Diogenes wasted palm holding my candle’s hem

Masters recognition by night past the walls;
Bowing down the immortal gods with a million hands
I made pirouettes of rash ballerinas
“Are you here, a company of souls so remote?”

May’t not displease you, a mantis dance with the bodies of a waltz
If a morning cries in fear that it will never dawn?
Backwards, graffiti painters in colour refugees –
At the needle’s eye let the trail go on.

And as the instinct of the eternal harlot along the Danube shores,
To guard the sun is hiding its freckles
Thus scrutinised by such a stretched forth flames
Diogenes wasted palm holding my candle’s hem


Between me and the monster (Expulsion)

Behold the corpses, with the human living tissue
Who implants their brains, in the human molecule
Behold the dead cell remains dead

Thus multiplies unusually imitating the human immune system
Near to the early stages of metamorphosis
And those hidden knives of deceit

the hellish butcher was as the hellish butcher a just man,
Its stumbling cave dweller was so benign,
And of brain cutting their cingulum

Blindly feels everything up in the darkness
Out of their eyes along with the catacombs
Surrounded by whirlwinds of dread and howl

Evil people, this way, that way, this was how I lay,
Alone, In black wreckage,
Now from the creak-opening and now
The decrepit mouse-coloured door,
Peeling and crumbling.

The first Creature caught me.
When we that black wreckage encountered,
Who came beside the battle not to disembark
The ship of illusions between me and the monster,
Gazes at us

Thus the femininity was no cause for hysteria
By grotesque calls were repeating themselves who seized
An unbending pride, and cried out, “Rather the end horror of it!”

Maybe they’ll cut my throat during sleep?
No, I must do this myself for them to mask their existence,
And I would liken an insane person
And they would become one more victim the richer,

Those who know of the human mind more than
Before my death,
Then the further development of technology
Of destruction of Man
Would ensue, right there
Near the end of the century,

When we a company of the great demons terrify
Who curse every person who manages to force them out
Gazed at us, out of his or her body or to fight back.

Behold the evildoers, with the soft, muddy picture
Whose image comes into focus and a zoom-in
Behold for ten seconds or so on a movie screen.

On the threshold of the creation
Of whoever it might be.


The Stark Empire

Even as the flame of snows things is wont
becoming avalanches of oblivion
to stark empire of blank stares only,

So likewise was it there
a pan flute of weeping reeds
to die in fields from point to heel.

Who is that one who writhes fingers
burning the house,
more than the absence of everything
Returns indoors a redder flame –

To that one grapple, from jag to jag
and non-resurrected bodies
If you will have me a flood in a drop of rain
down there along that naked aeons, compliment me,
so that death may be delayed.

Flames fall, star parachute
I stood even as the friar who is beholding many herds
a non-lizard star that will
bow the tail and disappear between
surprised fingers.

The dolorous no,
my eyes will not cry
nor will this mouth weep for terror


The Ghostwriter. Poetic Justice

My voice like a dove was offered in alms
alone by laying the fitting framework,
well-hired spirited, hand-lending backups,
by not chasing dreams’ dead end, but rather
cherishing its priceless moments along
the well-penned lines of existing in it.

A cued thought in my vocabulary
processing attempts as each learn by heart,
unwavering flash enters my mind
with this blinding thunderous echo.

I craved for an old friend to rise from birth
as one throughout the day to shine today,
and then when the house was calling out for
my unfolding of its door, it welcomed me
with engulfing reports of which music
from the past I knew somehow guiding me
into today’s reminder that I will
be yes no matter what tomorrow brings.

I can in the end close my eyes in ease
for being laid in break, dreams without dread;
wait not for dawns to view whistling birds dream
in sync with a mine of better days break,
for all of those to watch us done as one.

At hand, want of a poetically
rhythmic test to pledge in well-penned form.
In our daily healing needs, if ever
we hope to have our hands to carry torches
of hygiene throughout our life’s picked foot race.
This gift though will not fade as hands brought
forth before, through colourful times the past
has shown. Starts always with One’s leading show.

My own path is not my own path, be it
a humanist artist in a sprite’s form,
or if health’s aid would reveal its wisdom’s
recognition when proudly sought after.
Whenever its shelters are offered from
thoughts of heaven, let their presence be known!

The most fared ally of tyranny on
loud voices is the ghostwriter. My words
of conversion will be heard by those meant
to join mine poetic-justice-journeys.

© Leila Samarrai
December 9th, 2019, Belgrade


Turning your torture into a nest!

Turning your torture into a nest!
Oh, yes, we are separate worlds
(Always do the same
and Janus, you bastard!)
And this is what draws me,
from Hell or Paradise, is it?


Passion, now taste your deception!
Nemesis, crossing paths,
in the beginning, warming warriors
to be broken into rocks.


And you see the different times
when I saw before and now and future,
although, of these, only in time I saw one.


As I admire the setting sun,
I condemn two loves,
two different old mares.


I love the annoying elegance
of the knife inserted


Give it up, though!


The futility of such an
endeavour, Musketeer No. 2
(whose name I don’t even remember)


It’s obvious!


Late in your youth,
you lost your sensibility
and saw it only
as a technical mistake.

© Leila Samarrai
December 9th 2019, Belgrade


Editor: David Dvorak


Nascency, Leila Samarrai

I sheep-lead and I rod-strike,
I do not fire-scorch, I suppress
between the nightshade and the daylight,
through hearts and stones, to Thanatos and Hymen.
About a law of merged vessels,
the invention of Prometheus is so tempting.
The position can be inverted
and the Earth were
and the sky were
and stone by stone were,
I’m a sculptor
in Aphrodite’s hands.
I beg,
I curse,
I hug time
to run backwards.


Editor: Obinna Eruchie





Eternal echo of my death

Lips of self, riddled with glory
In the theatre
Lips yourself with Nereid [1]
and her jewels.
Lips myself, as I wander Knossos [2]
the head of Taurus [3]


I hold bull’s head
claw and
The Knossos maze


I utter the dream: Forgiveness ..!


I pray for Crippled Giant
I pray for Predators
I pray for
mace metal


I am stunned by the dawn
There were piles of chambers
Tangled ball of string chamber end


For Theseus [4]


They’ll carve me shore

They’ll catch up with me
cannons and black sails
And revenge Aegean [5]
made by Helena [6]
God athlete and thieves


I’ll paint me clouds
How I laugh absently at sea


As I daydream on the Palatine [7]
As I hunt the eagles on the rock boards
While riding ponies on Skyros


The warriors of the Amazon Ripper
Hero – ox
High seas the Dead Sea


And I’ll continue to hear
Eternal echo of my death



1. Derived from Greek Νηρειδες (Nereides) meaning “nymphs, sea sprites”, ultimately derived from the name of the Greek sea god NEREUS

2. Knossos was an ancient Minoan palace on the island of Crete (an island in the Mediterranean Sea). King Minos, famous in mythology for his wisdom and as a judge of the underworld, named the Minoan Kingdom after himself.

