded with you!
If only you had sent me 200 francs …
If you’d like to correspond about YOUR official poetry with your picturistic fears of entering oneself into your bravely revealed systematically choreographed attempts to destroy what no man can or ever will. – and that is the eternity of MY moment! – let me tell you something:
Artistic freedoms challenges to and for the state to change itself through the blunt force of face to face recognitions of what was and continues to simply because the perpetrators of these horrendous crimes against humanity can.

Revelation is feared
And has the power
Of fears abilities
To change with
Or face the inevitable
Fear of change alone
In being left behind

I would like to begin sharing this voice”s guidance for and with you again but there MUST BE SET BOUNDARIES OF REALIZATION that,( if you Google (Do not think that I do not know what it is! Your deity!) the affects of long term use and subscription withdrawal from opiate) am basically rebuilding and constantly attempting through seemingly never ending day throughout night’s of rigorously reconstructive emotional psychological physical social therapeutically exhaustion.
It reached the point of a tartive dyscanatia that required speach therapy at our this life hospital, this life, this life is a hospital! and which also as you could imagine made most aspects of my healing attempts even more difficult to achieve any sense of securing more than temporary states of even the smallest momentary victories .
If I hurt I am very sorry and embarrassed by my panicked immediate uncertainty of what I had shout and could even do if my worries became a reality in your written words state(d) unrelenting spiritual and psychological torments?!
….and I can only hope you understand in your heart what mine needs to continue healing itself’s work from within?
I’ve mentioned this before I believe?
It’s make or break for me
Right now!
I cannot go near opiates having devices a taken like candy’s habitual problem whose nightly next seconds of nearly losing my mind has me more scared of them than any pain itself.

Charles, 200 fr


I am sorry to see you are in need of help.
But I am at the point in my life where I realize if I am hurting myself in being there for anyone else’s pain and suffering I truly am not offering anything other than the temporarily shared illusion of the ability to do something I simply cannot.
I did not realize you attempted to contact me 2 days ago with honestly the words of which I stopped at rather than continuing on to your messaged request having sensed my heart breaking in knowing I can’t be there for yours.
I am not a mean woman a coward or acting out of cruelty’s turned deaf ears to your cries Charles.
I am simply – bankrupt

This is a compassionate cry from one spiritually connected poetic heart to another hoping yours can remain so in hearing mine cries out for yours but is beaten to point where penmanships sails have set in motion a dawning darkness whose forever changing destructive forces seemingly strengthen in due course their abilities of altering our creativily shared hopes well designed horizon’s reaching out with both our hands but all ways seemingly just out of in doing so.
Take care of your unbeatable heart Charles in knowing the connected rhythms within will never be without.
And when I saw my potentiality’s moment of a thunderously conclusive readjustment of their theoretically unproven life sentences of hopelessness self dependency’s .
I made my supposedly inconceivable mad dash for freedoms inspirationally welcoming arrival within and unless it was to close another chapters reassessment from my points moments by moments others well self preserved moment by moments prospects for healing a well intentioned turning of the pages never to be looked backed upon refusal’s of cant you see it in their eyes kind of sorry of story’s magnitudanalunly accepted acceptance of all those phases out ofv cant and be looked down or back up on!
If I could offer you one last peace of advice if you’re interest me has wained, as I too am lost at times in our mutually read uncertainty’s meaningful offered reassuring words of encouragement’s revealing worlds a part of mutually acquired wisdom’s approach to situationally associated uttered states of reflective confusions.
Even going back to our originally documented conversations there was always this taste of disolutionments challenges put into perspective when finally understood upon expectations shared narratives of concern.
In no way let go of your darknessess lights of rarity’s survival until you are good and ready to do so!
I wrote all years to stay alive
And now after I decided it was time for my own retrial and errors of sorts.
I am ready have recognized the want and need to feel alive at last again!
I at one time though when it was deemed the rambling in my irrefutably non sensical manner of tongues my message that not only would seemiglly never seem get across to any included within my message to the masses
I would begin to actually heal myself by temporarily bearing this burdaning overwhelmingly proportionalized burdensome crutch of unsustainable nonsupportive reliability
of living for others in attempts to heal myself.
But honestly I found this an exhaustively neverending source mutually noticed and possibly neverending seemingly unbeknownst needless needing to my hands) to one’self’s washing of my hands thoroughly misrepresented nonreconcilatory turning aways from truly coincidentally running into a person of interests to you m.
For talking simpletalk with in away that truly never lasted for more than its temporarily true version of oneself self revered state of importanc’es needs of recognition at the very least
It was until I took a step back to see the worlds around and see out right longing.of the people of non- coincidental opportunistically offered simplification of life’s truly treasuring day by day conversations of others individually motivating peoples of interests.
If you help even just one similarly outfitted one as such.
The wealth of this treasuring inner peace’s Unheard of mirrors.the souls pricelessnesss by looking in to the windows thie once selfendulgent magnitudally lost moment in time while receiving the resways within distances evechainging .


Madness is a state of mind
Frightening in the eyes of and never eyes upo of the beholder’s viewers like you .
And make no mistakes that all imperfections are perfectly situateted one on one nonconversational right in front the (wo)man
If you were able to work for you, Charles!
And you’re
Take care of ….

Ma petite marquise,

Tears are flowing with your honoured acceptance of my presence in your valiant struggle mon petit marquise
Thank you
Good night as you have made my dreams come true with its validity”s confided and never before so confirmed belief in from someone whose talents I have never seen before and look up to as my possible mentor of truth’s power in poetic written form.
I have never been so proud to be a part of a team.
Rest though I am so excited is in need.
And I will thoroughly read your letter in a better light when my dimming mechanism is as rejuvenated as me in this brand new light of days ahead to come.
I think the time has finally come for me to accept that I am dead.




(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 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.


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.