Piano, 1999

A siren splits the air

I sit at piano Bach beckons

my fingers dance over ivory and ebony

aeroplanes rip the skies a whistling shriek


My mother’s head cracks like glass


A girl, I waved at aeroplanes

American flags painted on tails their speed

enthralled me


I laughed in red sprayed red laughter

wipe my eyes laughing


I closed the piano and turned my back on the dead keys

me solum relinquatis

me solum relinquatis, Leila Samarrai
On Christmas, 2019, Belgrade
#city #citizens #society #prisonment #harassment #traumas #artist #freedom #escape

The head of the orchestra
is the Kapellmeister
whose massive truncheon,
like thunder, hits the naked, pissed on concrete.

don’t swallow the passerby
are you accusing me of transience, of tardiness
don’t stagger around like the poisoned sewer water.

Let me walk in pace

Towards the softness of the morning, whitened sun
like some clock, the sun measures the hours
with ancient precision
like on the clavier, my feet mingle the sidewalk
the asphalt is a hit in the middle.
here and there, I hear a bat of footsteps behind me.

The world can be horrible, but not dirty.
In all that disgust, I kept my good taste
you are nobody and nothing,
and the yellow bug crawls over you,
and each of her prong points a finger to you

You, you – pathetical, obsessive, neurological, what else ..
yes .. soft
I cried and was
the river
the ocean
I laughed and was
am amid the cold, vacant garden,
wet laundry, dirty glasses and broken mirrors
of a vagrant fool
with the bumpy ears.

Let me scream

You expelled me into the living pasture
you expelled me out of the gates of hell
to serve as a faithful slave girl towards the ground

I don’t hear my verses, nor the sound of their loveliness
neither the sleepless sea
It just wonders my whole life through…
those people who persists in waiting to die
no escape from clutches of death
Judas kissing at Getsemani

Dare its ravel by the road tween the kingdoms
Gallop, my horse. Whence this voice, on seven waters of yours
standing flash dewdrops thirsty
In the entrails, a hell grows the chalk-white arrows
I’m buoyant. In bliss,
I tread, brazen-soled,

Be lost, be distant, between dream and life
all the fires extinguished in the hearths
all the dead who believe they are coming into this world
lives equally

As were all the other evils that I hugged
as were all the other evils that have surrounded me
of that low ascent, you fountain with bashful wounds
midway upon the journey gripped by cruelty’s serpents
as I had all along on my back

Let me kill you

Turn yourself back to re-behold my foreign blood
eternally lost children for the monsters that greeted them
since in ill-doing through strange patterns of my childhood’s Carne vale

Where witches go riding into which holes they go
from the bales of fear my private lunatic changes me
little Quasimodo
with Huckleberry Finn’s quiet voice


*me solum relinquatis, lat. Leave me alone




The Theatre of the Dead – A Letter from Contemporary Poet to the Dead Fellow in Craft

Contemporary Poet:
(Life’s Pleas and Questions)

To start conversing beneath the soil,
watching death through a kaleidoscope,
the way it was lifted by the movie directors
and transplanted onto a movie screen.
In the opacity of the grave, there is water,
and gifts from the deceased one’s kinfolk
there is a lid which each of the departed –
once their eyes get used to the darkness,
that is – knows how to open.

Such suicidal maudlinism
from a vainglorious extraordinarium,
contemplating life and scribing
butterfingered sentences
Could it be said that you have managed retain
your catchpenny vanity even here and now?

I was inhumed with a hoard of quills and ink
Hence a misdirected bullet
I cannot bear to bid adieu sans the drama,
brought glad tidings to the world.
Extolling the sperm of Schiller and Whitman

O mine mister man O’Neil!
You grazing on the Irish pastures;
your entire life you wanted to be a simple shepherd,
and detach yourself from the homeland
that made you dedicate a stylized,
though dull prose dealing with wandering, wanderers, garbage collectors on an odyssey, Odysseys on the garbage heap of the world, you whose mother wanted you to be a priest!

You celebrated nicotine addicts
thinking I don’t belong among you
you who had your landed estates,
printing presses and titles,
oh how outraged you are by my novel
which would, had it ever been written,
outshine all of those burning thoughts
brought to you by a gust of wind,
which you fruitlessly call inspiration.

A seemingly impenetrable wall.
to the very end of the Earth and back.
the Earth is the Earth.
it belongs to the Living more than it belongs to the Dead.
their voices freed of the dark tone of cymbals
caused by the loamy walls

Reverberations lag behind the initial stroke,
rippling through the stagnant air
in the vast cave of the famous dead’s burning thoughts.
hordes of extras are shouting from the darkness;
murmurs, muttering, coughing and disapprovals
are heard, mixing with hysterical laughter
coming from the Department of Music&Theatre.

Startup the lights, antagonists!
let there be Music!
the Dance of Death commenced to the sound
of a cacophonous piano
brilliantly commingling variations to Salieri.
as the tempo accelerated unwaveringly,
Mozart kept flooring the piano pedals
as if they belonged on a priceless car.
his diminutive skull and compact hands
alternately rising and falling,
he guzzled from an empty bottle,
cackling, basking in the luminescence
of lanterns supplied by the archangels,
spilling over the entire gambling hall.

Clapping their metacarpals and phalanges
this crepitation lent rhythm to the eerie waltz,
fellow artists, write!
compose an ode, dancing to the rhythm with such skill!
get your bones clapping and your pens scraping,
smear the ink across your cranial bones!
here we are, performing for you the Dance of Death –
perform for us the story of a life!
bring out your musty quills,
ladies and gentlemen and with those marvellous
brains of yours – laden with letters, quills, brushes and paints
as they all undoubtedly are – highlight the wax figures’ tragedies.
grant them minuscule lampion houses to cram their meek lives into, dress them in patchwork quilts or golden harem pants;
make them heroes or cowards, thieves, traitors,
moralists and/or decent folk.

