Birth of the Crabs


A THREEPIECE POEM

SMALLTOWN CHOIR:

1

A  Something was wrong with her. Aha! She thought she was beyond everyone! (a convincing cadence) Sold her house to move to the Big City! (grandioso)

B Fine.

A We want to go to the Big City too, but no can do. You do not sell the house. Not at that cheap price! (followed by two oboes and fagots, calmo, cantabile)

Da capo. D.C (from the top)

A What did they do to this woman, for her to squat in other people’s houses in her age. She can’t even die in peace. Shame!

B They won’t be there long, they do not know what the Big City is. And it’s a beauty that the kid is incompetent at everything. She cannot clean! You have to work and earn money, and she can’t do anything. Yeah, sure, as if people need her books! You can’t live on books!

A  Let us pray.

    Let us pray.

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1

I climbed on the altar, lifting a knee before climbing a step. Then I laid my hands on the altar, lowered my right knee all the way, bowed my head and the tip of my body a bit, and my eyes are lowered cutely.  I calmly spoke, without seductive rush, or tears; quite the contrary, there was merriment in my voice, as if mocking.

Then I outstretched my hands, placed it onto the altar and kissed it pressing my lips against the shroud in the middle. It was stiff with a wooden frame, and instead of a dedication kissing stone, I realized this was a coffin with someone in it.

It was a girl in her mid-twenties, pale oval face on her and stunningly full lips. She lay on the shroud, in a black satin dress, hands on her belly.

– This is how I placed my hands so everyone can kiss my ass – I said, approaching the shroud and kissing the forehead of my corpse.

2

Mother and I entered the apartment and found it infested with Dusan Slovak’s presence. Horn-rimmed thick glasses partially clouded the murky look of the vulture. He pointed his beak at us. His hair was like a cockatoo after his crest was plucked out.

He was breathing heavily, each breath making his larynx inflate. Cancerous growth in his larynx is aching to burst out. As does the barrel of the gun peering from out of a white rug wrapped and on his knees.

– You know how to pamper your asses, but not how to pay the bills.

His voice was coarse and soundless.

– Money, right now. I am not a nobody. – brandy was pungent in his throat. – Nobody screws over Slovak. I can kill the shit out of you. Nobody fucks with Slovak, do you hear? Everyone knows who I am.

– Police especially.

– Police too. All of them my men. I have people there.

– Sit, mom. – I went to the kitchen and grabbed a glass of water, put sugar in it, then came back nonchalantly gazing about the room. – What’s up, Dule? – I removed my jacket slowly and started an insane conversation about the weather, casting angry looks at his hooknose, the gun which he pulled out with a nervous, fast notion from his white piece of cloth. It was an old magnum, I’d bet Long Star England.

-Dule, is that a BB gun? – I took a sip.

– Suck a dick, Leila – he replied casually.

To thee do we cry, poor banished children of Eve:
to thee do we send up our sighs,
mourning and weeping in this valley of tears.

I turned to my mother. I could summarize it – she was looking at him like he was a piece of shit, but I’d rather go with this – her eyes were wide with seething rage. Dim from suppressed anger. I was under the intention that they were enveloped in murderous foam.

He gulped his brandy gulps one after another, and she managed to calmly and collectedly, I daresay professionally with an Al Capone’s focus, suppress her anger behind the dark curtains of her angry eyes.

Her voice was down three octaves, quieter than usual, her arms but obliquely – if you really paid attention – clasped in her hands. I admired her gallant gift that the most controversial historians don’t find among great queens. When it came to me, considering all mothers have a personality deficiency, she could at once be both a lady and a killer. She who gave her life to her child since the severing of the umbilical cord, wrapping that same cord, Boston strangler style, around the bulging neck of Slovak like a telekinetic, while the attacker coughs and gags under her eyes, fidgeting uncomfortably in his chair, ready to be devoured by her eyes with murderous intent, growing like a fetus.

– Why are you making a scene, I mean…What do I owe you? And what are you even doing here? Did I pay the rent? You sneak around, mess about, drop in…You should behave a bit better for 300 euros, not wield that gun.