3. In Greek mythology, the Minotaur (/ˈmaɪ.nəˌtɔːr, -noʊ-/ MY-nə-tawr, -⁠noh-,[1] /ˈmɪn.əˌtɑːr, ˈmɪn.oʊ-/ MIN-ə-tar, MIN-oh-,[2]/ˈmɪn.əˌtɔːr, ˈmɪn.oʊ-/ MIN-ə-tawr, MIN-oh-;[3] Ancient Greek: Μῑνώταυρος [miːnɔ̌ːtau̯ros], Latin: Minotaurus, Etruscan: Θevrumineś) is a mythical creature portrayed in Classical times with the head and tail of a bull and the body of a man[

4. Possibly derived from Greek τιθημι (tithemi) meaning “to set, to place”. Theseus was a heroic king of Athens in Greek mythology. He was the son of Aethra, either by Aegeus or by the god Poseidon.
5. However, the Greek word “Aegean” simply means the “wavy coast.”Traditionally, the sea was known as Archipelago which in English meant the chief sea
6. Helen of Troy in (Greek mythology) the beautiful daughter of Zeus and Leda who was abducted by
5. Borrowed from Middle French palatin (“palatine”), from Old French, from Medieval Latin palatinus (“imperial, imperial official”), from Latin palatium (“palace”).
6. an amazon is a big, strong, warrior-like woman, someone who reminds you of the mythical Greek women-warriors, the Amazons. Describing someone as amazon can sometimes have a negative tinge. … But amazon can also be an admiring term for a statuesque, athletic woman.


Editor: David “Flipsider” Dvorak


Gold winner – poem “Dervish”





I had learned the secrets of the universe
from the manuscript itself,
and had felt the tones in the best of my fingertip muscles.Now, wasn’t it Music who went to the desert to know…
that, in the wasteland of life, here,
under this tree may my body be as the one of the Savior,
and may the menace itself visit me,
to engender within me a sacred tone…

He uses a ney. A Crooked Pan.
a ney..Karghy tuiduk, an instrument of wind.

And a Crooked Pan trapped me on the spot with her first tone
in the vortex where music enters the man
and disappears inside of him somewhere.

And I, Dervish, played the instrument made of hollow reed,
skillfully shuffling his fingers across the ney holes.
It was a round-up of the movement of music dug deep into the rhythm.

I danced swept by the accord of divine forces
streaming from “the spheres” –
and within the Dervish’s song through the typhoon,
I spun around faster and faster in an unexpected manifestation of the universe,

to perceive, through the binding
of the heavens and the earth,
a universe of love and a different godly principle,
hypnotically repeating “Masnavi, Masnavi” pushing close to a hallucination.

– The spiral is the evolution of the circle.

Transcendental, indeed. It can be performed with an echo. Oh, how sonorous, Orpheus.

Ah, I felt that the spiral is open for my musical ears.
I must continue! I must!

All the way to the devil’s tail! – the scream no longer slumbered in the throat, and my face went black and blue as if both tar and wax were poured on it.
the spiral is the evolution of the circle – even though he was still speaking, a force of dead nature! It was clear to me now, this Dervish who was miles away… somewhere close to the horizon, leaving only the memory of his wild stare and …oh, and… I cannot forget what I have just heard… ah, I would never forget! And some of it is already gone!

this strong tonal ace to win in a cruel and uncompromising game of destruction for the purpose of creation.

– Well go on, then, finish it! – I grabbed the Dervish’s shoulders desperately – Finish it, I want to hear more! Until the end! You barely played anything at all, so why did you stop playing? I want you to play all the way to the coda, do you understand me? All the way to the devil’s tail!
– Look into yourself. This is where music is hidden.
Do not despair, I shall come again and rebuild all of those ruins…
in a century or two because I have something important to do.


look back in laughter

she remained in Belgrade too long,

no less than twenty-five psychopathic landlords

during her ordeal.

money-laundering rednecks, Nazism at its best

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 my poetry book

. ‘Cultist bastards! Out!’ ‘Damn gargoyle, I will kill your twitchy ass with my bare hands’

The Dark Will Understand…


inconsequential, look back in laughter


all of the dinosaurs resting in me,

being revived in that final clench of humanity

for me

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


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’.


look back in laughter


o 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


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 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 laughter


– Give, 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, sleep

in 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?


look back in laughter


No apartments here The meter was running.

Once was a beautiful woman,

brought onto Caucasus from Egyp

t 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, thick hair and plump lips.


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 Selima

the slave-woman of Allah

Selima was like a bamboo

while a squealing breath of disgust escaped,

a breath of a justified EW!


just look back in laughter


A bunch of psychopaths which I 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.


just look back in laughter


Not a single NOBODY.

Nobody and somebody.

Nobody there.

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.


One day you’ll look back in laughter


Once Upon a Time in Serbia

PCP = Party of Conscientious Prosperity
A stone’s throw from a large river,
The Communist-Capitalist Conjunction
a paradise on earth was built.


just one big spiral going from one extreme
to another only to stop
in the middle.

The Rationally Humanist Party

becoming clerks or venal top dogs.
We strongly recommend a bird brain

Coalition SERVICE

“Like swatting flies,”
eyes fastened on a greasy rosary.
CURSE — Communist Ultra Resident Suburban Entente

in a habit of swatting at the heads
protruding from the adjacent manholes
mysterious clairvoyant gammer:
SCOURGE — Solvent Communist Offspring Union Relevantly Guiding Employees
since the Parliament was hit by a lightning
there were 111 storks on the roof,
222 members in the building
333 rants under the foundation
– The thoughts of storks, rats and Members of Parliament commingled in the air
and fell to the ground.

The Noteworthy Personnel Party

so eloquent and inwrought with poetry.
with all its limitless powers
Res Publicus Phenomesationes
to put it mildly, an unusual occurrence.

GAOLS — General Alliance Of Lawabiding Socialists

– an oasis of peace among the lighthouse-studded hills.
in a veritable deluge of cash.
– without a shadow of a doubt –
most content with their lives and lots.

CURSE /Communist Ultra Resident Suburban Entente/ and SCOURGE /Solvent Communist Offspring Union Relevantly Guiding Employees/)

grew longer by the day
staring at ruined asphalt pockmarked with manholes.
caught in a strange trance verging on insanity,
toothless beggars would emerge with blindfolds over their eyes

Within the shadows of multiple stairways,
the narrow streets hid their leprous residents
feeding on refuse

during Crucifixion hereinafter

Blessed are the poor in mind for they shall get the degree of the public university!
Blessed are those who already eat for they shall be fed!
Blessed are the rich for they will get a bail!
Blessed are those with dirty imagination for they will see the action!
Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will take care of us all!
Blessed are the persecuted for they will inherit the free parcels of land!
Rejoice, you shall be rewarded in heaven, but the award is overeating at the expense of the corporate expense now and immediately in forever and ever.


