Merry get-togethers from Alcatraz (Zina)


Who can kill the one who looks
a lot like the other one
at don Quixote armour
loneliness is how it is

Praised be otherness of others!

Test the final stroke
especially if effective
observe the infinite weakness of the rest
rundown old barrels

They look just like the other ones.
I used to live in
the gun of a gaggle of snakes
in the heart of the tulips

Do not obsess over the minute details
up until that point as strong as a megalith
and the crown mockery of time
is my witness to this,

brackish bamboo and poor slave woman Zina*,
raving, rabid, she – the black spaz
merry get-togethers,
oh, how we drank at those gatherings…

To each breath of a justified EW!
the invisible mirror kept filling up
with a full reflection of an enraged tiger.
I contain myself.

Fears flew
through space the bestiary
a pipe player did a ditty
in the background.

The music cried out, sad.
no place for a walk
with endless noise of possibility
a little more impossibilities and

Morbid, the liquid tulips
scream laughing as they drop
and crabs come out of their throats.
One madminge less
Gone! Poof! The Alcatraz document!

Author’s note:

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Off the record – I am scared of my poetic responses


I’m an engaged woman
one that’s still necking with sky
I skip the fence, these are the bunches of bushes
these are the lengths of the backbone
(Does the soul have urges and gut?)
I’m scared of my poetic responses

I am hungry by being an everlasting land
I seduce the heavens so that I am an ungodly land
I’m a never-ending land in the collapse
I am scared of my poetic responses

I am the obsolete woman
I’m alone communicated thought obsolete for men
a thunderously conclusive readjustment of
their theoretically unproven
life sentences
of hopelessness self dependency’s.
I’m scared of my poetic responses

For close 40 years, I (t) funnelled
all of my Shawshank Redemptive experiences
within my poetic mode of hopefully
escaping under every watching eye’s noses
I am scared..
I’m transgressed, woman!

I wrote all the years to stay alive
and now after I decided it was time
for my own retrial
Unheard of mirrors.
the souls’ pricelessness by looking into
the windows once self-indulgent magnitudally
lost moment in time

I… 
while receiving the rescues within distances
ever-changing madness itself
fills the sky with visions and gold
with virgin gardens and springs
fills it with our little unimportant amours.

.. am not…

Now, when our eyes look through the lens of
the Hubble telescope, it’s pretty clear.
we’re still gravitating towards the ground.

.. scared…

And off the record
One fish was caught today
A Sunfish

Author’s note:
A Sunfish
Ironically symbolic of something in other’s words throughout history has never been able to catch its essence of beauty’s ability to lose the meaning of if looked at too intensely for its true meaning yet give sight to its secrets hidden at a glance

© Leila Samarrai Mehdi

The fate of the damned one


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
Yet
If you do not see
Or do not dream
Or do not know how to keep quiet

The Habitus of Wilhelm Friedman


Wilhelm Friedman was spat upon to the point of pain.
A boozehound died poor… They then admit…
The dude hit the clavier, like the buckish
bios of notable rock stars.
Oy vey, there was a movie as well,
I think the title of it is, in fact,
Wilhelm Friedman, where he
suffers and struggles
He is the father, we are all his children’ (OH GOD!!!!)
but with all those flies, fleas and planktons
that make up life and make up us humans,
like a living organism, dead centre in that life itself.
the habitus of Friedman Bach.
A remarkable musician, an unrivalled composer,
but a heavy, heavy drinker.

Copyright © 2019 by Leila Samarrai Mehdi

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law

Dehumanization


One little, two little, three little coxcomb
pray slack our rage
with a futile thought

so I heard them strumpet through the weeping dark
reverberating as the Sable laughed, howls
hot coles, abstract, to fill in the gap
as thus released my rain barrel

And as he spoke a new man die
so add blind dangling
that sudden light sound within those holes
of years for tears

to be bloodthirsty is better than a droop, let’s toast
to broken ribs of monstrous peak
to the powerful crimson arms

to 12 hanging chandeliers,
to 12 sheep hanging on the iron rod,
beyond courtesy of snake to snake in their snake-pit
to 12 hells lined up in forgotten time
to mild brightness trickles from the stars

Escape,
Goes through loneliness,
Always blowing quieter.

Copyright © 2019 by Leila Samarrai Mehdi

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law

Echoing Day


Echoing Day that awakens
hand with others’ words real
It’s comforting to be the surrender
to the cruelty or mercy of stone
The flames will open as dungeons
of an imaginary eye
through the dark walls with threatening asymmetry
blind mind, sight .. resurrected valleys then exploded pits
with a secret of men of how I become
miserably miserably lifeless
Heartless, awake, I raid their devilish picks

I repeat cast moons, I feel confused
I repeat time, still.. all the silhouettes of fire
unsettling madness in the valley of death
non-found treasure I bestow, I feel confused!

Grievance and hours wrapped in rotted mind
may I be lulled by buried voices
I delight the dark plots  of traitors,

though never knew breastfeeds

by echoes of that cunning sideways
and fainted valleys, oh mercy to the river’s
and dreadful dreams nailed me to my terrors
I cross this uncertain lasting ended in poisonous spark

 

Copyright © 2019 by Leila Samarrai Mehdi

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law