I will kill the chickens if the roses don’t stop them

Lyrics belong to everyone

Not even by escaping can you avoid her heaviness

So do not rush to anywhere

Do not feel the abdomen of the dark with your fingers


Somebody will die during the first twilight

And I will write about comets

Deprive the bread in your hands

And prepare the ploughed land

For the dead of rosy lips to breathe


Sleep peacefully

I will counterfeit whatever is necessary

I will kill the chickens if the roses don’t stop them


You find those who accused us



One little, two little,
three little coxcombs
pray slack our rage
with a futile thought
so I heard them strumpet
through the weeping dark
reverberating as the Sable laughed, howls
hot coals, abstract, to fill in the gap
as thus released my rain barrel.

And as he spoke a new man died,
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 the 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 takes off through loneliness,
always blowing quieter.

copyright by Leila Samarrai, summer 2019

Editor: Obinna Eruchie

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

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 Love That Never Dies, Leila Samarrai

Breath in
Breath out
Breath in
A corpse never dies

A wassail around the grave
Of the Russian mystic
Lunacy crucified in his eye

He walks around in a black robe
On a graveyard
That did not cry
On which I listened to yelling and screamed
Sensitively gentle and superior

My blindness,
Merciful death
Put me away into wilted flowers
So I repose there
Already my corpse reeks strongly
The one that never dies
Whose wounds were played in the darkness

Sensual death,
The downfall which with a watchful eye
I saw never again
I am repulsed by the rot that sleazes through my senses
Amid the room given to me like a grave, and the glass
To watch my reflection in it
Or end my life with the smithereens!

I knit a wreath for the vixen
Who was suffocating next to the shaft,
Tearing the grid with her teeth,
Who was breaking the joists,
Eating sonnets,
She rode the Lions gate
In a dress with a décolletage
Cut with her sword and enflamed with her pyre
The heads of the five Mycenaean bulls
Drank the blood of the horse from the silver chalice,
Tasseled in rosettes, with a light sword
I dug two pits
For two rings, of gold and of bronze.

For the beast that leaves the cup of wormwood
At the tip of the hands
For the beast
With a merciful heart of the venomous fungus

Like you (who are a) corpse
Like you, scorpion, who are
While unease ripens in the fog
Lulled inside the years
A bloodied sun comes out in the west

Throw me to the pigs!

In the circle of graves?
In the tomb of Atreus?
In the sea bed of Aegean full of blood.