Turn then, most gracious Advocate,
and after this our exile,
defend me from the evil enemy

– No debt with Dusan!

– There should be no theft either.

He gets up suddenly. Beside himself with anger. She stutters. He then points a gun at her.

– Where is my daughter’s sporting equipment? – she was yelling. – Where is my money? And where have you seen my ass? Not through the peephole, so you set up cameras.

He opens his maw, but the arytenoid cartilage go their separate ways as he forms his voice, and leave far away to Hell and beyond, thus his voice had an eerie coarse quality to it, with his attempted shout ending in a snake hiss.

– And if I did? There’s crime in this world, that’s how you gotta do.

– The closet – I thought he would burn from anger and despair like an ignited log, I approached her and hugged her around the waist pointing her murderous eyes at him, but he paid me no heed, and his neck veins were popping blue as rivers. – I had money in the closet, below the sheets, the money which was going to take us out of your dungeon. So you have my money. And you came to make a scene for a telephone bill.

– Mom… – my eyes were focused on his throat. Inside it were rolling stones, his eyes all but ready to burst through the convex lenses of his glasses. He held the gun at the two of us, his hand surprisingly calm.

– Look, Slovak, if you must shoot, shoot us both. – I said with a tired voice. 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 artificiality, circular cycles, dying, loneliness, eternal questions, terrifying riddles, paradoxes…and another idiot with a fold gun. I felt the warm, burning body of my mother between my arms which was wallowing in rage. I felt no fear. Not for me. Merely that if anything happened to her, he would be dead and the world would be an empty date behind me. I would have nothing to live for. So get us both…

– What are you saying? – mother scolded me, to which I snapped and an ancient, underground warrior was born in me, my eyes aflame with murderous rage. From that moment whenever I found myself in a similar situation, and the crown mockery of time is my witness to this, the tiger and I would switch around, embrace in a mirror and solve the situation brilliantly, predatorily.

At that point I kind of loved violence.

He will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain anymore, for the former things have passed away

– First off, you entered the apartment with us not around. What were you looking for?

– It’s mine – he squealed. – What’s yours, you foo?! As long as I pay for your apartment, and I do so regularly, it’s mine and you have nothing to do here. Stop waving that gun – she shouted.

– Mother… – I never saw her like this before. The invisible mirror kept filling up with a full reflection of an enraged tiger.

– I do have cameras – Slovak started waving the gun around. I felt myself becoming a beast, through the centuries, finally having awoken it, and that if this lasts any longer, I…I would not be able to contain myself. Fears flew through space. I walked through the bestiary with my heart full, my stomach empty, hungry.

The tiger is circling the cage.

– And I have cameras. I follow your every move. Especially your daughter taking a bath.

– You sick dog. Give us back our money.

– Dumb bitch, why did you not keep it in the bank?

– Because those are the only thieves worse than you.

– Mind your language with me. Got a gun. I worked security in…big firms.

– You, security? You’re a twig. Look at yourself. Some firms those were that you kept secure. Our money.

– Get the stuff back, then you get the money back.

I nearly wept out of frustration when he returned his gun.

– Why did you move your stuff from this apartment? – he suddenly turned to me.

3

At that point, I wanted to not only kill him, but go outside, among the people, and shoot and kill them. One by one. Scream laughing as they drop and crabs come out of their throats.

 

 

The summoning of a star’s dream


Image: https://lemyreart.wordpress.com/tag/surreal-art/

I, tomorrow will be dying
a blink of darkness that enshrouds your eye that
offend thee
become so thick as well
its astrological wells
calling upon us, stars

The essay of the young, tough artists
in a shaky shadiness,
Arcadia’s magic is spreading
south of my ears, east of my scars
I was there
I was there

I flashed and sparkled and glowed
across the empyrean’s chest
let there be dark
let there be dusk
Apollo, are you deaf, or something?

