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

all rights deserved by ©Leila Samarrai, 2019

edited by: Obinna Eruchie




Who let the Eve in?

EVE (sighs):  Millenniums have passed and certainly not to start the fun
Hail Lord, it’s so mind-numbing to be lonely in paradise …
Pure rivers of Eden, let’s play innocent games!
Give it mouth!
Speak of my dewy skin!
Speak but do not place it in ruins with lipful delusions,
speak to this outcast,
in the light as fits the occasion
proving thus my dewy skin
speak without melodiousness.
I am only one hereby.
Shall I be Astraea or Justitia,
should I keep the white lilies in my hand?
They are a lot in the garden.
Eden Rivers:
Oh, dame Blanche, Mother Of Innocence
your belly is bloated
with the new maternity
mother of the lambs.
(Eve is fanning herself with akakia leaf)
…and Acacia wove its branches into your divine hair…
the ivory gull is tucked on your shoulder and…
Oh stop, stop, STOP with such eyesore, flatterers
even I must be filthier than
I thought I was
I, of a pure heart?
(Eve bursts into laughter)
I’m just a rotten bird in the night wind,
my face is not serene in the early sunlight
get it, toads?
And what about the Innocent from the time immemorial,
that has only been narcotized with tranquility?
The whore of Aventine Hill
is far more useful than her divinely dust
sprinkled per treacherous tenderness.
My eyes have seen many transgressions
and my ears heard many homicidal world proverbs,
but your lascivious narrative
coming from your fancy mouths
reek more than six poisonous flowers of the green hell,
and if I am of a pure heart, and perhaps
disgusted with your game choice
let’s pretend better then.
Bear my chastity, the Wicked, you serve me best.
I govern this, the wicked world
by mythological nods for scoundrels
and the greatest rascal there is in me, always
I am making him feel nostalgic.
(Eve screaming and grabbing her gray hair tearing branches of acacia)
All gone!
They left me here to guard the trees and grown – up slaughtered babies!
I thought I had died several millennia earlier (deliriously)
Eden Rivers (Stirring up): Who let the Eve in?!
Eve: Hush…
You wonder why I came back.
To atone for maternal sins,
to douse the thirsty ground,
who will look after poor Abel instead of me?
Master maybe? (Shrugging) He has not been in my sight for eons.
(Idiotic sobbing in the distance)
you all know how shiftless and sensitive he is
after all he went mad after that…occasion.
I am the mother of the Earth
If I’m away,
cruel rivers of Eden will not supply my thirsty land
therefore, the rivers of Eden, next time tell me
how pretty my face is when mastered with fear.
(Rivers withdrew into darkness and fell silent. Eve fell asleep, muttering)
I, the Fear… Great Shame… My poor lamb, my angel
your sacred and pure virginity is gone.
(Evil smile)

all rights deserved by ©Leila Samarrai, 2019

edited by: Obinna Eruchie




House of Freaks

I went towards the timeless ocean of temporality,
to the very beginning, on the shores
of cursed waters where dead faces grinned

Speak will I not of the terror I saw upon the rough-hewn coast
may evil see you, black tooth bite you
and fume its pungent breath into your soul –
they pull my sleeve, pull me with them,
as I scream and fling stones at them,
and whichever I reach out for, they kick it hard,
and this lasted for a while, until they fled.


As is the circle that gone around this heat
I walk like a sleepwalker, through memories.
who may they be, they whose violence can’t be undone, like filth
which nature makes all roundabout in this sick land?

Whose land is this?
The witch smacked her hands together,
demons came out of her evil eye,
and I woke up, seeing it as round and round as the sun.
A dark glow was white in the newly-born day.


Here she is. Cathedral front porch.
The Gilded Angel, the entrance hidden
the hour’s missing
under the golden light
and with the body of cherubim


I do not want to enter damn thing,
but facing the cruel world in the beast,
fear came over me, it swore at me insanely
and gave me a smack on the cheek.


While I quivered terrified on the accusing wind,
and at one moment stopped,
lost in the light
of the merciless machine which kept chugging,
non-stop, looking at me vengefully, demanding more…
my skin is sensitive, it will not endure this.


Perchance evokes from its lofty perches
aflame in anger in House of Freaks
time is ticking. Space dying,
on display for carnival patrons
step warriors clad in leather armour, their axes bloodied
with a wicked howl of the wind
More and more near approaching
human chicken tarred and feathered
“We accept you, we accept you”

It took my hand and got me in.

