The End, Inspired by inimitable insipid individuals, infinitely inconsequential


Inspired by inimitable insipid individuals, infinitely inconsequential

The word is dead.

1
Then
One day
Nothing left to fear.
There is no Logos.
There is no Nature.
No, there is neither.

2
I saw how ..er ..my 21. century poems,
Or at least what I think they once were,
turned into an unrecitable torment of making
a testimony of sorts…For what?!
The unseen, the unspoken,
it is enough to vanish, but I am in the know
of how much it would please my talented adversaries
so I will remain a stone that writes
there is no poet here.
there is no poetry there.

general paralysis
madness
blindness

There is no poet, there is no poetry, there is no
poet, no poetry, no style, no language, no music, the word is dead, rest assured.
Please, rest assured, please, please
rest!

3

…. and that would be it.

I AM the verse without fresh air laying beside the river of Babylon where everything is seated
some amigos,a friendly barbecue, adventures, dyed bodies of cannibals and a cheerful toast
my irritated imagination
my symbolism
my twinkling lights
good-looking to be sniffed
The intermittency of appalling scenes…

4
Vigilance interrupts the idyllic life in a nightmare
I am a cosmopolitan, widespread disease
The urn with the hairs of my chat is on the table’s edge

5
My tears after awakening
Are crocodile dung
Tears drowned in a bathtub
The smelly bath
In the embrace of blindness
tall ceilings, the pendulum
she provides the cut

All poetic succession I leave to the ceiling
all manuscripts
books
photos…

Serbia’s camp
prison
hospital.

6
I’m a polite woman without any hustle
I have performed hundreds of poetry experiments,
If I merely wanted it, I could easily die during one

Now I’m off to the lab
to disinfect Myself.

Sorry, Pater Noster – Aunt, with your fluttering cassock,
Sorry Pater Noster – Uncle, who holds the keys to the Heavens and the Ferraris
I did not know how to bounce along the national rustic jig
CumbersomeI kept stumbling over
I am not a good believer
I, neither pretty nor young enough for the title of Holy
Forgive me, for I am not a good Serb
Sorry, Mater Noster, forgive, forgive!

8
My cheeks are hollowed out from verse pimping
Goodness, lovers and girlfriends for dinner, it is a lavish part
of the poetic end, isn’t it?
But they do not serve me as a poetess
Nor do they moisten my stanzas with fragrances

9
As I write my last public address (Do give us a hand, please) I am clenching my breasts in my palms
I recall my early youth
Sometimes the light is born within me
Very noticeable
More fervent than the dawn of time, priests would say
Mostly I feel the night inside me
riddled with bullets and bloody wolf hunts,
FERRO ET IGNI
I adore the deos until after their ouster
They aim for my life, appear to me with claws and marks
Through dubious astrological trials

10

I am watching the sea that I will never see
In this accursed hamlet,
I describe the sluggish steps of Kings
sneaking by palaces at Samarra
Which will never whisper
I recognize the images of distant landscapes
in the verse that does not unveil itself to me
There is no nature in poetry
she is sick of the three pens and mangled alphabet.
Her belly is swollen
There is no promised land to continue towards
onone’s pilgrimage
I am dust, bloated and greedy
denied
With this departure from the country of poetry, with a smile of a crying child
answer me, chimera that glides between my rows and my trenches
Be honest, the deep illusion with elephant diphtheria and malignant disease
three lines before the end of.. this, before your affluence rots
and your garments are devoured by moths, INTER NOS,
is it possible for anything to be minisculeto dust?

CHIMERA:

Veni at me… sed wicked… Climax non est!

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Everest


dedicated to Corpses, the beginning of Ascent

They are dreaming…
in the gardens of Everest, their skulls are hatching sleeping worlds
the corpses lined up in a white mare…
in the white gardens frozen fingers are cultivated.

A catamaran of cadavers might make a voyage
looking into my fluorescent boots
at the foot of the mountain I am driven by fire
the Titans’ sons and daughters
at the foot of the mountain they were also
driven by fire
there, where Earth is again in limbo
there are no more rewards for them

Corpses they are, still ravishing
and they never die!
frost – nightingales, closed breath, hands placed on stomachs
those corpses are beautiful
musical, marching Everest troops
singing together:

“When all the doors are barricaded
I still have my mountain to climb
behold! I am at the top
this is my fate, to set backfires to Gods!
Beware,Sagarmatha, beware!”

