Killer Poet

Through the assaults’ subtle gas
sprayed on the body of sentences,
I quench life of the impish people
to bring them down as wooden blocks
after reading my letters.
My sentences I order like soldiers.
They are gunning down my victims
in dramaturgical strokes and pathos.
My sentences hit without warning.
Let eyes face the truth – I am a killer poet.
But, still, I say something.
written by Leila Samarrai
edited by: Obinna Eruchie


Do obsess over the minute details.
each contains a drunken interweave.
to spite the enormity of a worthless attempt.

I write painfully,
swim through the similes,
I shorten the story, then expand on it,

Up until that point as strong as a megalith,
almost to the point of an afterthought.


If I was, with my imagination,
discerning through the voice the kind
or the monstrous spirit in every living being
(with whom I would converse),

That same imagination discerned me the existence,
of the unused prints of such melodious,
and yet so unloving,

Voices not yet revived,
which are yet to rush, buzz, roar and call
the dark, unexplored worlds

Threatens to suck in and pull
the fear unclear, mixed with loathing,
walking integrals made of blood, meat and malice

All of humanity towards the corpses of eons,
the polyphony of murmurs,
screams, roars

From the purple mouth of the Dark,
creaming, maddened medusas
with horse necks and with bodies of the bull. . .

Who scratched the disc of Dark,
who flipped the pages of the atlas of Death
who, hungry for red meat,

Search and grab,
swallow, storm, crush with their feet
bodies dismembered and the transcript of antique nostalgia

Dedicated to the wiccans and the undead,
on the slopes the pierced the grounds,
like forks into soft meat

Stretching far above the tips of malicious temples.
as well as Belobog proposes to the Boogey,

With her scary face and open jaws with no teeth.
Hercules searching for Persephone,
but, the drama one, not the lyrical one!

When the sky is bloated with gray clouds,
and the rain does not drip drops,
but bubbles like cursed membranes….

Did they have faces?
even if they did, those would be dark curves of circles
in Nothingness itself.

Tzap, poof, abracadabra, doo!

Spirituality is left in awe


Act like your descriptive resiliency’s mirrored colours
careful paints its true meanings
share your intents by stepping back now

in looking forward to the future
with awaiting wonderment’s
of which though patience is its virtue

an inspirationally creative aspect
of creatively limitless boundaries

of poetic freedom
drew me into my own struggles
of limitless distance and times

sought after poetry’s portrayals turn abouts,
opportunity’s beliefs best-suited points
shared beliefs are offering

in this our written life’s transfigurations
contracts placed in times
the accordance of rebuilding these once

broken doors of opportunities
that we now stand for by reminiscing

of be fronted justices cause
to unite peacefully
before the those forgotten within

reveal themselves rejuvenated
by our rights left uncharted
perhaps by their own fears blinded efforts

to remember love’s potential as well.
a shared reminder of the gift’s surpassed rarity
of achieving one’s goal’s of inclusion’s

all-encompassing uniqueness
of perceiving life’s ongoing
reflective self-empowerment’s ability’s

unto others seeking solaces redemptive
fully understood
compassionate mysticisms carefully laid before them

in hopes of seeing someone’s mirrored imagery
right behind them
backing their own stories

no matter what stands in front of these attempts
to be in the moment’s
where just knowing someones guiding the hand

you’ve held is all that truly matters —
act like spirituality is left in awe
and then the sorrows like this one…

past will be my own recuperative times’ narratives
focusing solely on my own similarly
poetic journals of rediscovery

Myself being a one-digit (index finger) slow texter
beyond tired and dreams of tomorrow
await me in slumbers welcoming.

all rights deserved by ©Leila Samarrai, 2019

Method Writing

Keep pumping on the keyboard; 

keep grinding your ink carved from plough.
Suit yourself,
Stephen King1 said or was it Chekhov2,
it could be R. Bachman3,
it could be Antosha Chekhonte4,
it could be both.
Recorded by Callimachus5,
the archdeceiver,
poet and a chief librarian,
third-century B.C.E. in pink mist
by Borges6 323 p. N. E
claptrap what’s already been
spewed out during a coffee break.
Like a commoner, something in the command given.
Lights out, abseil down,
scented tunnel dwellers of history ego prædicatores
the Monks of the West.
There, in a mist, it’s a book, in Book of books
with the technique of Ptolemy7,
as Callimachus said,
Supreme Head Library of Alexandria8,
and his face is … his face is horrible,
stepped out of the fire…eyes are blind,
“C” sees everything, Bang.
Author’s Note:
1. Stephen King is an American author of horror, supernatural fiction, suspense and fantasy novels.
2. Anton Chekhov was a Russian playwright and short-story writer, he was considered to be among the greatest writers of short fiction in history.
3. Richard Bachman is a pseudonym of Stephen King; the name was gotten from Bachman, a Canadian rock band.
4. Antosha Chekhonte was a pseudonym of Anton Chekov.
5. Callimachus was a native of the Greek colony of Cyrene, Libya was a poet, critic and scholar at the Library of Alexandria.
6. Jorge Luis Borges was an Argentine short-story writer, essayist, poet and translator, and a key figure in Spanish language and universal literature.
7. Claudius Ptolemy was a Greek mathematician, astronomer, geographer and astrologer.
8. Library of Alexandria was one of the largest and the most significant libraries of the ancient worlds.
All rights reserved ©Leila Samarrai 2019
edited by: Obinna Eruchie

Becoming a Writer

In the secrets of fathom deep of guarded embroiled,
guarded Frontieres of intercoursed sapphire
and intercourse willing feet desperat
and eternal shackles into layers undiminisht
by utter darkness and durst in dreadful deeds.
I’d not be fit as return’d not have lost Seraph
as the smack of feverish and the transpiercing aeons.
Undisputed twists and handkerchiefs,
flamed blood bitten gentlemen,
I lay bare unfit, a skirt, the mightiest,
so pondering durst ink.
The number of stones or red bricks
thrown by exploding fingers,
the red graved letter by drunken writer
engraved beneath her window.
She ripped off funky letters
from parchment’s light-speed body
during her princess’ first inaugural ball,
pulling muffler like a strip of wool
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?
QUEEN: (scribbles)
Boring, boring balls to a courtesy farewell letter,
the strokes of a maddened keyboard,
and the normality of it made me tremble.
Oh, how painful have been my platitudes!
Exult in my strength, divide by lip
the footsteps of burrowing mammal,
a goblet of words is to be uttered
only by the wild cat teeth
upon the retina of finger burned deep
and the synoptic lays of the adverse spreads havoc;
my novel grows.
And it’s you who are whatever,
a misunderstood noblewoman,
but ignobly lioness of the wood,
write horror tales and never kiss away
all the tender castles seem to lie at you
even the mildest of the savage
can become a writer
that tells the story of
Hamlet’s brilliant-hued chestnut.
What can it then avail
apparent Queen’s solitude?
A javelin cords!
A smitten sound!
A splash to an admiring toad,
intuitive and capable of more
in these bright wanderer degrees
but by such Sea-maid haste
sets now know whence learnt: sackcloth glow
at the end of necrotic moist
all things tender.
Bad, bad doll! How far is it
to the bog swamp then?
© Leila Samarrai, 2019, Belgrade

Let there be Music!

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 decent folk.