Look. The sign is crookedly placed!
in front of the church!
all of this clowning around,
this house
this wire
this fleur-de-lis
all of this is wrong,
instances inscribes threatening riddles
forcing a finger into the joke
above the shield
a royal crown, with church gates shut!

Where, where are you taking me…
what misfortune is this?!


The Clock

We stand on the brink of abysses of the deeps.
merely feel the frightening, introverted search
we have displaced ourselves in fantasy
and multiply ourselves as we please

We peer through our silence
observing through eyes unseen,
that silence tears through,
at times shrugs and as if shaking of a stone,

that particular motion, then like exhaling in pain,
went over our years with a filthy rag
to stop lasting, breasts of bile and blood,
room full of blood, venom and suffering.

A real-life zombie land – wrinkled faces, pale,
as if robbed by a fever,
hardened backs bent,
scared and careful of the impending knife strike,
like lab rats, yet bloodthirsty.

We dug our venomous teeth into it,
the skin, used our flesh, skin,
as a sacrifice for we had long decided
to set the clock, let it tick, until the end.

all rights deserved by ©Leila Samarrai, 2019



Blindness – the fate of the damned one

Hush – the habit of a killer

And dream – the wake of a mortal


It could have been three men

Merged with their eyes

Even though one of them is the blind man


To encounter a man with all his senses is a rarity

Because the road is not marked


If you do not see

Or do not dream

Or do not know how to keep quiet


I will kill the chickens if the roses don’t stop them

Lyrics belong to everyone

Not even by escaping can you avoid her heaviness

So do not rush to anywhere

Do not feel the abdomen of the dark with your fingers


Somebody will die during the first twilight

And I will write about comets

Deprive the bread in your hands

And prepare the ploughed land

For the dead of rosy lips to breathe


Sleep peacefully

I will counterfeit whatever is necessary

I will kill the chickens if the roses don’t stop them


You find those who accused us


For every little candle


From Bosnia without love

With love arrived

The Cretan Bull

Like a witch of wishes

Those skyish strati


As an avalanche on

The back of a Judas boulder

A running mountain of

Revealing ripples

Revealed elbow dances

And sweet tongues

Poor Jago!
You were not God’s favourite!

But you turned



On the


The unfortunate victim of



Oh, Ishtar!

Your goodness for my

Blameless eyes

Was too much

And whoa! From here?

All the way to


With charismatic nostrils aflame

Dust flying

In my face

To blind and mute



For every little candle

To all big stars

You all witness

My demonic inscription

My mind and heart and soul

In all forms, intelligible

In all grammar and prose

And languages

My writings of dark

For the light

To get within

That I am still here

As alive as ever

As eager as ever

As big as ever

As unapologetic as ever

A voice forbids arrest

I have to go on

Through the moonlight

And on till the starlight

Is sunlight

To pressure on

Release the tyrannosaurus

In me

And the brethren

One by one

I am alive



In the last grip of humanity

To blow the iron curtain

For deceit

For the light

To see the dark

Like I had been

Before terminal

Delivered off my lines

Hercules blows away the bonds

The bonds intended

For hell

But sent for newness

Is it impossible?

Ever dynamic their pants

Aflamed with cold

Killing instinct

A sword of foreign death

Skulls crushed

Necks sliced

Fingers roasted

And complete

Swallowed with glee

On negotiation

Their instituted intentions

We are not humans

For them

We relinquish waste


And bathe  in theirs

We nauseate

Our aptitude develops

With Plato’s guiding

Cutting our innocence

We shudder

And become desert sand

Yet there is no red light

Plato guides us on

Recreating us

But we are humans

We do it humanely

And not as

A cult.


From the broken lands

Of tormented life

And children in blood

They came to give

Some rest and some food

To empty bowls

They had their full

They had their fill

With holes in the plates

Of benignity




If I was, with my imagination,
discerning through the voice the kind
or the monstrous spirit in every living being
(with whom I would converse),

That same imagination discerned me the existence,
of the unused prints of such melodious,
and yet so unloving,

Voices not yet revived,
which are yet to rush, buzz, roar and call
the dark, unexplored worlds

Threatens to suck in and pull
the fear unclear, mixed with loathing,
walking integrals made of blood, meat and malice

All of humanity towards the corpses of eons,
the polyphony of murmurs,
screams, roars

From the purple mouth of the Dark,
creaming, maddened medusas
with horse necks and with bodies of the bull. . .

