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And before you go…


Untitled

***
And before you go, may a powerful word shake up everyone’s hearts,
and let the famed cities weep in despair – for the devil had come to Jerusalem!
The holy arm of the Lord cannot touch that tale – I mock you– but only the devils!
The devil, satyr, the shaitan and
may black foreboding link the passages instead of sentences.
All of the trees around Jerusalem had been long cut.
Days collide and go by, shackled by the thick adamant of swelter.
I breathe through my pores, bleed with the desert stones.
The hills of Judea crumble and get washed away in stuffy, grey dust.
But I remember a cannonade and explosion of a force unleashed
as I squint under the heavy, blinding light
I remember…everything…every drop of blood…with nostalgia.
And not to be misunderstood – this is hell.
***
all rights deserved by ©Leila Samarrai, 2019

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Poems from my travels 2 – Jerusalem


As I crossed my hands, leaning towards the scroll and gazing into the gelded ring on his left hand, adorned by cameos.
I met a furious passenger knight who slammed the pitcher of mead against the table.
‘A bloody mess’
while descending down the stairs of the tomb with a lit torch.
You messenger who mounted upon white tombs
with no desire to do evil but good,
the history of your work may explain my faults
and deeds and strength to fulfil
how I act in hostile daring heat,
had vowed to treat my enemies as harlots with splendour art.
Of tombs and shields and gentle ear
escaped by strange occurrences to be long live forgone
to meet no one but you, yet further on your way, where art thou going?
Traveller, why mount the weary soldier’s cold corpse,
for this cavern sake that my bones hold?
I travel to blaze all who bears a mortal shield
’tis exposed my poor unfortunate, afflicted,
I best for whatsoever in the world I found
a captive as I am, usually they crave in graves from that,
to add another visit to the dead seed by herbage dukedoms,
I long to see the things attempted that never bleed.
Then go ask the tombs’ gallants, not corpses speed,
O daughter of Samarra, they reeked of rottenness,
as my valour was ill-fated, not a heart has remained in this dead body
and my casket of a noble form packed up with silver
and the caskets were surrounded by massive, bare stones.
One of the doors led to the secret chambers.
Try to pay your debt through that part!
“But what has happened to you?”
Wide-gaping lion of Judah towards a canal of Divinity
drowned in the woe of burning adamant,
next to a blue shield depicting a menorah
there lie the corpses, like thoughts I loathed,
they rot below the great ball of fire,
while one more favoured higher placed SHOOTING STARS
on the crystal pavement beneath Mount Zion’s.
Here Siege has ceased, irreparable blustering vote
Arabian Googles are… up for proffer or if in my rising
I seemed called by the tar of my throbbing leaves,
for such another field, her name was Via Dolorosa
surrounded by olive branches.
Simplified 5-Step Approach to mesenteric blood flow
swing with Cross of Lorraine from trenches,
the hollows of erstwhile eyes are filled
with mindless thirst an acorn cup in light and shade.
Ooze, like tears, trickled down them in thin streams,
or was it, perhaps, blood?
Swaying on the scorching Sun.…miserable wretches, goodness gracious I died! ~
For bold to rest by fate arriving in the sore tide there,
my captive arc, Isis, Osiris maimed my brute shield,
my hauberk, my gaunt, the half-clothed hauberk alone,
the dreadful voyage, the dreadful for the penny of hazard;
as for the honour of Charon’s boat aforesaid and impregnated form in the air,
go ask amid a dune.
O daughter of Samarra, through the forest highs
nothing is so beautiful than thirsty lips enemies stranded ashore
bid them farewell with gunshots.
And for my spirit – mild voice persists,
capable of rejuvenating hearts and souls,
for fire burst among the bare castle stones,
swallowed the black crows and toothless witches,
and then died down the same moment
Ask how I aflame the dreaded fire to ingle and ash.
Fire tongues of my enemies a huge bonfire of spirit consists.
Geysers of blood are bursting out of the flaming masonry.
I treat my enemies like harlots,
for the devil follows those on Earth
who build their churches in graves, dust and blood.
Ask how I act, burned by the sun,
the ancient rage I bore in my heart,
the wrath of the gods from the beginning of time,
through the centuries brought to the boiling point,
a wooden statue of an angry Arab god
shaped by blows and insults, by time itself.
Yet sometimes I stepped away,
dismounted and threw open
an expensive canvas before me,
and sometimes I ran out of breath.
I fell to my knees, facing the hellish building
of the Mameluke ruler Baibars, whose symbol was a Cheetah.
I believed that if I were to touch the illusion,
the dream will dissipate and I will again be at the battlefield.
Maybe even in front of the Lion gate itself…
Ask, a spark of surprise in her eyes –
I drank ginger ale with the Queen of Sheba,
bringing her spices and herbs
from Cana and many a treasure by sea, from India.
I broke bread with ancient Chaldeans
who taught me the secrets of science.
The magical force rules over the wicked jokes,
the learned Chaldean is sworn and ordered to vengeance.
If this all isn’t a dream, I can hardly wait to tell God of all of this nonsense
And before you go, may a powerful word shake up everyone’s hearts,
and let the famed cities weep in despair – for the devil had come to Jerusalem!
The holy arm of the Lord cannot touch that tale – I mock you– but only the devils!
The devil, satyr, the shaitan and
may black foreboding link the passages instead of sentences.
All of the trees around Jerusalem had been long cut.
Days collide and go by, shackled by the thick adamant of swelter.
I breathe through my pores, bleed with the desert stones.
The hills of Judea crumble and get washed away in stuffy, grey dust.
But I remember a cannonade and explosion of a force unleashed
as I squint under the heavy, blinding light
I remember…everything…every drop of blood…with nostalgia.
And not to be misunderstood – this is hell.
***

all rights deserved by ©Leila Samarrai, 2019

edited by: Obinna Eruchie

www.allpoetry.com/Obinnex

https://www.poemhunter.com/obinna-kenechukwu-eruchie/

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Beware, Do not be found again


 

We quail, not live.

