darkness reigns now


Oh, now at night unknown someone
hanging black flags on houses
shakes the handles

I am mild towards my alienígenas albertosaurus murderer
masquerading as a being zipped inside a skin suit.

and the secret alignment that chords over us
while bombs and people were falling around us

While bombs and people were falling around us
I’m jeering from one end of the full stop to the other.

Goddess, God or Lord puts on a pair of black gloves,
though she – the black spaz is not the son of a glove maker.

My heart is pounding,
chaos spit fire and pain,
and you beat me, wild man, Pérvaya mólniya

I lined the idea that failed to flow forth
I lined the idea that failed to flow forth
as I hovered over the Shrapnel soap
while the 1999 Shrapnels were whistling around us

the dark chords of a funeral march,
with bombardments and flügelhorn,
with the thunder of cannons in one sound

There is nothing in the shallows
Sludge, shrunken heads and kiddie recreate

Only the fence is bound
A creeping rose on a black table

And the withered bush is there
Rusty, odorless

darkness reigns now

In The Balovale’s tribes mausoleum (of human history od living and dying)

Airily at a fragrance-oozing garden                                         a gem-beautified tree leaving a peg of bright white wood

Thrilled hand sculpting faces to add to                           by the garden

With midsummer rose petals of                                         Venusian Red by the sides floor-strewn in rows

Too holy to pray                                                                      my eyes looked at the firmament’s high girdle

to dive in seclusion into light

It’ll just be one great summer of red tea

and I shall disrobe myself before nature                          and taste of love

hear the cortege the flutes and the                                    tambourines

perceived in the wind

Entombed beneath the mountains of Himalayas seclusion

In The Balovale’s tribes mausoleum

where it always smells like greasy secretion

during circumcision, an ancient torture for babies

From ancient precursor to what we call warfare

Since Ilyad then Tiberius’ Holocene and the charge of the light brigade

were terrifying, inglorious flash which had souls charred to ashes,

the blood kept coming from knife-stabbed bodies

Blades cut palms from the palm-trees for

a chant for selfish prayer of the wildest Brutuses

Richards, with all the Henries in between

leader, a sociopath in the house of roses

to clothe himself in war to taste of blood by fire

Gold glorified in greed have baited the kings

to close their eyes

and descend into apathy’s underworld

This has to be the end

of attending to gloom

Attention, my soul, do not leave your gaiety’s sun unattended.

I am not some face boiling if you stretch out

like a kid, your tongue at me

Here is my skin thick to stand

jackals from your lips                                                                                                                                                                                          handsome replica

appliance  is for the sake of ameliorative mankind

living with love in my blood is enlivening,

living tenderly in the silence..

No decay will devour my summers’ bloom

Actually, the sun in its beams of glory

will resurrect midsummer dreams

I want to see you, you… morning house

You, dewy face

You, flowery eye

In fact, when I take off this night gown

like a daughter in obedience

A garden secure,

pleases me with the fragrance, that faylike spell

myself, I’m a mystic

who seeks the Heavenly

I should walk alone with a silent head

to a secluded wood

and dive into darkness

to rise up into light

Exorcise Trials

Exorcise Trials


You dare to talk about the psyche

That I am not strong enough to do twenty-five push-ups?

What do you know about a woman?

Are you thinking of Psycho as Isolde

Or Juliet perhaps?

The ones who received Aphrodite’s curse

to be beautiful, but lonely?

Vengeful bitch.

Still so pretty…

Now go and look where her hands are…

I, The Goddess Of Yelling, I… scream


They call me Judi Dench, in the gym

I cut off the Venus’ limbs with my voice

Me? I am a few pieces of broken statue

I wish I was like Aphrodite of Milo

To be sold to the French at a good price

If only some farmer from Melos had unearthed me

I would be, like she, in the Louvre, beautiful and exposed

Instead I sweat and toil in a man-made gymnasium

Counting to ten over and over

Aphrodite de Milo:

I have a part of the left hand and an apple

I am Eva, now, immovable

with lust in this boring paradise

That is my trial.


I am beasting it up now…

I am a cardio bunny showing of my guns

While I sweat I think about my altar—

I am not yelling-I sing like my birds

How sweetly they call out

But then they’re trapped in their cage…

Which is why they weep

Or how about

I listen to the final tweet in their verse

To learn their secrets

Like the nightingale whose notes are devoured

even better then Keats’ can write

My poems are silent, however, passionate, hard


Dressed in beauty forever

I sublimely sing with LOVE

I am able to do it …

In fact, once, I did.

Now.. Hold for 30 Seconds then curl up

That is my trial.

[TO me, this should be the end of the first poem….the next part doesn’t seem to flow from this….I would separate here]


I remember November 20, 2000

The Hague, one of The Old Ones:

You… abhorrent… disgusting… perverse

Stay away from my normal daughter!

(at least she was stronger and smarter

to pull me out from the Slovenian pantheon

to Kragujevac’ shop windows)

although the entire Slovenian pantheon is poor plagiarism of

ancient Greek religion

at least she called me Wicca

or Diana’s witch

Incubus, at least she called me her grandmother

half crazy she went through the village, freed from peasant tasks

whining for her girlfriend dying

Later, her daughter went nuts..

As for myself,

As a noblewoman I changed my name of Sachsen-Coburg und Gotha in Windsor

That is my trial.