Aphrodite’s curse


You dare to talk about the psyche?
You think I lack stamina for twenty-five push-ups?
What do you know of a woman?
Are you thinking of Psycho as Isolde
Or Juliet perhaps?
The ones who received Aphrodite’s curse
To be beautiful, but lonely?
She’s a vengeful bitch
But still so pretty…
Now go and look where her hands are…
I, The Goddess Of Yelling, I… scream
DIE and dumbbells drop
They call me Dame Judi Dench of the gym
I cut off The Venus’ limbs with my voice
Inside I’m just a few pieces of broken statue
I want to be like Aphrodite of Milo
To be sold to the French at a good price
If only some farmer from Melos had unearthed me
Like her, I’d be in the Louvre, beautiful and exposed
Instead, I sweat and toil in a man-made gymnasium
Counting to ten over and over


Late Night Poets discussing my poem “Dervish”, with comments


I had learned the secrets of the universe
from the manuscript itself,
and had felt the tones in the best of my fingertip muscles.

Now, wasn’t it Music who went to the desert to know…
that, in the wasteland of life, here,
under this tree may my body be as the one of the Savior,
and may the menace itself visit me,
to engender within me a sacred tone…

He uses a ney. A Crooked Pan.
a ney..Karghy tuiduk, an instrument of wind.

And a Crooked Pan trapped me on the spot with her first tone
in the vortex where music enters the man
and disappears inside of him somewhere.

And I, Dervish, played the instrument made of hollow reed,
skillfully shuffling his fingers across the ney holes.
It was a round-up of the movement of music dug deep into the rhythm.

I danced swept by the accord of divine forces
streaming from “the spheres” –
and within the Dervish’s song through the typhoon,
I spun around faster and faster in an unexpected manifestation of the universe,

to perceive, through the binding
of the heavens and the earth,
a universe of love and a different godly principle,
hypnotically repeating “Masnavi, Masnavi” pushing close to a hallucination.

– The spiral is the evolution of the circle.

Transcendental, indeed. It can be performed with an echo. Oh, how sonorous, Orpheus.

Ah, I felt that the spiral is open for my musical ears.
I must continue! I must!

All the way to the devil’s tail! – the scream no longer slumbered in the throat, and my face went black and blue as if both tar and wax were poured on it.
the spiral is the evolution of the circle – even though he was still speaking, a force of dead nature! It was clear to me now, this Dervish who was miles away… somewhere close to the horizon, leaving only the memory of his wild stare and …oh, and… I cannot forget what I have just heard… ah, I would never forget! And some of it is already gone!

this strong tonal ace to win in a cruel and uncompromising game of destruction for the purpose of creation.

– Well go on, then, finish it! – I grabbed the Dervish’s shoulders desperately – Finish it, I want to hear more! Until the end! You barely played anything at all, so why did you stop playing? I want you to play all the way to the coda, do you understand me? All the way to the devil’s tail!
– Look into yourself. This is where music is hidden.
Do not despair, I shall come again and rebuild all of those ruins…
in a century or two because I have something important to do.


Return of a serpent all the moon’s agitated fingers

Even as it returns who goeth down
Sometimes to clear a drop of rain, which has envenomed
a flood, or aught else that in the mouth weep for terror is hidden
the sun is hiding its freshly drained liquid seeds
It’s freckles
and of a serpent all the moon’s agitated
and the instinct of the eternal harlot
Came up and felt stripped of water recedes before


Descendeth dreary, hereat I, trembling;
whence in the heads of the elect Project,
we lightly peeled off our laurel leaves for us
hide the shame of heresy or the halls of true paradise


Thorough a hundred plasticine toys, with metal weapons
Far from his smiling dwarves, drugged demons
Far from this master, released from the chain
the world will be a trail in the crystal ball
instead of words
was a cry that
no one could hear.


Devilish Editors (with the dignity of a sheikh)

Then came we to the simulacrum
wherein a puddle of blood
a voyeur, this plagiarist and falsifier, scattered leavesthe provincial taste reigns inviolably.,
like the treetop, enlightening reformer in the age of
the fiery-dark dream after a scream


I was mounted by creativity.
Or it was I riding on it as if it were Bucephalus
by arid and thick sand,


Underneath the tower is a cult of verbal movement
swan soft neck in song
and rub silk like silk wool.


And before me appeared a spitting image
of the entire written piece,
and my fortune peaked,
for I was in ecstasy


Where for a thousand bloody editors were room enough;
for strikes trumpet, the organ hymns,
drunk blind heart, bloody blood,
edited text – what kind of idyll


that we flow too
and things to flow, for us,
awaits the selfishness yesterday and today


Reverberates there above –
Oh, dear letter, long gone to your wisdom, and glory.
Your chalices are not yet filled


WRITER: did a little lip jig in a rhythm yet unseen? Trijan refrain?
EDITOR: Not an Amen, behold the monster with the pointed quill!


Activity – Inactivity, vanity and lack of support.
If she had at least floated away on the Seine river,
but no! You, in a sheikh’s outfit…


but that the whole Welt got a single “Schmerz” out
of me while I, with the dignity of a sheikh,
of a king, a Suleiman, a Rumi,
and even of poetess Layla al-Akhyaliyya,
was dying in someone’s masterpiece over and over again.


“Oh captain, my captain…”, I covered my ears with my hands.
Blood was trickling from them.
“I don’t want my poems to be seen like this!
I do not want to be unedited like this!”

(evil smile)

Yes, it was blood…


Then came we to the simulacrum
wherein a puddle of blood
a voyeur, this plagiarist and falsifier, scattered leaves


but my editors never came
in long-drooling saliva, they travel through the world,
underground, knit holy, shabby tissue,
and now all goes dark death!


whack whack whacked into powder,
whack into one nothing nothing


Soul Food, Books and Bees

it slides into the stomach limb
extracted books – the meat of meat
into a new structure of cognition
as a one-time hunger for deceptionflabby muscles, humps, side names
concave breasts and empty dry hives
phlebitis of veins, red, hard and painful
a world of mischief and disharmony, for impulse
harmony and taste bore off from bees


As is that bees were buzzing with fear
a hive flooded with shame and self-pity
and bee in the midst, in evil hour


bees with shafts book covers impel us,
whereat I let the glorious pulse,
so worth of honour, worth the buzz


Who cannot reed, but stammers there and here,
is a thievish spirit.


I conquer earthly happiness
a foolish crying woman crying out from under house arrest
is poisonous honey infecting rebellious blood


Thou art thinking pouring down rain
reinforced with tan leather
and when such appears from the press
children pausing near bookstore fence
detached themselves


a wake-up call
shaking of sight
and no allusions, no


but my gritted teeth from secrets I withheld;
were hungry wolves, And they, inflamed
And it’s a delight, what a delight!


Such as I was reading, am I, dead.


it’s time
I’m dealing with st
by cheating
nothing from Nietzsche


To a man who has hurt my dream.