Who scratched the disc of Dark,
who flipped the pages of the atlas of Death
who, hungry for red meat,

Search and grab,
swallow, storm, crush with their feet
bodies dismembered and the transcript of antique nostalgia

Dedicated to the wiccans and the undead,
on the slopes the pierced the grounds,
like forks into soft meat

Stretching far above the tips of malicious temples.
as well as Belobog proposes to the Boogey,

With her scary face and open jaws with no teeth.
Hercules searching for Persephone,
but, the drama one, not the lyrical one!

When the sky is bloated with gray clouds,
and the rain does not drip drops,
but bubbles like cursed membranes….

Did they have faces?
even if they did, those would be dark curves of circles
in Nothingness itself.

Tzap, poof, abracadabra, doo!



I remember nothing but November
so crazy half-awake
as lukewarm blood prepares to wake up
unusual blood flowing
moving in light attacks
eventually a fairy-tale bird
at the end of the Nordic Twilight
in the end, remember and remind others
when they are polluted by human lowness
when they are angry with humanity
finally, the silver slide on the waves distorted in balance
you become a symbol that shines with disgust
my eyes are hard
in the flash voltage
under the pressure of reverse gaze
theatre with empty chairs
increasingly unrestrained performances
between sweat and draft
when they start to stall
basins against the walls
infuriated in the pulmonary bush
gag reflex rainwater down a rusty steep gutter
with the first breath
hellspawn without race and address
the smell of rotten mouldings plunges into empty vision
humanity needs a sense of smell
and tickle the restlessness, the fire, and the torment
it is time to make the sauce among the cramped rooms
in the midst of the sweeps and receipts
they ripped the star from the power meter
they get dead, they die alive
in sleep and on alertness, like never
let the bassoon come back from the basement and the horns of plastic drums
let the restored bassoon sing
into trenches, tanks and cannons
to iron around our own bones
so we can forget about them later
the sun and moon will be close to our eyes
in the day
in a spider’s
forgotten sizes
all rights deserved by ©Leila Samarrai, 2019

Where does love go when it is forgotten

fb3dQuotes23There is nothing left, a broken piece of shape and colour
the time took some time or several hours
in which I do not feel geographical inequality
eternally lost from pleasure and flutes fell

And now I’m a queen in my own lodge, listening to music myself
innocent and beautiful and framed as a god
breathing in the dream of life
which lasts only in music
melted by myth, but part of the myth
About the rebellious purity of one who wonders as he crawls
in front of the memory of stone dug in nettles
like a bald snail on the skin of a young leaf
like a kid on the doorstep of a dark room
Where does love go when it is forgotten
when mounds of ivory and cedar were forgotten with the crowd
our bodies are like flowers
our bodies are like knives
our eyes are from a man in love
who can redeem old pain
That man, that angel, that demon
and the eyes of him who watches them are blinding
as God’s forehead as he imagines the world
like a sea of blood and gold
like a thirsty sandy shore
It absorbed the legends of the people who flooded the ocean
across the sea, the whole world I used to decorate my gloomy royal hands

Get up, look, though you have no hope, dream of the dawn
dawn dawn


all rights deserved by ©Leila Samarrai, 2019


Odyssey (acca Memento Mori)

Hail, Odyssey
let your shadow be at peace
let you look for other valleys
for the river over which the wind
carries a sound between wedges and reeds
where the ancient rapture from the river waters
and the echo roars in them like glory


Odyssey, as your glory from time immemorial
you are stranger as she is and so futile
Find your great abducted unrest
as the divine threat lost on earth warns
of some tremendous creative consciousness
who starts chanting about mortal glory
and then consoling both you and me to death




