Grandfather’s coat

in me there is nothing out of the ordinary.
(maybe I was a writer by accident?)
the tiny veins of my mind in my head made a Gordi’s knot.
all of it is delirium.
all of it is to be buried in the depth, silence and darkness,
into the dreamy eternity of death.

In the evening, around eight o’clock,
I rushed towards the trench shotgun with the desire to end my misery.
I ate two slices of pizza from the local bakery
and like a condemned woman, I prepared for my queer – death.

I wore my grandfathers war vest,
my great-grandfather’s dandy coat and my great-grandfather’s father’s shoes laced with camel hair.

Without any discomfort (except nausea)
in a suitcase I packed the cut out mask.
underneath it indulgences, with instructions to be read at daybreak:
„I do not fear death, until the mortician.
They scheme around
the coffin. Stopple the tragedy like a sea-shell.”

Beside absurd begins the strategy.
the wheels of the little machine drill,
she! Grinds the finger rolled in gunpowder with the trigger
like in the dough,
illuminates the brain with destructive noise.
may they fire, the clerk murderer should fire and all those others
who will after the shot carry me out in pieces.


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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