To a man who has hurt my dream!
You’re a harasser just like

Buddha or Jesus, you’re fretting
my rest, you hide my inner poise

upsets our sleepiness, we will
break them up (I want to hurt you…)
The dream

was of the flowers. The Dream can
be of the sun, and I don’t have
to be

of the flowers, but one certain thing:

It’s a dream, outspoken and


The trial begins. Witches!

Authors’ note:
at that voluptuous hour that is somehow out of time
being something like a radio, conferencing with
to them in Salem’s head
penetrating beneath the surface glaze of consciousness
It was the Midnight Children’s Society convened at Salem’s
the Parliament of Salem’s brain,
and he was most afraid of his alter ego,
his rival, a child who was replaced with him
as a baby in a maternity ward – a ruthless and fearless god of destruction, Shiva.
Salem became something like
forums where through his mediation,
miraculous children could interact with each other
to discuss and discuss.
And again Salem claims that they are, regardless of theirs
powers, they were just one noisy pack of ten-year-olds:
Even if we accept that all these miracles offered to us are true, can we believe it
that the Batavians chanted like old fashioned beards?

I stand naked
Wrapped in flame and smoke.
My long hair–
Oh, my long, flax fibre hair…
I forgot my hat and broomstick
I left my shoes in the chimney.

The first witch wears labelled clothes
Her name is Margaret.
She claims she has never been to Oz.
But you can see the magic swimming eerily in her eyes.
“Sheriff Corwin, the black Tutuba, actually Succuba
the poet is from Barbados
The magic is swinging eerily in her eyes!

JUDGE: “Abigail, stop twitching in your sleep!

“Again, she is having nightmares, Judge!
Another wears pointed shoes, she is Edwardian.
Abigail’s mother,
She’s The Queen of spades with a high hat”

“You do not have a husband! Who delivereth you? The devil! ”

“I am,
The executioner and the victim“

“She does not deserve to live!”

The third was my mistress.
Stingy with words.
Goddamn my black blood
In the ludus!
Hold it!
Startled by a witch!
Back into the darkness!
“Go away, you’re dead!
She’s dead! ”

So I died.
As befits,
Eyes are for blindness.. a daily basis

I will be rooted deep like an oak
I will be that gentle, sweet sonnet
I no longer dream of poppies in wheat

Yes, I, A Witch in Salem’s village,
I listen to someone else’s breath inside me.
I burn in the fire and
I’m shivering.

The trial continues uninterrupted.
My ashes descend.


Lady Leaf

Gravely hospitalized, money’s laughter
the doctors’ faces show, life form unseen,
set in – the beauty did not stop at her
and now, more highly, wins the machine.
She’s looking at a bunch of white worry
tied with yellow stripes; all are energetic
for prime suction day and night, relentlessly
immersed in a huge mass of fabric.
With a picture, she strives to have a clue,
in tally to the machine that swallows
to take the leaves, to suck them, to chew,
then disfigures them somewhere in that shows.
While she cries out, she’s printed black chalk gloved,
but she now fathoms that the Lady Leaf
had her presence at a signed meeting shoved.
On the other hand, her leaves count is chief
with key feat, her idea lights like a match,
she breaks the whole thing and each thing from scratch.

Totentanz (Danse macabre)

A sky in the blood crimson

And the shrill on hell’s black coal sings
like a kangaroo, left-hand dance
you’ll see, of the deep sun that rings
courage as never loved before—
burdenless. The mania does advance
such cello keel unto the strum,
which is seldom ever performed outdoor.
A lover so woozy by rum
staggers in a promenade. Soon
pitiful spirits and zombies
from the Christian graves by the moon
will waver to the sarabande
of skeletons with so much ease.
To the sound of the tune done false,
I ink love notes that come out grand.
Hey, drunk gambler let’s taste a waltz.


Editor: Obinna Eruchie



The signs along the path are the only thing left for you


Sorrow is hidden in a head crowned in blood

Towards the wisdom called Jerusalem

You are killing the man who listens to the distance

Is “Ecce Homo” truly there

The higher hierarchy of Spain

While time flows despair descends to haemorrhage

Never painfully, not admitting pain

A bird I am

A bird with a desire to die in Spain.


I will write in the report

She is hiding in soft fruits

Mortified Julia Burgos


Otherworldly memory ticks away six o’clock



Vanity on the fox’s trail

Behold, a miracle!

Supposedly one-sided at instants

Suitable for a scrambled moment

The martyr and her daughter who wash their feet

Tasseled with nails instead of sandals

Conversing silently.


Anything but sough

Shores and scrapings fantasizing

Daughter do you wish the powder to slip you

To disturb the onus, non-being and tendrils

Wistful across the stones you overcome

Blacker than night

You fear there will no longer be vertebrates


It is the third hour in the night After



You do not grasp – the spilt blood is chiming

From unveiling you wrongfully dread

In agony of you yourself

While we pine atop Grecian terraces.



Still, rivers are audible in endeavour

And at that conjoined


In mirrors is the road to land of the dead

And worshippers of the chronometer

And the unachievable bloom of summer


Put the pigeon on the fire my daughter

We are going to satiate ourselves

Grasshoppers as well my daughter

Before they abandon us through the windows


I forefeel that the unreliable man

quiets his breath and embarks on the way

of Beauty, Ordinance and Wars


The signs along the path are the only thing left for you


Endlessly burnishing wildflowers

Endlessly burnishing wildflowers
forgotten by splattered times
of bloodless slaughterer’s design.
Waking souls lulled to long days’ sleep,
forced to steal robbed dreams endlessly
till winter freezes them to sleep.
In effect cut short dreams harden
frightfully, the nights frightfully
seem as long as winter in length.
Frenzied paced yelling, to end put
lightning in its excited place
awakening death’s silent scream.
Immortalized storms are forming
under the bitten tongue, they then
secretively bloom shade with sense.
From hiding you to dodge the knife,
no choice with the merit for me
to have ‘tween green eyes and brown eyes.
Knighted enemies eye alone
like Kings of the Night, shimmered like
white foot soldiers woefully,
heroic scream of blue lightning
pride’s flashes animatedly,
whoosing beasts move to foil its growl.
Hollering his disenchantment
steadfastly pitted against his,
bows to the trek’s will’s end at peace.
As those viewed in deathly silence,
perched like prey’s birds on the hilltop,
will stand still in the dragon’s sound.
There is no realm of pure meaning today!
My God, dead, but yet quick! Death in itself
and Words above the world – a burning bead,
a heated hollow and a cry of fear.

(in madness no one has a funeral!)