Time according to D. W.” Griffith, it happened in 1985

What’s your father’s name

How ????












Ekron God.

(Children’s laughter)

And spoken cruelty.

Baals of Canaan

Beelzebub, flies!

Fly fly away flies

Fly away!

(Silent cry)

Poor baby,my angel.
Your sacred, innocent
pure virginity is gone.

(Evil smile)

Common now 25 jumping jacks

Swat jumps

shoulder width apart.

to a comfortable depth…


Do you have the shots in the mind as I do

external anal’psis

even prolepsis

is Griffith your teacher?

“The Teacher of us All”

of a Hollywood Yahweh

End of narrative



I am Tired of .. under this sky…

I must take a pause ..

Cool down …


I am


a matrix,



the world is too nebulous

to be interpreted

I cast every onslaught on my body

I cast …

Perhaps I’m not a poet, but a killer

no poetry until the bloodshed

heads secession on the fly with katana

leave all sediment and silt behind


Time according to D. W.” Griffith, it happened in 2003, maybe in 2010…

she said

stop calling me!

He said: stop calling me

Ma‘a salama مع السلامة.

Mummies legions, the Nephilim

For the former joys have passed away …


Somewhere in the middle of the Hollywood narrative, critic speaks:

set on fire your madness do not feel ashamed

Good.. Very well penned…

thus you should write and thus it should be!

Continue like this!

symbolically, yet completely illogical,

and yet carries energy and   original poetic line!


We cast you out, every unclean spirit,

omnis legio, et omnis congregatio secta diabolica,

and nomini et virtute Domini nostri Jesu Christi!

This is much better, Griff!

“You know, I thought it was a new poetic voice.

But your slam ton I do not like “


in the name and by the power of our Lord Jesus Christ

unquam suade mihi vana!

I am not interested in your vanities.

That is my trial.


Mysterious ridges are thy Elohim

Where do you taking me now?

Why are you burying your toes

In the fiery bowels

Of the gerber – free!

“What do you see?”

There are three of them:

Mother, son and uncle

Screaming, laughing and stealing my jewelry

Cutting my hair,

Someone strikes

They spit on me\

“Sit in the tub!”

They paint my face with milk and honey

And soon, flies.. flies…

I was prosecuted from a large Dante’ yard

After that, I never could take Hell serious.

That is why they reinvented Devil in every 10 years or less.

unclean spirit,

satanic power,

onslaught of the infernal adversary,

Cast out their legions!

That is my trial.


Saves the best for the trial in Salem!

May the holy be my light!

May the dragon be my guide!

There will be three of them:

The unclean spirit Karni Mata

She lives in the Temple Of Rats

Also known as the Trojan pony.

She stole my money and devoured some life…

The second is the Goddes of Poop, with the hair of Medusa

A tremendous gossip!

The third is Ninkasi, born from the sprinkled vodka

Goddess of beer and brewing

The drunkard centuries

Beasts from the abyss

the Lamb of God

Behold, the Lamb of God enters the court!

Trials trials everywhere!

The blood of the lamb

The blood of the lamb

The poor lamb should do some donkey kicks

Photo Credit: Matrix of Art, Sara Chelou


My eyes are flawless
My eyes are living
hell’s of isolation’s keenly placed prison

In what darkness they’ve seen yet
whose light sees nothing else when looked deeply
within its reflections

Other than darkness preludes
always seemingly lurking in its unbeknownst
shadows of opportunities once had and lost

Continually raped by a demonic entity
my cowardice in my eagerness to say yes
my cowardice in my eagerness to say no

Those who have wept
mercy to the stillborns,
with bruised wombs, Mother’s feathered creatures

Starve us to the bone of sunlight –
never allowing us to wake
from its steely barbed wired fence

Beyond sense but saved
beyond dead but live
on sodden land with a granite red

Free to battened, free to crumble,
free to care not
free from pain and blood and touch

Vanity on the fox’s trail, “The Darkness will understand”

Vanity on the fox’s trail
Behold, a miracle!
Supposedly one-sided at instants
Suitable for a scrambled moment
The martyr and her daughter who wash their feet
Tasseled with nails instead of sandals
Conversing silently.
Anything but sough
Shores and scrapings fantasizing
Daughter do you wish the powder to slip you
To disturb the onus, non-being and tendrils
Wistful across the stones you overcome
Blacker than night
You fear there will no longer be vertebrates
It is the third hour in the night After

from “The Darkness will understand”

A wondering soul poem, Leila Samarrai

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

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 Lion’s gate
In a dress with a décolletage
Cut with her sword and enflamed with her pyre

The heads of the five Mycenaean bulls.

My blindness,
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

While unease ripens in the fog
Lulled inside the years
A bloodied sun comes out in the west



The signs along the path are the only thing left for you, “The darkness will understand”, Leila Samarrai



You do not grasp – the spilled blood is chiming
From unveiling you wrongfully dread
In agony of you yourself
While we pine atop Grecian terraces.

Still rivers are audible in endeavor
And at that conjoined

In mirrors is the road to land of dead
And worshippers of the chronometer
And the unachievable bloom of summer

Put the pigeon on the fire my daughter
We are going to satiate ourselves
Grasshoppers as well my daughter
Before they abandon us through the windows

I forefeel that the unreliable man
quiets his breath and embarks on the way
of Beauty, Ordinance and Wars

The signs along the path are the only thing left for you