We dance on rugs of fern

In rhythm of the certainly dead

 

Beware the tear of the lunatic and bridges with no fences

Victims and solitude of the prayer

Patting on the shoulder

And emptiness in which the counselors die

 

Beware

Do not be found again

 

We quail

In the meantime we do not live

 

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The pain of vibrant flowers scraped out Pandora


Poem for my 43rd birthday – Authors note: This means nothing

1
Everything, the October announcement,
a hand of god nebulae form three dirty yellow patches of fog,
and five days of compassion dipped in the pupil,
arose mododktil, rags…to see eternity, friability
opposites as growing cold rivers always appear
Heavenly heroes of soiled masks
they get in and out far from both of them celebrants
these two should be washed well under the delta
in dark sun, waltz between them.
“I’m toxic to rabbits” – “one”
“I burn deep credentials,”” two”
toxic to 43 minefields,
“both” in the home of deceased ornaments
“I celebrated it!”
2
In the harmonious belly of the Tiber
at the home of the late son’s brother’s son
(whispering, wryly amused):
He was a Spartacus but he did not have a house
he killed the Romans killed the Romans
in lapis lazuli Stygian river…
(demented innkeepers with hairy ties waiting tables)
My late geographical years – what did real biology give me,
but capsule in genetics, a blend of two good motives
with the drop of wars here and there,
playing the bulls that yield the mythical image of red light
under the blue bridge*
towering faces, held by Gordie’s knot,
cut by a stiffened Jon Snow sword,
a sense of scale.
3
For the character to be rounded—
how sick beasts bow before pigeons,
how they instead tread the shoes of the dead homeless,
bread crumb and the ice cube,
how they, in turn, leave the climax
how sick is that?
It dilutes the palate budding
with the sweetness of sweet howling,
when the poison slowly…
wrings out stone fruit prussic acid branches,
comfy being…being half-open mistletoe
in a bed of amaryllis’ healed, clouded mind;
a well runs and disappears when lifting the curtain
the bells will sound like…
The pain of vibrant flowers scraped out Pandora,
logical and – hardened berries,
celebration knows no celebration,
muddy half of the evening between the grey substances,
less and less becomes more,
time is oh, the power of secrecy barefoot gift,
a day feels like a night and morning reeks like noon.
October on the wall!
What is in the box? Sisyphus and with ribbons on!
*****
*The Blue Bridge, place in Belgrade for prostitution (lowest prices) Part of Belgrade actually bears the name “Bridge of Whores”: Behind it lies the suffering of women under the Turks, a river of blood flowed towards the Danube

all rights deserved by ©Leila Samarrai, 2019

edited by: Obinna Eruchie

www.allpoetry.com/Obinnex

https://www.poemhunter.com/obinna-kenechukwu-eruchie/

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He was a Spartacus but he did not have a house/Obračun s malograđanštinom


there is no greater name-calling of small-mindedness, that oppressive chokehold of establishment thinking… I felt it while creating these verses, from my poem “The pain of vibrant flowers” edited by Obinna Eruchie that I will post on my author’s blog soon…
Nema veće prozivke malograđanštine, nema dalje… Zadovoljna sam.
sp

all rights deserved by ©Leila Samarrai, 2019

edited by: Obinna Eruchie

www.allpoetry.com/Obinnex

https://www.poemhunter.com/obinna-kenechukwu-eruchie/

 

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Method Writing


Keep pumping on the keyboard; 

keep grinding your ink carved from plough.
Suit yourself,
Stephen King1 said or was it Chekhov2,
it could be R. Bachman3,
it could be Antosha Chekhonte4,
it could be both.
Recorded by Callimachus5,
the archdeceiver,
poet and a chief librarian,
third-century B.C.E. in pink mist
by Borges6 323 p. N. E
claptrap what’s already been
spewed out during a coffee break.
Like a commoner, something in the command given.
Lights out, abseil down,
scented tunnel dwellers of history ego prædicatores
the Monks of the West.
There, in a mist, it’s a book, in Book of books
with the technique of Ptolemy7,
as Callimachus said,
Supreme Head Library of Alexandria8,
and his face is … his face is horrible,
stepped out of the fire…eyes are blind,
“C” sees everything, Bang.
***
Author’s Note:
1. Stephen King is an American author of horror, supernatural fiction, suspense and fantasy novels.
2. Anton Chekhov was a Russian playwright and short-story writer, he was considered to be among the greatest writers of short fiction in history.
3. Richard Bachman is a pseudonym of Stephen King; the name was gotten from Bachman, a Canadian rock band.
4. Antosha Chekhonte was a pseudonym of Anton Chekov.
5. Callimachus was a native of the Greek colony of Cyrene, Libya was a poet, critic and scholar at the Library of Alexandria.
6. Jorge Luis Borges was an Argentine short-story writer, essayist, poet and translator, and a key figure in Spanish language and universal literature.
7. Claudius Ptolemy was a Greek mathematician, astronomer, geographer and astrologer.
8. Library of Alexandria was one of the largest and the most significant libraries of the ancient worlds.
All rights reserved ©Leila Samarrai 2019
edited by: Obinna Eruchie
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Thank you Ephemeral Elegies magazine for your recognition and your professionalism


Sappho wrote Confessional poetry, Augustine wrote Confessions, Wittman spoke of himself, but when it comes to poetic personal storytelling, then one thinks of confessional American poetry in the 1960s (Plath, Sexton, from the position of woman and the second wave of feminism) because psychological psychoanalysis is much more pronounced in confessional poets than in their aforementioned predecessors.
This is a very interesting topic indeed and like all poets, I do not like my work to be moulded and read in a biographical key because my poetry does not renounce universality for speaking of the most intimate truths and existential states – it has an archetypal model.
I don’t consider myself a confessional poet, but in this poem, I spoke emphatically about intimate truths, and I’m glad Ephemeral Elegies magazine recognized it and decided to publish my poem live on their site now:

https://ephemeralelegies.com/2020/01/21/1976s-laughing-little-girl-swinging-high-on-outdoor-swing-by-leila-samarrai/

 

 

 

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I get scared to be


The semi-darkness and solitude will vanish

I will serve alone within myself even thought I am not my own

Before wounded knees everything opens

Flowers and thoughts, stories of justice

Wanton skulls and eras without rest

 

God will punish me I know

But in the cramp of passion

I will not be broken by those absent

 

We danced the whole day

The solitude anew embraced by valleys

Above the springhead

And sin to people

 

I get scared to be

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For, living in fear is a death that never ceases.


Fear often recurs, fear often repeats itself, he has tact, he is musical, he likes to preen, very sure of himself, constant grooming. he gets closer and faster to our hairs and says, I’m here, I love you.
Fear is a kind tenant to us, he pays his rent on time, he truly understands us, he cares about our toothache while crying out loud he would alert us to Mrs Flamehead, the landlord, a wicked woman hooked up forever with a broom and with a cloth scarf on her head
You have to run away, says Fear, you have to run away, his words have it a great sound of reprimand, his cold sentences, like icy droplets of sweat, in search of a wet knot made of piles of weakness.
For, living in fear is a death that never ceases.