With the paddle through the storm
so through the head to reflect,
so through the heart to perceive;
the sea gulls aiming for heights
and pirates gulp rum in their feasts.
Oh … you…so conceited veins!
Through the blood blossoming flock…
stiff facial haired shed hot tears,
by the shore the bastards raise
the dead, courtesans spread legs
in waves, hands’ applause in fun!
It’s an old clown, who throws
up the tower from the sand’s
to see (in madness no one
has a funeral!) Are they
by chance living with the dead?
In consent, smile and weeping
have victim, and hindered sword
to freedom has been frenzied
in the hurry of Nature
to lay hands (spineless graveyard!)
While the storm shivers through eyes
oppressed. The grey face bleeds
beside the bloodstream figments,
images of the mute flow;
the city dogs are foamy.
A thirsty slayer in gold
sees Omnipotent logic.
Editor: Obinna Eruchie

The art of instant pearls of wisdom

All of a sudden, fleetingly shortened in hand,
instant wisdom that has no inkling on how grand
it’ll make with itself, let alone with you, rover!
motifs, key metaphors, phrases so similar
about how you will overflow the watercourse
and shadows gravely will pass, yes … but … no… Light’s source
shifting heart to happiness will be alluring.
(If you want to enter death, why not go jumping
off a Brooklyn bridge, not this foul Serbian building)
from the life that has happened to you, you
you, you…
in your eyes, shrouds and pits in life are ever due!
And happiness will come once too soon, once too late.
(It makes me sick…) sometimes again, what does equate
is the stunning start that has a happy ending.
No, it will not be…no one will be self-confessing
to their own eyes, tis’ nostalgia for the murder
from dungeons, washed stones pour into fall of water
striking and kicking again, for time to use its hammer.
‘Two lovers wandering down their violet way, down
their violet way…Two lovers wander’d on the brown
Stygian shore, the brown Stygian shore…’ until
your soul having tiny deaths’ mark shall be the will.
(Death is dead, death is dead.) Dwelling in you is rest
for good shall stay fixed, like the sun down at the west
on each day’s end. Rest assured that is the true sense
of gold mean till it’s last-ditch…your mood will run tense.
Once more, before it’s last-ditch, would your brain check hence?
Editor: Obinna Eruchie

Eurydice awakened

Eurydice awakened proclaimed and alive
in a haunted room, like a gruesome coast,
in the night underground; Hades does thrive
on his reign, he limps, the lord to the host
of the dead, the God of Earth and Earths,
a quarantine-Hell-Deadening-Matrix.
Your devotion, death, meekness swanned as worths
by the dead like hurt souls needing medics
Omega Eyes silent for all cozy
with an orgasm of a deadly glow!
Live after being static and comfy,
the eyes keep watching the front gate death’s row;
under the royal nail, terrors change fire,
a wet node in a deaf room, it’s all lyre.
editor: Obinna Eruchie

I’m dying a Roman! *character assassination 2

The highlight’s bright bare heels
is underneath
the pigskin.
Is pride rolling like wheels
in your brain’s sheath?
Will you spin
on the table on screens
of the safeguard,
confinement plum with means
to place wings barred
from air’s ring!?Judgement has to encounter those
whose feet have been walking astray;
to have drama ram them, dispose
their whole being on the same day.

Coal and smoke, tar sills quivering in rage
so big to us from the peasant suburbs;
a delay in morale, in a scarce age
the fury’s fist against the wall perturbs.

Like rats playing wheels with their snouts wide-jawed,
ragged railroader skin-tanned by the sun’s flames,
list to my voice that’s both flawless and flawed
and somewhere behind it a lot of names..

I live as a woman,
I’m dying a Roman!


Au dieu, Charlene

Is regret lodging in your head, Charlene?

I’ve no clue you’ll lead me into a sauce,
like the kind I’ve seen in a movie’s scene.
Now that the fortune of my life looks lean,
the spring from my head, your hand tried to toss!
Is regret lodging in your head, Charlene
The mind is losing the might to stay mean,
it’s on wheels to cut my life now a dross,
like the kind I’ve seen in a movie’s scene.
There has to be some rope or a machine
to help me depart from this life of loss.
Is regret lodging in your head, Charlene?
False victim! Making me a foe with spleen,
why not gulp some gin to lose your hand’s gloss,
like the kind I’ve seen in a movie’s scene.
Naught from you to end me stands! I’ll stand clean
with wings to rise while you’re down with your cross.
Is regret lodging in your head, Charlene,
like the kind I’ve seen in a movie’s scene?
Editor: Obinna Eruchie

Praise of the Progenitrix

Mystics listen to her
Cynics vomit her
Midwives truth-birth her
And since always
Welcome her on hands
That insidious trash
To fill their pitchers
With her feces.
Born from the spirit of pride
From the spleen of law
From the blood of forefathers
From the womb of lies
From seventy-seven
The fools loved her
Saints like a knick-knack
Showed her on the fair
Liars about her
Sexually fantasized
Ecce Veritas
Spends her life next to Dionysius,
Bloodless turkey cocks and donkeys
Smell her sacred beak.
Crowned with laurels
Permeated with boredom
In the tasteful asylum
And she sings in blood
To dampened strings
While watching her reflection
In the lavatory of Hades
Now already an ageing whore
Arose from the dream
To maintain the dream.

sync with mine wishes for the better days for all

a hinted thought within my head’s grasp

processing attempts as each memorising
sublime flash of evil genius
penetrates my mind

blinding ringing echo of fire
awaiting for the return of some being
I personally have never witnessed before

and yet continue bearing like
a treasured secret code of the heart

to share yet long as if to cherish
as the 1st discoverer
place pregnant backup aids by not
chasing dreams


cherish its prized moments
along well-penned lines of living it.

Fates will always be differentiating
between origins of true life.
However, origins of free will
truthfully never differ

in any fate brought
between those trying to be heard.
A whisper triggers thirst for knowledge in

While a panicked scream can send us running
in the wrong path, secluded from all else
I can finally close the lid of my eyes

in being inspired, eyes wait not for
the dawn’s whistling birds’ dream
in sync with mine of better days break for all

to see us walk past through another evil eye
on its way,
of poetically rhythmic challenge
to pledge in well-penned form.

Everything is without my past weakening crutch
in our daily healing needs
if ever we hope to carry our torches healthily
throughout our chosen marathons of life.
to share something as oneness itself.

Editor: Obinna Eruchie

Blackface, Le Chauchemar

Lyrics’ struggles do not die nor fear.
In the Seine Church, I am crowned;
Blackface with goat’s horn,
the fantastic scene
of a nightmare.
Shoe polish, tailcoats, burnt cork,
gloves, wigs, greasepaint and lipstick
to exaggerate your beauty,
the perfect foil for a barrow-man;
an Abyssinian prince in revelry,
goes happy-go-lucky and darky
on the dandified racoon;
the laughing face, the weeping face,
the sock and the jackboot are infinite.
Shadow of death haunts spinning head,
Egyptian soil’s death is better than
Cold shoulder’s worthlessness.
Never go out of
the separating shade of sickness.
I am a mortal man, jealous of
the way which seems just to a man
in the suffered martyrdom makeup.
At the churchyard, your song they sung
of scaffold dresses they cannot afford.
Editor: Obinna Eruchie

Omnia fluit

Aye, and an imploring monk plays
On the common Spanish needles
Of burr marigold!

