I highly recommend Leila Samarrai’s novel “Sleeping Mathilde” for publication. This work is inspired by gothic fiction and it possesses elements of horror as well as science fiction. Considering we know how popular and trendy both genres are with a subset of the general readership audience, regardless whether it’s foreign authors or domestic ones I […]
Vanity on the fox’s trail Behold, a miracle! Supposedly one-sided at instants Suitable for a scrambled moment The martyr and her daughter who wash their feet Tasseled with nails instead of sandals Conversing silently. Anything but sough Shores and scrapings fantasizing Daughter do you wish the powder to slip you To disturb the onus, non-being […]
Visit me there and feel free to comment if you wish to. Feel free to like my fb page, too. I am going viral and I need your feedback and support, if you like my work, of course. Thank you. Poem Hunter Leila Samarrai
I live in peregrine flesh I think in a peregrine head I don’t want to be stultified! (Apparition! Why you write so loud?) I have been cured To perversity
Uskoro će sve biti gotovo. Prokletnici, obrtna optika ludila u mojoj glavi ubrzava. Više nisam žena, nego sam makroskopska čestica. Čigra. Zovite me Čigra. učiniću to tako naglo, tako grozničavo, a opet mirno, ruka mi se neće zatresti. Blago ću se saviti napred, noge u širini ramena, da.. Smiri telo. Naciljaj pažljivo. Povuci obarač. Udahni […]
I wrote a terrible poem. Always is like that when I want to write something optimistic .. I’d better get my attention on my bloody diaries about midgets. PUBLIC REACTION: “yeah.. we ALL read it. I read it last night.. nah… very bad. ugly!”, Eva Green “hahahaha, bitch.”, Angelique Bouchard “Sans commentaires”, Isabelle Adjani “I can do that”, […]
“I know what I’ll do. I’ll give you a drachma!” The landlady waves the electric bill, eyeing me as if I were her lamb meant for slaughter, but I am a she-dreamer of beautiful lips. Jesus understands me, we speak the same tongue. Amunet agrees, and envelops me in her generous embrace. The cities understand, […]
May the cries echo. After that the quiet will stumble like a whipped wild horse, a moment pilled inside the throat, overpowering the wind yowling down our condemned roads.Waiting, in a deaf room under deaf stars, a scream,anchored to the whisper.