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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 gets better.

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

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

When in Singidunum I arrived searching for a foreign world,
I didn’t have in sight 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 skull and the ink spills.

Full of eyes both in front and in the back
through words and pictures
the tense mind opened,
through the heart, with the need to write
to cousins ​​of true love.

Out there, it’s a jelly-like day
(a glass-like eye)
out there, carrion crow, cavemen
in my sea shaken house
geese, stings and herons
into the night that has passed for days
at whatever speed
is crumbled God
at its peak.

Fears missed
as ours we voiced,
tears mist
has hours rejoiced.

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

Broken-winged 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
terror’s reign of the gut, nothing else,
as if sword-cut, the scream of the butterflies.

And yet another day’s rising sun
befalls my star’s rising light.

copyright by ©Leila Samarrai, 2019

edited by: Obinna Eruchie

www.allpoetry.com/Obinnex

https://www.poemhunter.com/obinna-kenechukwu-eruchie/

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Some deaths come to make others’ lives easier


Some deaths come to make others’ lives easier. The phrase “Not to speak ill of the dead” falls into the category of grievous hurt and thought defects, lies that are told as “good day” good evening “good night” how are you or… Today, it’s the hottest day of the summer, or… .”Not to speak ill of the dead ”- Just passing the time of day – So much for decorum.

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People die, dogs stay longer


 I could write about a woman

who sounds like Johnny Mitchell’s

Alcoholic tobacco mix

I could act a strange attachment

to the Middle Ages
Or to learn that I don’t know-how

to keep quiet about my love
I can be a cloud or a tree that are always there,

but they emerge from us
i may be the lack of touch

 that excites more than touch wants

 

Before Monday is Sunday,
and Sunday is the day that oughta pass on
There are days you don’t trust right away.
Exactly why you find them attractive.
the kind of days you fall in love with.
Because of the breath of carnival and erotic currents
Closed in winter and promiscuous in summer
A woman trapped in a male name. And vice versa
Tanned fabric, with Egypt sticking through.
Nile, Crocodile skin

 

Embracing your High Noon in the Louvre
as if carrying a plaque on its grave
On the back, Michelangelo and naked statues
Both, crooked teeth and a huge tompus
And they trembled and quivered and fumed.

Being a chimney among the cherries in bloom
Strikes with echoes and some memories
Endure then!
Early spring is relentless, always has been.
When pigeons walk harmlessly in front

of the doors of the madhouse

and branches of bureaucratic hell
It strikes now as the bird’s wing

slams into the counter glass


People die
Dogs stay longer
Finally, they die too

 

you can be a minuscule that will live for you
“Not to speak ill of the dead”
So they told you,
I’ve told myself along the way.
‘good afternoon”” Good evening’
good night’
how are you’
“Today, it’s the hottest day of the summer.”
Just passing the time of day
Some deaths come to make others’ lives easier

My words will survive slander, speculation,
anonymity and controversy
outlaw artists
I’m the big Division eye, I’m my own deity
the gods are not to blame,

they have taken and embraced it firmly
what they were offered
to make it easier for them to fill their heads,

they must first be emptied 

I can’t distinguish a diadem from a bag of potatoes
the silence underlines that I’m just whining
grey, blue, colourful,
all this wanted to love and be loved
that land,
look!
Watch the willows sway,
the shadow ran out before the hand of death

 and the whisper of life
the bullet erodes the body

 from a lonely void to a deep silence
like the sound of it losing itself
in the deaf wind
fifteen years of life, as a mistake.

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Outsider


I fed the sad exiles from the eternity of dreams
Gullible players who don’t realize that
God does not change the rules, not even for the future revision of the unbelievers

I counted the clouds in the sad rhythm of the raindrops
Transformed into juggernauts
They are flirting with travesties
And their plunge into the depths

I bit into the surrounding walls that squeezed me
Downwind, in this cesspool.
All in all, where the words rotten gaping mouth craves molten gold.
In the oratory of wonder as they catch their breath

I’ll write down all my secrets
Fictional
Unusual
Shallow
Deep
And on each, I will be
the unadulterated ‘ same old

Creator of Flowers
Feeds shades with Outsider Solitude Headache
Silence, it’s all over
You ‘re out of the
Swollen subdermal dungeon

© Leila Samarrai, 2019, Belgrade

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Becoming a Writer


In the secrets of fathom deep of guarded embroiled,
guarded Frontieres of intercoursed sapphire
and intercourse willing feet desperat
and eternal shackles into layers undiminisht
by utter darkness and durst in dreadful deeds.
QUEEN:
I’d not be fit as return’d not have lost Seraph
as the smack of feverish and the transpiercing aeons.
Undisputed twists and handkerchiefs,
flamed blood bitten gentlemen,
I lay bare unfit, a skirt, the mightiest,
so pondering durst ink.
The number of stones or red bricks
thrown by exploding fingers,
the red graved letter by drunken writer
engraved beneath her window.
WRITER:
She ripped off funky letters
from parchment’s light-speed body
during her princess’ first inaugural ball,
pulling muffler like a strip of wool
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?
QUEEN: (scribbles)
Boring, boring balls to a courtesy farewell letter,
the strokes of a maddened keyboard,
and the normality of it made me tremble.
Oh, how painful have been my platitudes!
Exult in my strength, divide by lip
the footsteps of burrowing mammal,
a goblet of words is to be uttered
only by the wild cat teeth
upon the retina of finger burned deep
and the synoptic lays of the adverse spreads havoc;
my novel grows.
WRITER:
And it’s you who are whatever,
a misunderstood noblewoman,
but ignobly lioness of the wood,
write horror tales and never kiss away
all the tender castles seem to lie at you
even the mildest of the savage
can become a writer
that tells the story of
Hamlet’s brilliant-hued chestnut.
What can it then avail
apparent Queen’s solitude?
A javelin cords!
A smitten sound!
A splash to an admiring toad,
intuitive and capable of more
in these bright wanderer degrees
but by such Sea-maid haste
sets now know whence learnt: sackcloth glow
at the end of necrotic moist
all things tender.
QUEEN WRITER:
Bad, bad doll! How far is it
to the bog swamp then?
© Leila Samarrai, 2019, Belgrade
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seven barmy blasphemers


1
I was putting powder on my cheeks for three nights
I was putting powder on my cheeks for three nights
as subsided temperamental Countess
of rosy cheeks without a dental crown

Are you not too slow and pious to
persecute me, and nail me to the cross
in the eyes of the thief
two canine teeth are ruptured by nails and his funereal tell
(for I and the Almighty bovine get along like Jesus and his cross)
caught a sense of all the Gospels

2
I am mild towards my alienígenas albertosaurus murderer
masquerading as a human being zipped inside a skin suit.
and the secret alignment that chords over us
while bombs and people were falling around us

3
While bombs and people were falling around us
I’m jeering from one end of the full stop to the other.
Goddess, God or Lord puts on a pair of black gloves, t
hough she – the black spaz is not the son of a glove maker.