When rippled winds blare
And flowers’ form will crack no more,
The springs’ fountains that were seen so
fragrant and green,

Green earth
With rich frozen pudding all candied o’er,
henceforth stringed instrument lass, with her white wine face
And her air kiss so dreadfully pale violet.

But it is not so, with those that go
Through frost and snow, both great and small,
We are here to-day and gone to-morrow.

Editor: Obinna Eruchie

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


Airily at a fragrance-oozing garden                                         a gem-beautified tree leaving a peg of bright white wood


Thrilled hand sculpting faces to add to                           by the garden


With midsummer rose petals of                                         Venusian Red by the sides floor-strewn in rows



Too holy to pray                                                                      my eyes looked at the firmament’s high girdle


to dive in seclusion into light



It’ll just be one great summer of red tea


and I shall disrobe myself before nature                          and taste of love


hear the cortege the flutes and the                                    tambourines

perceived in the wind


Entombed beneath the mountains of Himalayas seclusion


In The Balovale’s tribes mausoleum


where it always smells like greasy secretion


during circumcision, an ancient torture for babies



From ancient precursor to what we call warfare


Since Ilyad then Tiberius’ Holocene and the charge of the light brigade


were terrifying, inglorious flash which had souls charred to ashes,


the blood kept coming from knife-stabbed bodies


Blades cut palms from the palm-trees for


a chant for selfish prayer of the wildest Brutuses


Richards, with all the Henries in between


leader, a sociopath in the house of roses


to clothe himself in war to taste of blood by fire



Gold glorified in greed have baited the kings


to close their eyes


and descend into apathy’s underworld


This has to be the end

of attending to gloom


Attention, my soul, do not leave your gaiety’s sun unattended.



I am not some face boiling if you stretch out

like a kid, your tongue at me


Here is my skin thick to stand

jackals from your lips                                                                                                                                                                                          handsome replica


appliance  is for the sake of ameliorative mankind


living with love in my blood is enlivening,


living tenderly in the silence..


No decay will devour my summers’ bloom


Actually, the sun in its beams of glory

will resurrect midsummer dreams



I want to see you, you… morning house

You, dewy face

You, flowery eye


In fact, when I take off this night gown

like a daughter in obedience



A garden secure,

pleases me with the fragrance, that faylike spell



myself, I’m a mystic

who seeks the Heavenly


I should walk alone with a silent head

to a secluded wood

and dive into darkness

to rise up into light


Editor: Obinna Eruchie, https://allpoetry.com/Obinnex



Late Night Poets/After Midnight – Rhythm and Rhyme

My poem was read on the After Midnight radio listener show – you can hear the poem read by myself as well as comments on the poem by fellow late-night poets at allpoetry

Thank you all, guys. You are awesome.


Late Night Poets is dedicated to the celebration of creative minds. We are a welcoming forum for poems, stories, art and ideas. We encourage absolute beginners, seasoned pros and anyone in between. All we ask is that everyone be treated with respect. Late Night Poets is a reflection of our community spirit. A place to share, develop and reveal the best parts of ourselves. We welcome ideas and views.
“It is great to think highly of yourself …as long as you are not looking down on others while doing so”




embrace the moment. (in technicolour)

embrace the moment. (in technicolour)

At midbrain,
shorthand words word more words
a tongue-tied rope of words strangler
from tongue’s taste bud saliva through the throat

But there’s an arched jewelled pendant to catch the last mouth rinse
and Technicolor to x-ray the red-handed tongue

Me the old Judge of eternal hatred,
as Cernuda, once wrote in a verse.
but a little tired,
from a decade of merging and melting of eternal
circular cycles, giving up the ghost, forlonness,

eternal questions, terrifying riddles,
paradoxes…and another idiot with a folding gun.
hard workin’

after which I inherit sadness
earn’d Scorpio killer and dreams

One penned page,
one bullet fired,
one rebellion squashed,

Look around.
look at the world.
embrace the moment.

Editor: Obinna Eruchie

a few chill pills. – manual for use

A shame that I don’t have a sniffer.
Eh, what do I need it for,
oral use is better.
twice oral, before and after coffee.

Give me that silver teaspoon on the table.
those bloody cooks steal silverware.

Ah well. I will crush it next time.
I don’t like to swallow them whole.
I always had the fear that
they will get lodged into my oesophagus.

Sucking on the pill
and through her tongue rolls
it somewhere down to the stomach
where powder and blood will
face off.


Editor: Obinna Eruchie


Hydrocyanic acid confession

Hydrocyanic acid confession

I am full of cyanide,
for I am alone and unloved.
I have some of your facial features,
I laughed aloud
as if I were entering a bat cave,
but it was not laughter that a happy being
stretched out due to joy,
it was desperation, it was torture.

Even now I grin, but bareheaded and alone,
I keep hiccoughing and do vomit on occasion,
right here in this tiny nylon bag.
Want some? No?

I have criteria.

I know the nature of doubt.
The whirlwind of trickery
an endless number of smaller whirlpools
of seemingly irrelevant events
I and my doubt became one.
A stone of crude profile rolling
and gathering various bits and bobs.
But this was far before…before…


I have complicated my own life
with freelance work,
the earnings…

And more oil paintings, Vincenzo for instance.

Hungover from work and sunken from the anguish,
with sunken cheekbones from leaning them on the wrist
of my weary hand,
with my head like a lid of a burnt saucepan

flailing with the night where my butchery voice pierced the heavens.
I escaped under the sight of an ax

Seeking for a spot where it could drive its blade
and lay bare any hidden molars
under my golden hair.

The woolly hat on my head was undergoing
and took on the shape of a well-coiffed

Assessing the sufferer, only to jump into his lap
and take off another chunk of meat.
a bit slim, but still gracious
I growled silently, but pleased.

– And the wife?

– Left on a short trip,

My wicked thing. I must go home, my wife is in that ashtray waiting.

But that was far before…before…


Requiem for a mosquito, poetry recital


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



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

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

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

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


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

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

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

Don’ t get nervous phantom of the
birthplace shores.

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

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

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

And… put some ice in the urinals.


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


The scream of the butterflies

This day undie now
in the torrent fangtooth sun
it falls down

After a decade of lying down,
my eyes opened.
in my earth shaken house

That’s better.

I’m still alive and kicking.
Hurry up, I tell myself,
hurry, make it tonight, the first crack of dawn

My distraught brain is looking for the cause
even in my own guilt
I bury myself deeper, don’t have someone else to do it,
like Mengele,

When in Singidunum I arrived searching for a foreign world
I didn’t see what was imagined
But a fresh drop of blood down the leg
And an untrained word with no will be spoken

They took everything from us
our square mandible,
our high brow,
our purple rainbows
our soon shaken houses

Die die die die young
for the dragon poured water out of his mouth*.
when the killers come to take you
when your word is blood and flame.
are they coming yet to take me
rooted in the last morning of a bullet
the aim is to get me to the windowsill,
while sweat drips onto the dark maps
in my enraged cranium and the ink spills.