Spirituality is left in awe


Act like your descriptive resiliency’s mirrored colours
careful paints its true meanings
share your intents by stepping back now

in looking forward to the future
with awaiting wonderment’s
of which though patience is its virtue

an inspirationally creative aspect
of creatively limitless boundaries

of poetic freedom
drew me into my own struggles
of limitless distance and times

sought after poetry’s portrayals turn abouts,
opportunity’s beliefs best-suited points
shared beliefs are offering

in this our written life’s transfigurations
contracts placed in times
the accordance of rebuilding these once

broken doors of opportunities
that we now stand for by reminiscing

of be fronted justices cause
to unite peacefully
before the those forgotten within

reveal themselves rejuvenated
by our rights left uncharted
perhaps by their own fears blinded efforts

to remember love’s potential as well.
a shared reminder of the gift’s surpassed rarity
of achieving one’s goal’s of inclusion’s

all-encompassing uniqueness
of perceiving life’s ongoing
reflective self-empowerment’s ability’s

unto others seeking solaces redemptive
fully understood
compassionate mysticisms carefully laid before them

in hopes of seeing someone’s mirrored imagery
right behind them
backing their own stories

no matter what stands in front of these attempts
to be in the moment’s
where just knowing someones guiding the hand

you’ve held is all that truly matters —
act like spirituality is left in awe
and then the sorrows like this one…

past will be my own recuperative times’ narratives
focusing solely on my own similarly
poetic journals of rediscovery

Myself being a one-digit (index finger) slow texter
beyond tired and dreams of tomorrow
await me in slumbers welcoming.

all rights deserved by ©Leila Samarrai, 2019


Happy to share…

My three poems, The Key Sum Of All Things, Endlessly Burnishing Wildflowers and Dervish are published in
Our Poetry Archive V-5 No.11: FEBRUARY 2020: Is Now On-Line!






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



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)


Returned to sea

The symbol of “the sea” is similar to that seen in the beasts rising out of the sea and out of the earth (Revelation 13:1, 11). It designates origination, representing the realm of the earth

Also, the fish is a symbol of baptism and as such, an appropriate symbol for Christians to adopt. A fish symbolizes fertility, feelings, creativity, rebirth, good luck, transformation, health, abundance, serenity, intelligence, happiness, strength, and endurance.

Authors note


Returned to sea, through realms
beyond the sea,
whatever city you may be in,
the shalop reach the side
as died upon the tide

of awakening fire
why fly with one wing
Of flowers budded newly
Among the pirates, among the shepherds
A ram goes bleating.

How to walk on one leg?
Conjure thee to linger in the multitude arose
how much of the world can be seen
with half an eye
about their brows!

Strange ministrant of abrupt thunder
behind which hill does the man cease to be
Dread opener of the feathery whizzing
far and wide
on which the field a beast remains
A yielding up, through the water straight,

Let them die everyone who isn’t us,
the empty souls vibrated with the howling
of thousands of kinds of monstrosities

They wrapped their miserable greens in dazzling colours
to cool bosom mocking under your shore – out of memory
unconscious did they embalmed your heavier, sweet grief above

Why live with one hand
how to walk on one leg
They mock you
But we will cry with you
don’t worry about those devilish smirks

To tunes forgotten,
Once more been tortured with
the towering horses
in due time aloud we cry beckon’d you to silence
a kiss on the cheek,

To melting one eye fish
to earth the dower of still waters
and white did lave that all those gentle lispers
to tinge the salt tear syren shores
don’t worry about those damn ridicule

No matter what city you were in,
returned to sea, through realms beyond the sea
return to the sea
what kind of land it is for which one must die for

Don’t worry about the red nights in the east
don’t worry about those devilish kingdoms
don’t worry about anything


all rights deserved by ©Leila Samarrai, 2019


My Third Book Of Poems – front page book cover

My Third Book Of Poems – I am circling around the Amazon so far, for I am thriving to hire a professional graphical designer -for I am intending to create a more suitable design – you can follow me on WATTPAD platform. I will post some of my poetry there.. regarding this book of a bit cryptic yet intense poetry, or at least, I would like to think so 
soon I am going to open FB artistical page.
I hope some amongst you would like to join me there.