… and icy paths of daylight made me
pale
wrapped in the shrouds,
distant, echoing …

I don’t mind, really.
The death is opened up to me, like a woman

Ljubodrag Stojanović, author, A review of the short story ‘The Bitch’


Ljubodrag Stojanović, author, http://www.alma.rs/autori/lj-stojanovic.html

A review of the short story ‘The Bitch’
THE POETRY Leila Samarrai is an exceptional poetess. Hence why the lyricism is so excellent in her works. Consciously or not, whatever the case might be, ultimately it is irrelevant, the verses flow from her sleeves, fingertips, quill, making up a powerful waterfall of verses which floods us readers, therefore we, occasionally, while disappearing into the colors and verses of Samarrai, get the impression that we are reading a poem, a poem that akin to sound (of whistling) gets stuck in one’s throat.
THE PLAYS I have had the honor of reading Samarrai’s plays. Perhaps some would call me subjective on this, but her plays are equally as good as her poetry. What’s more, Samarrai’s poetry and plays often are intertwined, making up an antique literary fatherland. Samarrai’s erudition mixed with imagination creates and destroys worlds and universes, leading us through epochs and vast spaces as if in a dream, or rather, in a moment. Is ‘The Bitch’ a type of play? Very much so. This story yearns for an adaptation, and it might happen if an open and ingenious enough person reads it and feels its bark or voice as an invitation for casting of a role of roles.
THE FARCE Speaking of playwrights, farce is the one thing that must not be avoided in Samarrai’s works. However you identify with her protagonists of either sex, with their realistic – and in a way our own, too – basic and easily recognizable problems, we are left with the other side of Janus’ face, partly smiling, partly grim. It is enjoyable to wander around the light and darkness of Leila Samarrai. Her humor can also be quite vocal, with many a hahaha within, and it can also, in the blink of an eye, turn itself into a very sharp and even shredding satire of human and less-so characters. Samarrai is what Branislav Nušić could have been had he ever wanted to dabble in horror.
THE ABSURDITY Mentioning Samarrai’s works, and glossing over the absurdist tinge of it, would religiously speaking be blasphemous. Even though it seems easy to write of absurdist literature or to write absurdist literature itself, I would disagree that everyone can do it with a little bit of imagination packed into the zeitgeist. Samarrai’s absurdist tendencies are not there for absurdity’s sake, nor does it adorn itself with it, spraying it all over the letters, nor amateurishly summon it like the Dodolas summon the rain. The absurdity is there, it materializes on its own, popping out of the situation, has a face and form of engaged literature, it is strong and loud, it chides and accuses, it awakens and sobers…
COURAGE Leila Samarrai is without a doubt a courageous person. I will not go into the minutiae nor explain why I think so. It will be enough for you to take one of her works, read it from start to finish, and it will all be clear. Without literary courage, there is no literary quality, or rather, it remains unfinished and silent, which in literature is a death worse than death.
METEMPSYCHOSES AND METAMORPHOSES IN ‘THE BITCH’ All of these characters might in a Borgesian, Alephian way, all be one. Peter is Ana and is Pipi and Fifi, and…The whole work itself. And not just him, but each of them separately. Dismantling, rearranging and transforming of characters is in particular a great treat of this all-encompassing work. For instance, Pipi is 2×3.14! An amazing solution out of which Pipi becomes Lazarus who is raised back from the dead. Also, the amazing ‘woof woof’ ending, with its greeting or saying goodbye, stultifies any character division to humans and animals, men and women, protagonists and antagonists. A top notch work of fiction alongside which you grow and learn.
https://www.limundo.com/…/I-lud-i-zbunjen-aforizmi…/54762727

http://www.alma.rs/autori/lj-stojanovic.html

LJUBODRAG STOJANOVIC WAS BORN IN GNJILANE ON APRIL 22ND, 1972, WHERE HE HAD LIVED UNTIL JUNE 1999. HE WRITES APHORISMS, POEMS, ROCK LYRICS, PLAYS, SHORT STORIES, AND NOVELS.

HE IS CURRENTLY LIVING IN NIS.

SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY: ‘THE SERBIAN STORY’ (2002), COLLECTION OF APHORISTIC PROSE ‘BOTH INSANE AND CONFUSED’ (2009).