Full of eyes both in front and in the back
through words and pictures
opened the tense mind,
through the heart, with the need to write
to cousins ​​of true love
Out there, it’s a jelly-like day
(a vitreous eye)
out there, Corvus corone corone, chromagnons
in my sea shaken house
geese, stings and herons
into the night that has passed for days
at whatever speeded
crumbled God
at its apex

Fears missed
as ours we voiced
tears mists
has hours rejoiced

Like peeling an apple and finding worms.
you cut a mouth into the apple,
you make the apple grin… toy a bit, carve a bit,
only to have the perfect insect wiggle out.

Broken horses they will fly and fall
the hoof roars as the red rooster
blackened, sand stars
feverishly shaking looking around
through the magnifying glass
of delusion in each intestine of imago’s body,
screaming on the inside
tyranny of the gut, nothing else,
as if sword-cut, the scream of the butterflies

And yet another day’s breaking dawn
befalls my star’s rising light


Rape Poem

Have you ever been raped?
Have you ever dreamt of love while gouging out your eyes?
Has anyone ever drooled saliva onto you, like a demonic dog?
Has anyone’s large lanate limb ever poured into you?
Has anyone ever said to you, ****, you asked for it?
Have you ever been impaled by a man’s spawning seed?
Have you ever been a Turk’s abased experiment?
Has anyone ever called you an abomination of Eve?
Has anyone ever stuffed you like an apple on a spear?
Has anyone ever ripped out your steady beating heart?

Have you ever been raped?
And your bloody lips sang a grotesque song?
And you were cracked open like a clam without the pearl?
Until your uterus pushes out mangled stumps?
And you hold something heinous in your hands?
Until hanging jaws depart into darkness?
Threads of existence are cut and stuffed
And your flesh was resisting?
And your bones were weeping?
And your body was screaming?
Until your womb erupts?
Oh my beautiful face
In deep dark chambers of my heart
Where rats patrol
My flax hair is gone
I am a masterpiece of mad genius
Of the Master of Light
I hide my face in shadows
I’m a starving slave to the Ripper
While blazing gunshots sear my brain
And I pick decaying matter off my skin
I’m extracted from the horny goat’s seed
And licked by his rough bleeding tongue
It’s nothing but the call of a mangled mind
I am that hacked hemisphere of meat
My pulchritudinous petals reach up for light
And they come to me like flies to rotting meat.
A bacchanalian bellowing beast
I am that wrenched woman

So I mature like a corpse flower
My pulchritudinous petals reach up for light
And they come to me like flies to rotting meat.

This is the world of lies
Of thirsty angels who die
While still appearing angelic
They’ve lost their shine

Have you ever been raped?
You should join me like a vampire
You’ll be bitten for a limitless life
For a never ending night of screeching sodomy
Yelling screaming crying barking
Blood sweat tears fragments
Whose Hell do you choose?
Are you too a raped ****?

Sun… Please… Father?



coup de main*/Character assassination

The highlight
shiny bare heels underneath
in vain do you spread across the table
through the security
screens and scaffolding
abundant are only signs from afar

I want to condemn those who have gone astray
i want to ram them with a drama
heart and body at the same time
beginning and end
of our complacency

coal and smoke, tar sills quivering
so big to us from the peasant suburbs
a delay in morale, in a scarce age
body, bones, soul against the wall

and the rats play wheel
you, ragged railroaders
and my voice is both perfect and imperfect
and somewhere behind a lot of names..

I live as a woman
I’m dying as a god




the key sum of all things

the key sum of all things



cello made of sponge
and rosewood
releasing a flow that is a unison

of hold-able
Of musicke


a short, tight strum,
worth the reed,
the sap blood of living things has found
and will ink a new font
in what’s left of the human hour.

FILM: Film’s the mad black Easter egg
for a great many people.
Under Phoenix brood, inhaling the smokes
of flesh &n’ blood.
Freudian, drowning in the human average,
id hearing the threat of being lock’t-in.
All set to a one-song opera.
Damn good stuff.

mediate on and harvest
to my level of capability
from these lighten bolts disguised as roses,
these fences made from prism glass,
these marrows which no bone
of the human or the universe could turn aside:

But then, again, isn’t the key sum of all things best played on a harp made of pyrite, snakes &n’ roses caught in the strum?


Grdana, Gazde – psihoterapeutske novele o gazdama stanova u Beogradu i uže

Grdanine obrve su se natuštile kao abis jele na obalama zaleđenih reka.  Vodila je svoja četiri psa, uz brnjicu i na povocu koračajući s njima po svetu kao globusu, kao ravnoj površini stola. Ukrasni psi u Grdaninom stakleniku, četiri Grdanina psa na lancu, dok Grdana njuška po Miljakovcu i dere se s pedeset metara razdaljine: “Pa zar se sve ovde ne oseća na kašmirski brendi!”

Ne znam mnogo o psima, neću se ni pretvarati da znam. Ako bih opisala Grdanin stoj, lanac, brnjicu i pse, na pamet bi ne bi pala niti jedna reč, no bih se setila Levitikusa,  žrtvovanja koza svake godine, vrhovne sveštenice Grdane koja stavlja brnjicu za pse i dok oni reže, Grdana ispoveda grehe naroda. Ovo su sretne levitikus psi – koze, puštene u oazu Grdaninog sveta nakon što ih je kao Mojsije izvela iz pustinje, to su sretne koze puštene iz pustinje, zajedno s teretom Grdaninog greha, zbog čega je Grdana postala žrtveni jarac. Ta stvar s apsima je oltar njene krivice, njen ritual, simboličan ostatak i podsetnik na njenu sadomazohističku žrtvenu i teror praksu spram okolnog sveta, a krajnji predmet žrtve i kazne je naravno sama Grdana, kao sam Isus.

“Postoje sretne i nesretne koze – smejala se Grdana u nekom od narednih razgovora – neke su ubijane, a neke nisu. Nego, šta ćemo ti i ja u vezi komunalija i duga od 2000 dinara, obaška?”

Kad bi mi Grdana tokom mojih poseta sipala piće, setila bih se Agate Kristi. Ona je uvek trovala svoje junake. U tančine je opisivale otrove koje koristi.

“Moji psi su za mene čudesna bića – govorila je Grdana – može se čak reči da su za mene nešto poput državnih ličnosti..”

Njen sadizam je bio očit. Shvatila sam da je pominjanje nepostojećeg duga za račune za nju nešto nalik na iskustvo ljubavi i samokažnjavanje zbog potisnutih seksualnih želja.

Ili su seksualne želje potisnule Grdanu..