The Punisher

Version 1 
Ah, to hell with that creature.
Desert everywhere, unending for the last human soul on Earth.
Each feather is rosy from the inner tissue degradation,
as if a crafty carpenter made tiny bones in my flesh,
making figurines from past dreams with a brush and a chisel.
And then there were the patterns which bubbled after a sleepless night
that were on the back of the hand of that greedy beggar like an undead spirit.
What kind of powerful shriek is that?
Exhaling painfully and clasping my throat, I jolted up.
It’s a fear that boded the upcoming unrest.
More is deserved! And the gods have seen fit to deliver more gifts
for the people of Gateshead and the British jackal! No more than the barbaric getae.
A mockery, on all accounting! A SLIPPY COIN is the glory you deserve.
What name does the rich man carry? I never cared to ask.
But to defy the wishes of the human in need, it’s not wise.
Up Punisher, you drunken goat, and lend your men with horns to the noble task.
Aaron Douglas  
The Judgment Day
Version 2
Stone the Lordling! Parched wilderness,
incessantly breeding the Talisman ashore!
Decaying tissue falcon feather apiece,
as if a beardless carpenter
brewing bones tiny in my beef,
forging fair maiden figurines
from bygone fantasy brushing and chiseling.
Whispered howbeit the drowning merchant,
wagging tail grappling Outrageous Zeus,
such forlornly the alluring fair maiden?
The sobbing tongue hanging in a scabrous well, forcing a jolt.
Ah! The hell of fear! The chaotic Hades! Looming like a bee.
The skies rumble with agreement, justifying innate deliverance:
higher thunder, growling bolt and the lightning!
Bless Gateshead and the British jackal,
Caricatures abound, all intellectuals say, all fools agree.
Gold-plated lead is the glory sought on the cradle of faithlessness.
What designation is borne by the puffy pockets?
Too unconcerned lay I, never is prudent to disregard
the want of endangered seeds sleeping in burnt lands.
Up Punisher, you drunken goat,
and lend your men with horns to the noble task.

all rights deserved by ©Leila Samarrai, 2019

edited by: Obinna Eruchie




My poetical journey – Follow me here, too – Wattpadd.com









I will continue to write my poems (epic poetry genre – for this book) for the book “Poems from my travels”



Poems from my Travels – The curse of Helena of Troy


By the Shield of Heracles and

the four realms of lesser Asia-lands  and

as for the unseen rocks this it fell not unto me to say

But swear, Traveller,

On the turves from the horses’ hoofs

In the great battle that is to come

In danger, I am, and in the courage that welcomes danger.

That all the poison ran about

And many little deaths are to be written

dismayed with aghast and the dread,

in the legend for the unseen rocks,

describing stop by stop


Each numerous passages take on cargoes

of magic as an ear of wheat from this island

and there are numerous sugar legends as well

. Traveller, from hence may you unbind, give your detail

Are you of the Boetian heroines who gave birth to demi-gods or heroes.

Or a mortal passenger?

First Priam came, lest the din of to meet this madman’s rage;

They’re loud and long

Where serpents neverending sleep

Clothe me naked, devotee with naked feet

Undress me here and named I will spring up  – Quick.

Alas, you came down to me through curtains

Such a lit onward in such a way as not

Abrupt a lion in his den for you are more skilled in your hides than Paris,

as ghost, tricky and I, tricked out, greatly daring…

And thus I see you, may I see you

As whatever lurks beneath your hood and long hair.. ah!

The goddess, bide not, I rarely have seen

A fervid woman, for you, are a woman,

Traveller’s image of vesper lips through midmost azure..


Tell me more about my dress, woman

Deftly now and girdle your loins,

just look at my cheek that felt a tear, a kiss,

To Lesbos, for through the poisoned wine will be

no the maid off mine

Will hail your beauty more worthy than my prize.

We must hide you for Paris is looking always

Looking always to awake a vision of love and beauty

bearing their way

Traveller, The straining doves fly fly to the nostril

where under the scented fume of tortured fame

Whisper at the future in the passions past. Yet

in my despairing and in my boredom..

Purge through all my corporal pores

And stuck adherent in sword and tye

Supply my every want.

And the Traveller answered her:

Is it too much to ask that, Helena?

To supply each cringy whore

To groop with grace every needy harlot

To owe my being to this blessed night

One claps my wings for eternal travel

I fire my muses to harder joys

For deeds and arms prepare, for Troy

I taught for a hero and made a boost of

my travels  that grow supreme

For through your boredom queen life’s tides renewing bring

The bucolic


the vigor of heart bewitches

the Prince

the Troy

the man

the woman

a clearer picture of the untrodden shore

I seek everything but passion

mood all they lie and appease you

but the Traveller obeyed more apt command

From sable on to roaring roar

This passion is searing me!