She rose from the grave
With a knockdown gaze:
“I baptize you with water to this grave”
She sits on a mahogany bench then,
which is intended for the visitors of the dead
the music is rocking inluxurious splendor

4
Just tragicomic love noise in the background
played by the orchestra in lacy nightgowns
one sad melody
She licks the remnants of her coquetting life
and her beak is facing the sky

5
I lined the idea that failed to flow forth
I lined the idea that failed to flow forth
as I hovered over the Shrapnel soap
while the 1999 Shrapnels were whistling around us
and I adjusted my face in the mirror
as waiting in the wings for my tears to come

6
I sang a lullaby for a happy heart-shaped face
I celebrated a feast that doesn’t come to mind
is silent without a pause, she – God – is black
and she listens without a pause,
with virtuoso aversion

I celebrated the feast through
Blessed Sacrament of anguish
At most, it’s vivisection.
in several pictures

7

I shuddered gracefully swamped in the turbid acid
the promotion faces were looking for love in my view
where there is no one else but blueness and croquet
oh, fine abstraction, you’re warm as saline

God abandoned Jesus on the cross.
their sadomasochistic relationship is predicted.
At most, it’s vivisection.
in several pictures

 

©Leila Sanmarrai, 2019 Belgrade

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“The Adventures of Boris K.” is now live and available for purchase in the Kindle Store


Kindle ebook of dystopian adventures of Boris K. “The Adventures of Boris K.” by Leila Samarrai is now live and available for purchase in the Kindle Store

 

DYSTOPIAN ADVENTURES
This collection of thematically and temporally interconnected stories (which would make some readers hastily declare it a novel), represents a piece which, due to many of its features, stands out from the contemporary Serbian literary production. Boris K. is, just as Josef K., a man stuck in a trial (Victor Pelevin would call it a transition from nothing to nothing), as well as a postmodern coquetting with stereotypes, twisting them, with metatextuality. Situated, not by accident, in Phenomenonpublic, a pseudo-country and a pseudo-democracy, Boris K. is a man whose life, identity, life circumstances, the world around him, all change faster than the statuses on social networks. Boris K. is “a 21st century boy – everybody’s toy”, but, as the English would say, “nobody’s fool as well”. Speaking of dystopias, we must mention Winston Smith from Orwell’s “1984”. Paranoia and societal pressure exist, Oceania where Smith lives is nothing else but a microcosm in the same manner that Phenomenonpublic is. But, unlike Smith, Boris K. has places to go. Nobody is stopping him. His freedom of choice is, at first glance, absolute. But every so often a self-appointed tribune of the plebs a la Megaimportanceshire can appear who will ruin his good fortune. Let’s not forget: there is a strong satirical lining within these stories, predominantly taking aim against liberal capitalism, kleptarchy, corporations, xenophobia, and prejudices of all kinds. And, of course, what the Phenomenonpublicans love most is to wail for their deceased to whom they attribute traits which, during their lifetime, they had not seen. The living are friable – the dead are indestructible. Sound familiar? It should.

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On the trail of superhero


Untitled.jpgOn the trail of superhero

Life fuck you up and you become
the superhero
with a thousand names
and in the advanced madness stadium,
to keep from going mad you become
this incurable, violent madwoman.
tightened with strong belts, straight-jackets

Then,
you’ll know why scarecrows cross bridges
deep is the beauty of the sea, pressed by a flaming egg
who doesn’t believe this, let them dance with sea shells
you will know why the poet died quietly in the dictionary,
mourned by a prostitute
with the lunar nature of the infant
you’ll know why you’re drawn to the idea
to find the elixir of youth
it smells like faded, charcoal streaks of powder

when you meet your obsession
the wind whistles in ecstasy
and they all consider you crazy

This is your penchant for introspection,
your clumsy perfection,
as the body, so as the mind,
raciness, sharp mindedness

You will know why you were tortured by
that ghastly ventriloquist,
maddened you to death,
acting slowly like a poison
that got her hands on your mind.

As I was seeing a trace
of a female foot walking the room.
as I was hearing the roared hammers
of revenge.

It’s in the bathroom!
your intimacy with the book,
your belly and your thumbs
a character full of the future and a lovely mist
from a photographic angle, through stray worship

There is a huge difference
between being averse, not conquered,
shaded by the riddle
and uninvited mortals,
they sit at the bottom of the brainstem
they sit at a table set, they do not need the gifts of immortality

Elbowed on the round table they spun their swords, turning their heads sideways,
as to look at her better from all sides.
then upon the river shore, heavy cavalry and three hundred peasants with Excalibur stormed, and with the fangs…

…you licked your immortality
to inflammation of the tongue
you clutched the book, then gasp and gasp
you heard the audience dissatisfaction

There were all the booklets in memory
drafts of search in the freezing rain of transience
the trail ends in anti-painting
and it’s time to indulge in yourself
leaving the lone riders of the apocalypse

 

just written around midnight, inspired by Lara Croft
copyright by Leila Samarai, ©Belgrade, Serbia, 2019

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Cannibalism in autumn


These are birth torments from the planet on an exhale – no single haiku can save her anymore. we have aborted our own land and humanity – our legacy.
so let’s listen to music and share something from our common past – that’s what art still gives us to fight to the bitter end. or just give up, or rise to the occasion.