Alas, I see now, they are all rather, rather…

I continue my ascent
towards the top temporally displaced
where it’s difficult both for Man and Bird,
to the white Hell that I alone have chosen.
being complacent in my air

Yodel-Ay-Ee-Ooo! Gods, do you envy me?
Like Moses, He leads me
Through the mountain glasses

I ‘m a rock in the wind
I’m a tearin the eye
I’m a warm lie
embracing my dried up bones
my lips are kissing the ice
I’m going through the cumuli
under the savage sky
The Snow made the mask for me, I cannot breathe..
and my fate was turned into the Mountain’s
ruthless

you’ll be pulling me up with your rope
I believe in you
I believe in your opal skyward peaks
Then what is Everest?
God’s temple of Dune
The face of fear
An insane passion for freedom.
Vigilance that tries to trick a dream?
Rope!
Holding!
hold you!
hang up!
Tighten!
OK!
Loosen it now!
Rope!
Get the axe!

Thus, because we could not forgive
ourselves …nor them,
We’ll weep for a toy long-forgotten

All eyes on the axe!
My axe cuts up the Dress meant for my soul

I am stabbing…
Two heads, stubborn and dangerous…
A Weapon!
Break me and I will break you!
Oh, stone, thou art bleeding!
As am I!
I cannot give this climb up to you now, Pater meus
Because I tasted blood
Ascending.
Descending.
Rise!
Rise!
Until I reconnect our hearts at the top, The Pathfinder,

I am receiving you.
Broken mirror, I love our shards painted blue,
I am receiving you
I will weep in fear, even victorious, that
I’ll have no more tears to shed.

edmund

Edmund Hillary Canvas Print / Canvas Art by Guillermo Contreras

In the mirror


 

In the mirror

 I see Suns long passed
the breath which wipes away the glass contours
is frightened and uneasy
The Moon – what a sensitive parasite that is
If I lunge at the mirror
I will crack my tooth structure
I’ll consume the Suns, devour the Moon
Rend asunder hesitant bodies
I hate you, you, you, and you,
though I love all of you
you and you and you.

The Birth Of Narcissus, Leila Samarrai, edited version


I have found my face

It is beautiful…
to smile by the lake, to kneel before my image
I, Creator,
Beside my one true lover
Who gazes upon my improved facial features
I, Creator,
I touch them with my newborn newly lengthened arms
Recreating myself , but in my own image

Graceful mirror,
what a magnificent creature I am
the pure form, offended by piss-poor perfection
I have no need for this damned society
Of humanity’s cretinous castaways,
now that I have found
my mad reflection

One vanity
one nature
one jealousy
that gazes at what she cannot touch!
no more!
and one love
always reciprocated.

With this new love brought from Heaven to Earth
with this beautiful creation emerged from the freezing water
there will be no more Petrarchan Platonic patheticalness
no more dark clouds above my shoulders with the strong pungent smell of storm
there will be.. No!
no more waking life, no!
No more wounds in my back, no crying at night
no more…

Eventually
I understand that love is essential
I am taking the silvered mirror
I am kissing the lips of God
I am having my first date.
with Myself.

The Merciless Atheistic Love – Recital, Leila Samarrai, edited version


RECITAL: Are you not too slow and pious to
persecute me, and nail me to the cross
in the eyes of theThief
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

GOD: Not again! I already did it 2000 years ago!

RECITAL CONTINUES:
God abandoned Jesus on the cross.
their sadomasochistic relationship is predicted.

(Footnote “Silence, habits of killer..”, half of 777 verses… from the book “Romans kill the killers, right?” by Atheistus Crucifixianus Genius )

God is silent without a pause, she – God – is black and she listens without a pause, with virtuoso aversion

God is obsessed with Silence.

(Goddess, do you copy these barmy blasphemers?)
(Hysterical screaming in the background)

Pathological silence disorder, morbid,
pathological,
medical
Blessed Sacrament of anguish

God is a godless cuckoo!
I am screaming calm, no flesh ..
no … no … my voice can never be heard.
Voice? Nothing but a tuned idiotic grin, it is said that this is just one mental woman, skinned leather… and she does not know …

GOD: Who the hell is she? I don’t know her!

WHISPERING:
A merciful angel.

SAINT PETER’S REPORT:
Her name is Georgina.
She hates YOU because of what your horrid self had taken from her:

Her childhood
Her youth
Her Reviews, her publishers
Her editors and editing skills
The social life in Serbia
the right to vote (her ID card has been expired for a decade or two, and by no means is she going to renew it or take out a new one)
vaginal orgasm (If it’s any consolation, you had not taken the clitoral O. from her)
her lover
her mistress
Fear
Pain.
Church marriage, though she is baptized
(one of the follies which she sought from you, after the first onset of her holy madness)
You even killed her poor little cat!

Poor Job – (l)ess…

GOD: And how did she end her life?

2
THE CHOIR OF ANGELS:

She didn’t .
She wrote the following before she injected insulin into herself previously admitting her death was not God’s fault nor the State’s but her own; Her hereditary psychophysical deformity
denying this claim five minutes later, blaming unreasonably expensive market prices for her demise
– now it’s just powders down there .. and a few pieces of bones, no sign of the human form inside.
She is not prevented from having some kind of consciousness, a thin pale skin, or a sharp, mathematical and metaphysical mind
She claims that there is no paradise but that we are already deployed in fixed groups in the afterlife.
in the coffin tarnished and polished
planning for the rerun of suicide,
She still recites.

