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)

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


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

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


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


Author: Leila Samarrai

I am a person of Himalayan seclusion, I am Atalanta in vestments of Helen of Troy, for me there is no term (aphorism there is, maybe). Cosmopolitan is too modest word for one who wanders across epochs without the help of the time machine. Some people consider me weird, because usually this is so when they do not understand something or someone that do not represent their existence. I love cats, an animals in general, I like challenges, I am persistent, I am combative (sometimes I can exaggerate in that - in all) If I were stylistic figure my mortal name would be Hyperbole. Read me. Know me. Conquer me :)

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