The storms lopped off that head of quiet cities, 

giant waiting room and fog-braids
always besides seeing a snake-pit,
crucified orchid looks a uterus.
Along roadsides made of hot coals,
do the trumpet of darkness hide love,
do music of the wind drinking wine,
do frog-brides cast carelessly
their veils over the vertebrates,
do bare-hearted glass frog cast
their steel tools with greater violence
over tin plates?
I wonder!
Is it a stretched time?
Is a hamstring torn apart?
Are all the dead ends found in the night?
With a cello played by umbilical cords as an endless wait
and gallium rains fall from the past,
I should remember those sunbathing naked suburbs
when swings empty as eyes looked at us carelessly.
Say something!
Closes with a little small lobster clasp
of dead children passing through dead children,
a vortex where they wallow
in whirlpools and abysses of the deeps.
Children of the stone men,
my bastards…birth of my birth;
all with ageing faces la tierra,
they’re taking me there…
where bone made of roses clocks in fear.
Through heart’s mouth, cockspur veil of senses,
everything started to grow rapidly,
wood and waves, gimmicks on the face
face in gimmick and stiff thorns.
Children! A bronze plated pendant of stone people,
weathered carving of sweet pastel,
a cutting ladies’ birth of my birth,
and unborn children, sandwiched between ovaries.
I’ll paint myself open-legged pose
like Fridah Kahlo* self-induced abortions,
a nude descending to Dali’s* haiku,
cannibalism in autumn.
Author’s Note:
1. Fridah Kahlo: A Mexican painter known for her many portraits, self-portraits and works inspired by the nature and the artifacts of Mexico. Inspired by the country’s popular culture, she employed a naïve folk art style to explore questions of identity, post colonialism, gender, class and race in Mexican society.
2.  Dali: A Spanish surrealist artist, best known for the striking and bizarre in his work.
copyright by Leila Samarai, ©Belgrade, Serbia, 2019
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Boris K. reading – about 21-century boy everybody’s toy but nobody’s fool as well


The Adventures of Boris K” is a humorous and satirical story, among other things. In the midst of all the hardship he goes through, he has not forgotten to joke and play. He is a grown man but also a child.

Leila Samarrai

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An open call to ones, an open despise to others


as an author of the maxima: human hypocrisy should be respected because virtue is not worth the effort, I’m not surprised nor should I react differently than throaty laughter, but all those who, for some reason, secretly and not publicly address me with ah: ah, you’re so talented, I have never heard of these things to exist at all .. I have learned so much from you or — your brain is a precious instrument … etc (I can corroborate all this with letters ..) or those who persistently follow my blog when I turn to them for concrete help, they remain silent .. I do not count the famous archive -1-checkup early in the morning –  from Serbia, I know one hen that gets up earlier than a rooster ..I know who it is, it is a female mental patient under control…
I am waiting for the doomsday when the psychiatrist will allow her to call me… or whoever she chose to be her tutor nowadays. –  to welcome her.
I will not be able to continue my work that would be much better and I would write more and you would enjoy my work much more if you would only give me a little help, if not materially, then in the form of technical assistance (translations, someone
to help me with marketing and procedure)
Looks like you would love to do it, but living in the dreaded fear of what I could become if I had the crumb of luck to make money the way you made it …
I cannot prevent you from spying on my blog, reading, anyone with their intentions, I tell you openly, I despise you and if it depends on me, I would ban you on reading my works. and maybe I will.
this does not apply to people who do not know me. admittedly, neither do those who claim to know me, know me at all.
but unfortunately, I got to know them by their deeds.
unfortunately, talent and money rarely go together, and today, more than ever, money determines who will publish books and who does not.

 

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the true identity of the woman in the poem “Struggling for Survival”


for all those who cannot see the beauty behind the depths of archetypes, I, gladly, analyze (in-depth) the archetypes in the poem “Struggle for Survival”. I often revieve comments that my poems are too “deep”, whatever that means.
I find it a pleasure to analyze my poems this way.
for those for whom it’s not too huge, grasp it, enjoy it, fellows!

in 40 minutes I explore the true identity of the woman in the poem Who is she? Who is not… – through the book of Revelation, comparisons of Buddhist female deities, lists of victims of rape in antiquity, and much more.

Feel free to leave the comment.

 

 

 

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Let all things fly out


Cover your lips and hails

Inhale the odour of wind and change

Pry open the little casket

Let all things fly out

Both peaceful nights and lullabies

 

Renounce them

Confusion and long nights are coming

 

If you wish for whispers and thick shelters

Beware

A dream is a famous sower

In the age of new illusions

Which virgins turn to life

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Striving for Survival Part 2, Unless I escape in time


 

The Lord said, ‘I have seen my people in bondage, and I have heard their cry,’” “I know their sorrows, and I have come to deliver them from the hand of evil men and lead my people out of that sorrowful place, to a land flowing with milk and honey.” 

 

I say this in voiceover as they carry me through the woods.

To save myself  from the abusive plight.

Bone-chilling words I would direct at a wealthier yeoman

or a more ambitious female Moses,

who would come as was her duty,

quivering like a leaf,

to bow down to me and ask for my blessing –

 

to experience a nervous breakdown,

to cast out my humanity when necessary,

to be raped, beaten,

to endure what it cannot be endured,

to survive my evildoers and the whole twisted nazi society

and to become a blooming superhero. 

Mars exulti!

behold the cruel patterns of the past and the future.

do not let the premonitions dry up

to be ready to be picked up

in fear of being forgotten,

while a fluorescent streetlight of Jailer

stare at me with a flaming eye. Aflame in anger.

 

Due to toxic gases .. public hangings are everyday.

with prayer, as well as participating in pulling a rope, stoning, too ..

Chaotic stoning all day long

paranoically mumbling to myself – The stones, the damn stones…

 

 

To wear the wrong dress, to be fertile Unwoman,

 forcing slave to die in poisonous colonies to work  

 until I fall apart, piece by piece of my body

or be sent as concubine from home to home,

to men with  their tail a third part of the stars in heaven

and on my head a garland of twelve stars

to be raped in an obscene, profane ceremonial ritual

we, girls are raped at 14 while forcing us to pray to the Lord 

unreal, maddened eyes sow fear followed by a raging disease and death!

 

It hurts being clothe with a moon

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

particular misshapen friend

deal a powerful blow,

with a knife in the chest,

and then to devote insane

and grotesque calls

which left me mute a

and in the most horrific of pain

 

The blade was laid in the carved bone

and the altar, an ancient image of divinity

will speak the tongue of bones tonight.

 

that.. Being.. Revelation woman..

Her head peeked beyond all countless spirals

painted much in the same manner,

that way putting herself in the center of microcosm

of all-encompassing universality of nature,

becoming a role model for humanity.

 

My look at the city was one of prison. I

am here – behind bars.

This is a city in the middle of a prison.

Unless I escape in time.