RECITAL:

My Sugar Coffin, Immortal Tootsie Roll, with all due respect to the good deceased tulips
One madminge less, but the new survives, more complex, prone to scrutiny and truths. The seeker.

GOD: Dear God!

RECITAL CONTINUES:

I was putting powder on my cheeks for three nights
on a liar or
the deceived dead
subsided temperamental Countess
of rosy cheeks without a dental crown

GOD: (strikes his fist on the cloud)
Is there any verse where she doesn’t act! Nothing I do for her is good enough. I know that..sometimes.. yes, I am too silent, but I think she exaggerates! Not all are as outspoken as she is.
Hasten to the tomb, Peter!
explain to the aforementioned nutjob that someone has to do God’s work.

Saint Peter
can go down
out of the clouds
when he wants to
thus spoke the lady rocker
aye, gaga, young, wild rocker

RECITAL CONTINUES:

My Tootsie Roll, we’ll intertwine our fingers again someday
one fateful night in passion and destruction
the night flashes, and the sky is close
They have forgotten to lock up my eyes
my name is Georgina
raving, rabid Georgina

PETER:
Then she told: give me Peter’s body
I want his body
I want to notch his body and my soul like a fire
Fire! for
a shimmering night
a night of flames
She rose from the grave
She walked toward me
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
the smell of the sound incites my imagination

GOD: Even Peter has become dirty.
PETER: The cemetery has mud, sir.

RECITAL:

Yes..
overshadowing men are pillocks
They’ve been with plains of wisdom
They’ve been the height of sentimentality
smitten poets
Some of the defeated wove beauty
Or they, too, were simply – poets
Yes..time does not exist
She was fooled by swift motion a long time ago

“Art is a mistake and I must take my leave.” – Goddess, God or Lord puts on a pair of black gloves, although she – the black spaz is not the son of a glove maker.

Over there
where the Goddess went they do not know her
she is currently waiting in line at the employment office
for her social security card
cursing the existence of free will and verse

Now He’s unclean like me
He may become a better god
And maybe shall decide to die
It comes down to the same thing.

But, my recital goes on.

RECITAL CONTINUES….

The existence of reality, in 4 cantos, Leila Samarrai, edited version


The existence of reality, in 4 cantos, Leila Samarrai

Spoiler warning: this poem contains a huge amount of high-quality madness

The guillotine would have fallen, but
The chain was rusty
Another client complained
That his head was still on his shoulders
Others had more luck
It’s called the lucky reduction of torment

(from an unknown author, probably pissed)

They wish she could disappear,
A Woman Who’s Not Here

(head falls into the basket. the audience cheers)

2
I am huddled in my bed,
covered toe-to-head,
the bugs of psyche keep me company
Pollution pollution everywhere
Water water everywhere
Psycho bugs everywhere

Money yet again

Divinity, hear me (says another poet):
If I surrender my being to you in blind ecstasy of love,
If I’m to assist you in your sadistic experiments over humans
if I am your fourth Antichrist….”

“What do you want?”

“Hail, sweet Malice
These mortals just need to shut their face-cunts.”

There are flickering colourstorn away from my tormented eyes
The head rises again.
The skull also rises.
For now in the dark I am going mad, by blessing of the night. Bollocks.

To be unwanted, uncaredfor, friendless, unvalued, rejected, unwelcome, shunned, spurned, bitch-slapped
With heart alone, I cared not.
Now has begun my transition!

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

I offer you my dream divine
Inside of which but a poor neighborhood
I offer you the beggar’s beauty equipment
ragged white tights with black polka dots
one garbage bag
and a money can

I offer you the saint who lived as a beggar
beggars celebrate humanity
spitting on Man
goods and chattels, filthy rags of beggars

3

O Nature, made of mercury
You are never visible
Yet you are warm, you are cold, you are dry
You are moist
Whose end is God

It took me ten years to vomit out slimy bodies from my voice box
The rest are grim reechoes in the dark, holding my failed wig
in made up hands
along with the humoured rats whose presence is forgotten

For the corpses do not die
For the damned do not die

Wait!
I am a corpse.
And you want me to put makeup on for the whole of eternity?

4

I am huddled in my bed,
Now my sheet stands upright,
I fill up with semen, pullulate and sprout, grow up to the muscles,
tissue, blush, luxury of cheeks, an eyeful glow.
My hands touch the icy cold air.
I, ever the bellend,wander around the world and clap my hands,

Then only a whisper is heard and wheezing, the crying, wailing.
The dog begins to howl.

The Bastard never dies

Carry me
Carry me there..to
the existence of reality.
(grave bursting)
My schizoid brother in need
Never again alone will we bleed.