Sve što se smatralo uznemirujućim,  ona bi nehajno, slobodno formulisala da zvuči gotovo poznato, devojantno, a opet tako prikladno za decu. Bila je snažno skoncentrisana na podkontekst brutalnosti, premlaćivanja, probijanja, mučenja, krvarenja, nokti i smrt!  Kad bi Grdana ispijala kafu ili još gore, nekom dodavala šoljicu kafe, to je bio ritual ispijanja krvi. Pa i njeno sakupljanje. Bilo ne nečeg hrišćanskog u svemu tome, nalik na trnje krune, a Grdana bi se dobrovoljno podvrgnula nošenjem takve krune (kruna je kruna) Čak bi se sama prikovala na krst!

“Znaš Leila, draga, ja sam bila silovana. Odveo me je u taksi. Bio je crn kao gruba noć. Ali, taksimetar je dobro radio, mislim.. nisam platila više nego što treba!”

Ispijala sam mirno kafu, držeći se pojmovno terminološkog okvira koji bi se od mene očekivao. Znala sam da je Grdana potpala pod uticaj mračne Trijade. Tako je Grdana shvatala da ima značajnu prediktivnu i svaku drugu moć, uključujući i pravo na agresiju spram podstanara. Pominjanje reči: “Trauma” bilo bi trivijalno. Tek ako bih se dotakla teme osvete, pogurala bih je u pogrešnom pravcu potičući njenu agresivnost. A opet, ako bi uspela da je savlada, znala sam da je mogu gurnuti na drugi put – zamišljanja kako romantično progoni svog ljubavnika silovatelja.

Odlučila sam se za traumu.

“Ne dozvoli da ti se nametne lažni stid zbog nečeg što nisi mogla da kontrolišeš. To je trauma. Ili čak nešto manje od toga – bilo kakva reč koja bi bila apoteoza Markiza de Sada – otelo mi se – znala sam da sam pogrešila jer je Grdanu obuzeo apokaliptični bes, osetila je kongovski semenion koji joj se sliva niz butina, kao žig i znamenje.

Neću govoriti da sve ovo zapravo nije istina, da Grdana nikad nije bila silovana. Nadam se da je čitalac to dosad shvatio.  Fantazija o silovanju je bila tek maska i predigra za njen sadizam koji će određivati nove restriktivne mere povodom isplate nevidljivih komunalija. Shvatila sam da je moguće i da Grdanu privlaćim seksualno. Sadist voli da kažnjava predmet svoje žudnje.

“Trauma? Pa ja sam njega istraumirala. Zapretila sam mu da mu neću platiti vožnju. Ali, nažalost nije razumeo engleski. Bilo je to u Kongu, znaš.”







  where they disappear, hungry cannibals,  

me, just greetings, Happy Halloween.

The gods ate their children
from the underworld to the height of the sky
Griffon giant in blue steel
quiet as a childhood dream and cold as the whisper of death

(putting  the devil-turned-coin in thy pocket near the cross)
and while the Greek papyri
scarcely go beyond Salome’s laughter
O this beautiful male born of demon king Ravana
raise thyself, dimensions, visions..
silver through strange patterns of a deeper argent,
carne vale. (eng. here’s meat)
Samhain is here, the life of Sylla
while dying they cut their hair
the administration of death her presence seen
eternally lost children for the monsters that greeted them

a world that has flown backwards
the unreality of what it requires
ephemeral ways to get closer to

all the fires extinguished in the hearths
all the dead who believe they are coming into this world

lives equally

all Irish legends
and darkened blacksmiths
toys are in the palm of the Chronos

where witches go riding into which holes they go
from the bales of fear my private lunatic changes me

where they disappear, hungry cannibals,


Homeless Sun


inspired by pampered materialists pushing books on how to get nirvana forever while arriving from end-of-the-wealth orders whose only concern is wandering between special feasts and diets and signing petitions to protect endangered species, fashioned and on the other hand,  after talking to a homeless person

between toilet and scaffolding
seasonal socka under sandals’
scavengers flushed out bustards,
in the middle of the pigwash
in the spider’s heart

axis smuggling honey
in the lungs of the forgotten dragon

they feed on the    wash of light
they feed on the headache of solitude
the hypocritical tenants of the silence feed
in anti-Images, et symphoniæ

Give me the  torn yours, thrown yours                                                            from the basement tapes  restored cymbal
according to the designs of its predecessors
out of suitable doors
who drank the moon’s blood
dusted with streaks of powder
infections, poison, parasites
coal notes and
bewildered Kafka

I raise the torch for the sun they shut off last night
from the current meter



Does the silence agree with the talk
in Sunday’s tumultuous land
the eternal also facing each other
mocking songs are
reduced to someone else’s life
fed defamatory method and threat

Whether oblivion can overcome man
whether it is accepted malice
and so many stories are mournful
that were invented about me
this is the land of undeniable witness
all libellous human

Picture walls these will keep the sky
and dream, dissolved light rain
over the land encourages truthful Pilate
it is possible that at some point you will believe it
the kingdom of heaven is like the kingdom of men

and the son to whose bow they came
about the three kings for the worship of Christ
and their son never shines
and their paths are shifted east
thought – dream
which erodes the body, like the last quarter of full moon


I saw they were in you, the flames of the crown
future dawns and secret nights
later, in a land of injustice, I was lost
as when a friend or unknown love is sought


make me.. whisper.. in thousand poppies/in the valley of wrath

I water my anger
to the Virgin blest yclept
a sun – ypointing eternally slept
by brooding darkness myrth

Then you, violence, my  fancy of itself
of wrinkled care desires
make me.. whisper.. in thousand poppies

lost in sudden, turns damp to infusion brewed
of the winding morning chalice
hence  the frolic awakening of a spinning man
cast high awakening malice

Poppied, yellow June
has such violent roses
to the thorns has  long, sharp

amulet, blade
fingertips of  cobra Basilisk
All wreathed bites
echoes in a rumpus of shade

Wrath after wrath
into the happy blossom
to shake the poisonous bell
while yet my  weep cheer Cimmerian

In the budding of the caterpillar

upon grey bloody hair
and not within my razzmatazz eye
and upright mad rabid Lyssa
amidst the feast of rage-stuffed time

I touch
the necklace of Harmonia

(hallowed be my irre)

The thunder-blasted glees  or past injustices,
shall bloom the thunder flashes of lightning
in the drip all over dominion

Sometimes suddenly
comes at eventide beggar
knight named NIGHT with the coinage in all the pomp
frenzied Zadkiel holds my dagger, dressed in Indigo-Sloth

or one more worthy sunfish
caught in blood down dry
dare, cornucopia…

to lay down upon the poor sleeper’s cry


***An excerpt from a Wandering soul poem

My blindness,
Put me away into wilted flowers
So I repose there
Already my corpse reeks strongly
The one that never dies
Whose wounds were played in the darkness

While unease ripens in the fog
Lulled inside the years
A bloodied sun comes out in the west


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