Into the wilderness as is a desolate place

And full of serpents and scorpions,

“travailing in birth, and pained to be delivered”

 

The forest unbathed by an ocean of blood
An unhealed wound beneath the hot navel
The unpierced rib in the deciding battle
A lonely nest devoid of it’s eagle.

 

My mortal body with immortal progeny!
I summon the Heavens to bow down to my tentacles
Folded into a clenched fist!

 

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Striving for SURVIVAL, part 1 Thing I do for survival


Along the catacombs
surrounded by whirlwinds of dread
and howls of the killed
and the slaughtered and ready for testing.
– for in the final phase,
some try to resist, an unplanned,
human, nature-provided ability

to shift focus and fear for the bare sense.
The optical ability enhances,
images of merry demons
smiling dance around the iris.

The main phase then ensues,
upon the rapid degradation
of potential to maintain one’s own

 

I and in this struggle, the eyes expand,
bulging in fear,
staring at the monster,
the shifted human form
which has the same countenance,

but shaded and bloodied with lack of feelings,
whose disgusting, dry mouth open and
utter the Kafkian judgment

 

This is where the compilation comes
of several entities
pretending to be friends, godsisters and neighbours
in one singular entity,
hostile, radically evil with malicious intent and death in mind –
that I struggle to survive…

 

and the following sudden departure of a loving being
comes in, a being that uttered a judgment
out of nowhere,
using the nature-given freedom of MAN to think,
to use a flaw in its mind map,
each to his own moral metrics and laws of fidelity,
I struggle to survive

the universal reality consisted of
no more than a handful of cigarette buds
and other than rage at the impotent God
who punishes the good and awards the weak,
something that cannot be known,
but merely believed,
It was soft, hiding spot
I struggle to survive

 

The ship of illusions that the friendship was possible.
I owed moments of erotic bliss.
Whenever entering my head, with roots, the wind,
the breath of tropical sun,
I struggle to survive my friends, godsisters and neighbors

in one singular entity,
hostile, radically evil with malicious intent and death in mind.
to go in pairs and be bound to a pack,
somewhere out there, on the edge of the lost world,
its monstrosity, but also its shininess,
none will notice it gone or even as having existed,
the light and shadow play will merge with vile contours of envy,
doubt and shame,
A haze, a wave in my thoughts,

a vortex where they wallow

in whirlpools and abysses of the deeps
I struggle to survive

 

A vision of a lunatic,
a nightmare with a hundred thousand deaths.
Obsession with fear.
An attack of the innocents,
a finger of fantasy pointed at them, listed names.
I struggle to survive

a battle not to disembark the ship of illusions
And when they stick a knife in your back,
everything moans in bliss.

The cowardly lack of will of the people
to stand up against the dictatorship of the benefactor
and peddled at their flaws – I am trying to survive!

 

To barely get by
a mass of people, conventional shoulder-patting,
well-intentioned advice from good people

Soft, muddy picture,
then the image comes into focus
and a zoom-in of someone’s eyes.
Then the eyes spoke with fiery passion
and that would last for ten seconds
or so on a movie screen.

 

From the upper corner an unseen ghostly hand
recording what is happening in the writing on the wall

holds a great feast and drinks from the vessels

that had been looted in the destruction of the First Temple. ..

The terrified Belshazzar calls for his wise men,

but they are unable to read the writing.

It says: I struggle to survive.
Everyone who ever hated me,
eating sandwiches and sowing leather jackets
that I pay on a loan,
then all of the things in leather, I cannot even recall all of it.

 

They filled my suitcase, set aside my things

in it as if they were laying
my corpse in a sarcophagus .
Who are these people?
How come there are so many good intentions in this…

They must have been practising their skills for centuries in…

 

All those precious things I do to survive.

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There will be time for me to tell you


There will be time for me to tell you

Will the words spin tomorrow as well

And will the essence be the thread

 

Stooped candelabrums stalk me

Between yearning and fear

Between passion and constancy

Always present while you sleep restlessly

There where the beginnings end

 

Solitude too has been captured, moulded and limited

And her contents gnawed off in the tempest

Where the beginning and the end meet

Each full moon

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Mary of Bethany, a heartless sinner


Properly read, the Bible is the most potent force for atheism ever conceived.’
Isac Asimov

LEGEND OF “THE LEGEND OF THE CURSED MOTHER, MARY OF BETHANY, A HEARTLESS SINNER”
written by Leila Samarrai
edited by: Obinna Eruchie
www.allpoetry.com/Obinnex
https://www.poemhunter.com/obinna-kenechukwu-eruchie/

Argument: The function of the religious references in my poetry is solely archetypal. I’m not otherwise particularly interested in religion, aside for its educational purposes, nor am I at all religious.

Preface: Cursed Mother, Mary Of Bethany
A sinner she, stoned to death for whoring, for the Lord made her unable to conceive; caught in the act of fornication with other women, for witchcraft, for an attempt to murder her husband with the soup of slain swans; her sins are many, and she is but one of many sinners.

And what can she say, Mary, the spat-in-her-face mother?
She – heiress of the firstborn whore in the city?
The Bible’s bad girl!?
Barren?!
A prostitute!?
A heartless sinner!?
Give her beauty and truth to ruin them,
cut off her Rumina’s breasts, to soak her wounds with tears,
let thorns grow within her belly instead of children, she will bleed…

MARY:
My ghostly eye was pointed at a thick thorn
that burst out of my body and continued growing…
a thin beam of sunlight turned it into
a vampire limb for raping of human souls.
O, you vampiric slingers!
Do the Prophet’s words not haunt thee?
Dear husband, do the devil’s sneers not haunt you?
Cast not your stones at my eyes!
I, an infertile woman with slit chest;
I, Mary Of Bethany, an unmercifully wicked sinner;
I hug my children under the tongue of the sky
in the celestial womb where
all my unborn children lie hidden,
and the resurrected body of this world and all other worlds
and drops of milk running down my swollen breasts blessed,
I nourish my castaway children under the star-spangled sky
and refresh them with bloody bile and wine.
I am a feminist pushing for the King Of Heaven,
Praise Jesus!
Thwack, thwack, thwack!

This is poetry of the rebellious blood
in insurgency.