UNTIL THE END


UNTIL THE END

Submerged in the depths of my misery
I see no light nor exit,
but I resist to abandon myself
in the Entropy’s welcoming arms
as such an easy defeat
would seem fair,
after having fought against my own personal enemies,
I shall not surrender so easily
I’ll keep on fighting until the end,
as I am Life
and as such,
I shall live with dignity until my day comes,
when I’ll leave this world
with empty hands
but a soul full of love and courage.

THE LAST MOH’S DAY, Leila Samarrai


Dear fellow readers, even though English is not my mother tongue, I’ve written some poems directly in English.  As you know, poetry is a very delicate matter. I am well aware that I have taken a certain amount of poetic risk, but I truly hope you will like it.

THE LAST MOH’S DAY

1.
The Mohawk day: is lost and gone
The stink of ink in poor stomach and glossary
With glyphs and sad music.
Shall I taste the harp – like sound?
Or mad drums of boats – shaped percussion.
Thus my spite greets humanity.

The Spark once came in a shape so dim
The twofold mirror twinned nobody.
Black nobody in rift crystal, bring no – way not all is there

Nature has so many talents, an old dark breaker
Twisted tree, a mark of blemish
For some only a birth defect
Tiny line of malformation. –
I truly say: she knew her way
So, one day she made Moch’s day.

So I forgot who I was, why I was here in non- subsistence
Never here I’ll never be, no, never – be in co -existence
With the whip of an arty bastard
Stinkers and rats crawl nearby, but stinkers eat the dogs among the living.
Slaughtered ‘em all out of kindness
A sweet act of tender office.
From the sole of Nature’s heart.

At peace vigilance.
The bitter wind is bitter breath.
I smell the lofty gasp in leeway.
Look!The starry skies and snowstorms you gave me.

For what? To see?
How can I?

In such cheer and my good spirits
Only martyrs go to heaven
Since I’m trapped in blowup fashion
In unborn ways of shifting lips, bold to kiss my habitations?

Oh jackals, how I envy you!
God forbid all swift captains to live too long

But on the fancied Moch’ Last Day, one stood in order,
foolish phoenix, sculpted anger –
gun dog on behalf of all afore
And he sang a song of noble, elevated, golden spirits!
A summary for bad luck man, for the misfortune
Praise the boldness!
His face was hope
I, once dead craved my forgotten secret tunes
While he stood so steadily.

2.
At mating time of the Holy Cow, I promise you –
That I shall be seen… there.
Painted blue, with a tear in… this hand!

Tear?
My perturbation of the unexpected wounded inbounds
Took flight quick in the old dark blank
Embracing my own spit again, my forceful and glowing antipathy.

Cheap and petty as the Word demands
When the shell is breaking, the shell must be broken
Holy Hammer for Holy Stroke.

An accusation!
An accusation!
Fair parody of the sacred battle
Blessed are falsehood and misery!*

* – indeed they are!

3.
I despise soft angers.
Like felon who cry: Amen.
My tongue licks tools and means so disgraced
And their flames overlap me.
As falsity of guns and fires. As offence in the path of mind.
The truthful mind is immortal light for those who dare to find

The Blind comfortlessness of the broken king – his nutshell had veiled his
Graced courage.
Finally, do dare.
Shoot!
In all the hearts that fade away.

4.
The tone so sharply flirts with action
Towards betrayals, those wicked offenders
You are the core of Moch’s rubbled grief!
Indeed, is that so?
The vow trembles gladly in the heart of the thief.
The drowning age.

Drowned on All Fool’s day
Is there any cheat to blame for such a shame
Evildoer cries aloud, therefore the “Why” for his heavy laugh
When you see the clown, indeed, you smile.

Laughter is not for the Fool
Too many fragments in the sacred heart
The cruelest mouth that never be so cruel
As my despise of morally sigh..

The jester moans and weeps
Such promises!

You, mislead! It’s common sense
And!
The lawful right of sinful worms
A robbery of hope – invention
Undying interest of Judas
Makes kiss so sweet in amusing farce.

The love is born of necessity
let “why” stay cold for bride to be
Risen from the ashes…
Such palaces for non – such kings

God the Father
God the Father
Where’s your son?
And where’s your sin.

God the Father
God the Father
Where’s your son?
And where’s your sin.