The Death’s Replica:

Let your quills glide as we,
borne by this eerie waltz, glide and lend rhythm.
we entertain you, resembling those models who,
weary of posing,
start pitching apples at each other
in order to keep their spirits awake;
and thus, seduced by the lyres
and the naked bodies wrapped in rugs
covered in Persian patterns,
those beauties maintain their perfect
comeliness devoid of boredom!

Hark the two ribalds!
‘Tis no dance, – ’tis no art, but a mass that accompanies our toils.

look back in laughter

she remained in Belgrade too long,

no less than twenty-five psychopathic landlords

during her ordeal.

money-laundering rednecks, Nazism at its best

inconsequential,, just look back in laughter


weird amorphous blobs with their cellphones alight in their underwear

everything worked on a clan-like basis! If you had an opinion you were fucked

inconsequential, look back in laughter


The convulsing man pulled a knife.

like a sailor and flinging at them the last remaining copies

of my poetry book

. ‘Cultist bastards! Out!’ ‘Damn gargoyle, I will kill your twitchy ass with my bare hands’

The Dark Will Understand…


inconsequential, look back in laughter


all of the dinosaurs resting in me,

being revived in that final clench of humanity

for me

Diabolicus in Blockus against the stalker,

and what is stalking other than a performance par excellence

just look back in laughter

D’you know how many pharaohs lived through twenty with it?

I’ve read it, I swear!

The book’s called Eight-Month Fetus.

all of it is prenatal stress with brain damage


look back in laughter


akin to the wish for immortality

survived the 1991 Ustase slaughterhouse,

a gossip keeping track of world trends

and claiming to possess ‘encyclopedic knowledge’.


look back in laughter


o try a few different blowdrying tricks

this time to reign in her hair she was never satisfied with,

not to mention bathing, pedicure,

the bus ride from one side of the room to the next


look back in laughter


Niels Bohr was a riot despite being a dickhead,

Wish I had a wonderful dream, namely, I was in Dubai,

in a luxury hotel, fascinated by the mint on my pillow

and that Spartan dishes make me go nigh-insane


it doesn’t matter so look back in laughter


She’s been planning her death for years.

She wrote a cruel set of laws for herself, and others too.

She carefully used her at times bloody shirt to hide the gorgon

she had been secretly growing on her tit

for years.

She dug her sharp venomous teeth into it,

the skin, used her flesh, skin, tit

as a sacrifice for she had long decided

to set the clock, let it tick, until the end.


Look – look back in laughter


– Give, give – the imps surround and push me. –

Look at her!

How she struggles, pushes us like we were beggars!

Look, look at the proud, desperate sorrow.

Gambled away, wasted away, haha!


take a look back in laughter


– Are you insane? Why not give money to me and my kids?

I sit here all day, begging by the fountain, sleep

in the public transportation,

and I used to have money like you.

Take care of all that money.

Don’t lose it, or we will be on equal footing,

and they’ll say Look at the poor insane thing.

What’s with your head?


look back in laughter


No apartments here The meter was running.

Once was a beautiful woman,

brought onto Caucasus from Egyp

t by the sons of Ommaya as per ibn Shaprut’s order,

the minister of Abd al-Rahman III and Sebikhasim,

was slandered and sold,

a demigoddess of full breasts, thick hair and plump lips.


look back in laughter


rejected the Omayyad caliph,

he told Shaprut to sell Selima (her name) to the Khazar king Josef

to do as he pleases, and this Hebrew king made Selima

the slave-woman of Allah

Selima was like a bamboo

while a squealing breath of disgust escaped,

a breath of a justified EW!


just look back in laughter


A bunch of psychopaths which I met along the way

grew to a dynasty so powerful that the torchbearer

allow them to serve him,

not to butcher them

when he smells competition.


just look back in laughter


Not a single NOBODY.

Nobody and somebody.

Nobody there.

All is Nobody and Somebody.


When I eat I do not take the food at the table.

Books of wisdom make me feel nauseous.


The numbers mean fate.


One day you’ll look back in laughter

embrace the moment. (in technicolour)

embrace the moment. (in technicolour)

At midbrain,
shorthand words word more words
a tongue-tied rope of words strangler
from tongue’s taste bud saliva through the throat

But there’s an arched jewelled pendant to catch the last mouth rinse
and Technicolor to x-ray the red-handed tongue

Me the old Judge of eternal hatred,
as Cernuda, once wrote in a verse.
but a little tired,
from a decade of merging and melting of eternal
circular cycles, giving up the ghost, forlonness,

eternal questions, terrifying riddles,
paradoxes…and another idiot with a folding gun.
hard workin’

after which I inherit sadness
earn’d Scorpio killer and dreams

One penned page,
one bullet fired,
one rebellion squashed,

Look around.
look at the world.
embrace the moment.

Editor: Obinna Eruchie

the key sum of all things

the key sum of all things



cello made of sponge
and rosewood
releasing a flow that is a unison

of hold-able
Of musicke


a short, tight strum,
worth the reed,
the sap blood of living things has found
and will ink a new font
in what’s left of the human hour.

FILM: Film’s the mad black Easter egg
for a great many people.
Under Phoenix brood, inhaling the smokes
of flesh &n’ blood.
Freudian, drowning in the human average,
id hearing the threat of being lock’t-in.
All set to a one-song opera.
Damn good stuff.

mediate on and harvest
to my level of capability
from these lighten bolts disguised as roses,
these fences made from prism glass,
these marrows which no bone
of the human or the universe could turn aside:

But then, again, isn’t the key sum of all things best played on a harp made of pyrite, snakes &n’ roses caught in the strum?

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