  • Jeremiah 22, And if you say in your heart, ‘Why have these things come upon me?’ it is for the greatness of your iniquity that your skirts are lifted up and you suffer violence. – Bible approving misogyny and rape

“Now go and strike Amalek and devote to destruction all that they have. Do not spare them, but kill both man and woman, child and infant, ox and sheep, camel and donkey.’”-Samuel 15, God as an ethnical cleanser, it is genocidal and this is priceless “

English Standard Version:
|I myself will lift up your skirts over your face, and your shame will be seen”. Jeremiah 13
God, by his own words, is a rapist. Literary of metaphorically this is a very horrible thing to say. And so on inspiring so many bloodsheds in the world. 

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Slanderer


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

Whether oblivion can overcome man,
whether it is accepted malice;
and so many stories were full of tears
that were invented about me,
this is the land that undeniably witnesses
all slanderous humans.

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.

Slanderer, 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.

Copyright © 2019 by Leila Samarrai
Editor: Obinna Eruchie

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The morning-numbing days


After tumbling, you feel on the rail
as the sun goes down on you,
tainted and with laundry over the pirate’s eye
they think you’re a cat,
a suicidal swirl
they don’t even take a minute for breakfast
for relapse of one’s presence
nevertheless, everything is day.
I remember tall arches on houses lost,
I recall fire off the flower of the night,
I remind frosts of the beginning of fall –
bringing echo that was filled with dim.
The tempter, to thee I call,
yet not with surpassing echo
crowned in afterglow
at my family kitchen table.
Wake up before eternity!
Wake up in the shade that enshrouds!
Wake up the bitter memory ere the tea
for sculptured homeless sleep
and the child’s dream,
with carvings gone by.
Copyright © 2019 by Leila Samarrai
Editor: Obinna Eruchie
www.allpoetry.com/Obinnex
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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 climax
seasonal socks 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
non-adherents in anti-Images, et symphoniæ.

Give me the torn yours,
the thrown yours
from the basement tapes,
restored cymbal
according to the designs
of its predecessors.

Exiles 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.

written by Leila Samarrai, in the summer of 2019, in Belgrade’s district of Krnjača
Editor: Obinna Eruchie
www.allpoetry.com/Obinnex

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Bitter Fruit for Offer, Obinna Eruchie


This noble crafted poem by Obinna Eruchie reminded me of one of my poems of unfulfilled hopes and expectations that I wrote a long time ago and was published in my first poetry book, The Darkness Will Understand
***

Bitter Fruit for Offer

Open stretched the fingers of your hand,
to grasp the fruit I lay on your palm;
its taste is bitter to shrill the mind,
but your response to it should be kind.

Despite its taste containing harshness,
its labour works to chop the heart’s stress.
Store for long in your head, this key quote,
‘Patience is sugar, which has salt’s coat’.

written by Obinna Eruchie ©4 months ago, Obinna Kenechukwu Eruchie
#rhyme • #fruit • #lesson • #offer • #patience

 

www.allpoetry.com/Obinnex

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Dihya and Amira, The Ballad of Dead Turks, haiku chain


Dihya seer
warrior princess she
resists Turks

Dihya reads
Leviticus text
twenty days

Absent mother held
quarantined with lepers held
away from daughter

Daughter fearing death
thanatophobia grips
girl’s throat in good health

Dihya betrayed by
former serpent friend disowned
passing hiss in streets

Lying dead
hit by bus now flat
no one mourns

Dihya laughs
drinks Amira’s death
blood halo

Turkish leader falls
clutching throat as it dissolves
poisoned wine weapon

Beheading
Arabian Saif
sword of truth

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Voices


telephone
cables separate
watching eyes

tarpaulin
split room halved shadows
whispers creep

finding meaning in
obscure arcane utterance
violin strings hum

depths between
words escaping mouths
pause and breathe

sound impulses ride
waves on wires circle globe
hearts touched from distant
beings cross mind barriers
infiltrate thinking

 

3/5/3
3/5/3
5/7/5
3/5/3
5/7/5/7/7

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There are many ways to kill (a man) video version


There will be a knockout chapter
one day all will be concluded,
connected to the extreme,
and the text will be insanely organized.
Magic cube, central core,
dice active layer of the first image,
follow the pictures in the picture, first white cross
and its central orange,
then will follow a different colour,
in the end, a detachable mixture, a riddle puzzled,
an old boy seclusion and the task solved.
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I am not sure what am I writing I know it must be done, in Serbian first


I started writing a horror story, starting with Serbian about what has happened and it goes well and I won’t reveal it until it is finished, be it a novel or novelette.. It doesn’t make a sense but I translated only this part to you because I heard it with all the music that I managed to remember and to write before it faded away. When I am done with this story it would be a PTSD manual modernised for I did not see googling someone had it.. ever. Or I am too creative 
Still, it is psychedelia and an occurrence above earthly understanding, therefore it will stay like that in Serbian til I get help from the professional translator)
***

Hallucinations started day Five –


This is a part when I am having “something” about evil neighbour grom Bosnia. A retard by profession – I have written down this and there was more.. I couldn’t write the music down because I do not know how to put down repercussion. (I played string instrument..)
SIMO:
I see you, I see … Damn you! Witch! Witch! ”
Simo, with The Šajkača on his head, squints, crossed his legs in front of an Ottoman Bosnian house. Several more of his tribal compatriots hold drums near the Blokbau log cabin. Sima’s cousin Mica, owner of the STR Klenak store, has his own Riegelbau, a Bosnian Muslim house of Turkish origin.
“From the garden from the yard ..”
(Sima hits the drums, followed by a chorus of percussion from the surrounding Klenak yards)
A group of refugees who fled the Turks, settled at the bottom of the valley between two major roads and they made Klenak, they made the westernmost settlement in the municipality of Grocka, Kaluđerica:

Sibislave, O lilies among thorns
in trouble let the Mater get help
It went dark, then light again … it went Klenak (his old voice cracked,)
(the rest of the tribe unison: Klenak!)
a Klenak within Klenak
There’s Klenak walking, Klenak talking, Klenak eating while you’re asleep.
Oh Serbian gentlemen!
to harden uçkur waistband
to bind ill ‘ for the Good-natured, Simo,
for lightning will not strike Simo
(tribe: And Simo begat Elijah, Elijah of Sima begottenSimo’s Elijah)

KLENAK!
we pray to the higher God
for the mother to heal
and her daughter his heart became haughty.
They owe too many bills to Simo
hoorah, hooray, hurray, and huzzah
(rhythm amplifies to deafening noise)
vertical point
brandy for the old man
and lazy pie with
hot dog
for Sima and Elijah his
for Stephen Tvrtko, the King of Bosnia
will inherit a living slave
the goods of eternally living slaves
22 years Simo walked with God
when begat Elijah
and Elijah begat Noone that made him a queer.
and Layla was begotten by those Munthir Muharem
and Elijah (Simo) of Klenak
(a spooky tribe screams in unison, with percussion:
Klenak, Elijah, let him be Elijah Elijah of Simo!)