From out of the dainty heather in the country places

like master sailing with oar and boat

Only brood and willows

Fire and the windows

The true word of welcome in Ur Nammu’s ziggurat

Lone let it stand, the true word

of the first pirate of Tortuga

of the Spanish fleet,

feared not storm this grand ship

in the magic chariot through

The clouds

To reap advantage

As good bosoms are found aboard were set ashore,

and the vessel to the spirits and to the gods I made!

Yes.. – I, rode the caravan roads

and wide Arabian deserts

from the mighty Sheba[1]t

to the magnificent Gaza which they ruled.

I drank ginger ale with the Queen of Sheba,

bringing her spices and herbs from Cana

and many a treasure by sea, from India….

(Traveller continues to ramble..)

4 Helen


talents into jewels brimming with Sheba’s gemstones

Drink your fill, join me

In this aweful council

Of bright pure water from life’s poisonous chalice

there won’t be any war under that sky

Hear me at once, for I am a messenger from lust

And that ‘s enough, for lust is vanity, I, Helena,

Selfish in her beginning as her end

Seal delicious saffron lips yet

their covetousness and the extremity they were blazing

my temper to made me venture with ghostlike ladies like you!

Whose tempter’s tongue never knew nor rust tarnish

Burn Troy cry in anguish

smooth floored maddening spirit

Will not escape as captives

With kingly scourge to lust that stings

Tomorrow, musick the fair of wars

Inherit your sick palaces

And thus in virtue I, sea sundered harlot

Bathe the bare naked along with ministers of tears

Long must elapse by the plunging night

Beautiful beautiful Paris in his manly might

Gaze at last I yield to be caressed, come Death…

Such good wives throw their good spouses

Sages and arts and the next rattling dice

But I? – never.   Her dress stains with a sterams of blood…Her dagger…



I told this tale of Gudea’s powerful teaching

to Chaldean descendants

in the city of Gerrha,

where I did trade,

to which the Gerrhan folk ridiculed me.

The moment they were about to stone me out of the city,

I turned and raised my arms, telling them this.

– Descendants of Chaldeans,

the masons of Babylon,

you who have torn down the temple of Solomon:

in two hundred years you will be wiped from the face

of the earth in pools of blood. – with cries,

by the curse of Helena

for not paid his mental worship first

for not paid fort the remnants of Troy

I brought to you as a gift

Thus dishonoured and dismissed the lady seer

Helena, a slaughtered bird on even feet

Arose to the greater glory

Her lips with water first bedewed I did not

For I was a Traveller, not a man or a woman

The sacrifice decreed in greater good sacrifice ordain

Now Helen is a Traveller, too!

how small this name to you to what you now know

she picked up her cards and counters

she never saw the city of whose fate I sang

if such a city ever existed

Calm and enthusiastic; tired, but not depressed

an Obelisk its Shade arise

and depths of despair remain

—restless at the night.

In breeches freely lies

how can I get a night’s rest, you ministers of disturbed mind!

She killed herself and thus she saved Troy

And prince Paris had started afresh!!

On jarring matches turn

On her needful twirls

To conquer the Traveller’s dapper waist to ranting Dame

In danger, she was, and in the courage that welcomes danger.


As I said this, I vanished and hence missed seeing their astounded faces. I convinced myself of my own prophecy when I returned to the massacred city, sometime around ninth century

To this, the ghost of Traveller went ablaze with bright light. He howled and announced victoriously – I ground Babylon to dust!

[1]The capital of the ancient kingdomHadhramaut, Hadhramout, Hadramawt or Ḥaḍramūt (probably “Death has come” or “court of Death”)in Genesis 10:26 and 1 Chronicles 1:20 in the Bible. Hadramaut was where exotic goods trade took place.


And before you go…


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


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




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



Do not be found again


We quail

In the meantime we do not live



The pain of vibrant flowers scraped out Pandora

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

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!”
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.
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




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.

all rights deserved by ©Leila Samarrai, 2019

edited by: Obinna Eruchie





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

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:






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


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.


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




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.


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,
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.



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
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


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.
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.
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.
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.
Bad, bad doll! How far is it
to the bog swamp then?
© Leila Samarrai, 2019, Belgrade

seven barmy blasphemers

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

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

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

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

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

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


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


“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


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.


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

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


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

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


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.



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.





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


A dream is a famous sower

In the age of new illusions

Which virgins turn to life


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!


The Truth

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𝙳𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚖 𝚋𝚒𝚐! 𝙻𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚋𝚒𝚐𝚐𝚎𝚛!

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