and it goes on.. and on…my head is like of Caligula’s during migraines 

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The Devil’s Eye


During a (to put it mildly) a stressful event when my mother’s life was in jeopardy, I was just going to say that I didn’t hear music, I heard an entire orchestra with all the accompanying libretto … with material for at least one book .. I wrote something down, and the rest went into oblivion. mostly – and it is the pretty articulated libretto, as well as the orchestra – After all, I had the feeling that things were happening outside my body.
the researches talk about auditory hallucinations during trauma after a stressful event, this was happening during my attempt to relive what’s going on.
what baffles me, now from this distance, is the behaviour of the cats during the occurrence …
“Neurologists report a unique case of a woman who hears music as if the radio were playing in the back of her head. The case raises” intriguing questions about memory, forgetting and access to lost memories. ”
This has never happened to me before, nor is it after. I wrote down what I was able to write as I heard it, and inspired by it I wrote something .. I only intend to write a horror story when my English is better 
they looked at something beside me and climbed to the top of my body as if they wanted to protect me from something. I did not move for 20 days except when I went to the hospital to tell the quarantine staff whether my mother was alive or dead. I was less than 57 kg (only measured once when my mother was better)
of course, no one helped me, not even the doctors or the treacherous bitch from my friend. (with integrity and creative solutions on the spot. 
Quite contrary.
What I was experiencing made me believe that everyone was just pretending to be normal. When the mother came out, they put on their masks again. But I saw them in the right edition.
I am seeing them all the time even when they try to smile, it is a gross and spooky…  But… but mostly they kind of smell like they were discovered .. haha, did you really buy this? I exaggerate of course 
the good thing about stress: I’m skinny and you are fat! Especially after devouring the holidays… Ah, hedonists!

The Devil’s Eye

Seven years old,
small and skinny
my mother taken away from me
left alone with a voice
my other self
in my head whispering and laughing
everything constant echoes

HIS VOICE

deep and dark
cackling evil
clawed words and hooked tongue
bleeding me on the inside
thriving on my pain
growing louder, growing softer
dragging me in, making me hear

Mum started to heal
and he started to fade
leaving me with scars
and memories
raw inside
like a sliced off steak
still bleeding

Father’s shadow
stained my path
insidiously oozed inside my head
sent tendrils into my heart
his fingers leaving oily traces
on my pink dress

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Dehumanization


Dehumanization

One little, two little,
three little coxcombs
pray slack our rage
with a futile thought
so I heard them strumpet
through the weeping dark
reverberating as the Sable laughed, howls
hot coals, abstract, to fill in the gap
as thus released my rain barrel.

And as he spoke a new man died,
so add blind dangling
that sudden light sound
within those holes
of years, for tears
to be bloodthirsty
is better than a droop.

Let’s toast
to the broken ribs of monstrous peak,
to the powerful crimson arms,
to 12 hanging chandeliers,
to 12 sheep hanging on the iron rod
beyond courtesy of snake to snake in their snake-pit,
to 12 hells lined up in forgotten time,
to mild brightness trickles from the stars,
escape takes off through loneliness,
always blowing quieter.

copyright by Leila Samarrai, summer 2019

Editor: Obinna Eruchie
www.allpoetry.com/Obinnex

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Waiting for an Old Woman


There was once one story…
kept on going further…
as I laid no weeping
and bawdy tryouts
and bowdy cryouts
(howdy bowdy…)

I strove to take no offered chairs
or a griffon on the sill
by my fatigue-gripped hand…
I wiped off cloud from off the Oak
to be made with the streak of mahogany
to give away coffins
to age that comes
to stainless steelsimmortali
to Maple pies.

I still hear the sullen bells,
the bells which rings
disguised as a tumbling man,
I heard how they in their deafening ring,
besides the vigils and the funerals
should form another slow somber hour
waiting for an Old Woman.
Where is it the echo of an Old Woman?
There under the Yew tree.

There was once one story…
kept on going further
and my body within
waiting for an Old Woman.

Editor: Obinna Eruchie
www.allpoetry.com/Obinnex

Featured

There are many ways to kill/Aditya (The Sun God) is the name of her violence.


I wrote fun stories; I said I was
Penny Dreadful from the further away.
THAT leaves me here.
Get down there, damn you
Golden-Mouthed, perceptively moving
lucidly mystical Assistant in the text.
In a long, fluttering dress,
he stirs the surface of corrugated and cracked lava
that covers the sandstone of Badiyat al-Iraq.
He claims to be a descendant of Ahriman,
a Zoroaster force.
The fiction and projections,
subconscious creation pointing at me
the evil eye, and makes iniquity
with other Jinnah.
There will be a knockout chapter
one day all will be concluded,
connected to the extreme,
and the text will be insanely organized.
Magic cube, central core,
dice active layer of the first image,
follow the pictures in the picture, first white cross
and its central orange,
then will follow a different colour,
in the end, a detachable mixture, a riddle puzzled,
an old boy seclusion and the task solved.
There are many ways to kill (a man)
and I taught them.
I taught them how to kill (me.)
Oh, give me … pain with no ears and no response.
Oh, give me … Aditya is the name of her violence.
*Aditya – Means “belonging to ADITI” in Sanskrit. This is a name for the seven (or eight) Hindu gods who are the children of Aditi. It is also another name for the sun god Surya.
Editor: Obinna Eruchie
Featured

I don’t live here anymore


red lights flashing

mother has to go

sends me away a letter thrown

to the wind find a friend’s door

I don’t live here anymore

Father pushes my face

Grandmother tells me to whore

Aunt laughs we are all mortal

I’m muted music plays in my head

the deep voice of Satan speaks

behind my eyes

I sing to the music no one else can hear

Doctors deliver cold news injected

into my skull from behind coward

masks Grandmother and dullard

give directions to funeral home

I am a walking corpse of no mass bones

and tight skin eyes in a skull

staring as I sing to music none can hear

Featured

The trial begins. Witches!


My ashes descend.
written by Leila Samarrai
edited by: Obinna Eruchie
www.allpoetry.com/Obinnex
https://www.poemhunter.com/obinna-kenechukwu-eruchie/
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