Is it applicable also to stone?


Behold! Should you not dying, live;and living;die.

.. from the veil outward…

Ornaments and objects

A shrine to

Malleable walls

Cave jewelry

The falling through

The respiration by spilled images

Blazed with the day

In which I drowned

My inner Bishop

Bring back the change

Merely muffled roars and groans

In time.

You sing that song

Don’t…

Read that song.

That same stupid song

For the last three decades

This song you sing every morning

Where’s the song you’re gonna sing?

As the Deep is going down

Dive

You plunge into maelstrom of

Recycled paper

I saw, I felt, I sank

You got tased

You experienced extensive

Art production.

Surrender, fighgting and fighting  surrender

Is it applicable also to stone?

Ah I hate when liquid rock

Dips like that.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

House of Lazarus


House of Lazarus, house of ruins

Burning bamboo flute beneath those shores unfold

Beneath the dreadful moon

Divine Dryads, while letal shades cheer my troubled hour – leave

that bloody track behind

As i am of silent but gazing roses as in strange land

Where an earthquake endears the choking sighs of men

You, thus hammered by your moistful hatred, created sheckels of

Slaughterers sight –

This pale you are, like the living on the board to the cemetery

Where broods the horde of ravens putrefying.

 

 

 

The Clock


We stand on the brink of abysses of the deeps.
merely feel the frightening, introverted search
we have displaced ourselves in fantasy
and multiply ourselves as we please

We peer through our silence
observing through eyes unseen,
that silence tears through,
at times shrugs and as if shaking of a stone,

that particular motion, then like exhaling in pain,
went over our years with a filthy rag
to stop lasting, breasts of bile and blood,
room full of blood, venom and suffering.

 
A real-life zombie land – wrinkled faces, pale,
as if robbed by a fever,
hardened backs bent,
scared and careful of the impending knife strike,
like lab rats, yet bloodthirsty.

We dug our venomous teeth into it,
the skin, used our flesh, skin,
as a sacrifice for we had long decided
to set the clock, let it tick, until the end.

all rights deserved by ©Leila Samarrai, 2019

The Punisher


Version 1 
Ah, to hell with that creature.
Desert everywhere, unending for the last human soul on Earth.
Each feather is rosy from the inner tissue degradation,
as if a crafty carpenter made tiny bones in my flesh,
making figurines from past dreams with a brush and a chisel.
And then there were the patterns which bubbled after a sleepless night
that were on the back of the hand of that greedy beggar like an undead spirit.
What kind of powerful shriek is that?
Exhaling painfully and clasping my throat, I jolted up.
It’s a fear that boded the upcoming unrest.
More is deserved! And the gods have seen fit to deliver more gifts
for the people of Gateshead and the British jackal! No more than the barbaric getae.
A mockery, on all accounting! A SLIPPY COIN is the glory you deserve.
What name does the rich man carry? I never cared to ask.
But to defy the wishes of the human in need, it’s not wise.
Up Punisher, you drunken goat, and lend your men with horns to the noble task.
166490-primary-0-nativeres
Aaron Douglas  
The Judgment Day
Version 2
Stone the Lordling! Parched wilderness,
incessantly breeding the Talisman ashore!
Decaying tissue falcon feather apiece,
as if a beardless carpenter
brewing bones tiny in my beef,
forging fair maiden figurines
from bygone fantasy brushing and chiseling.
Whispered howbeit the drowning merchant,
wagging tail grappling Outrageous Zeus,
such forlornly the alluring fair maiden?
The sobbing tongue hanging in a scabrous well, forcing a jolt.
Ah! The hell of fear! The chaotic Hades! Looming like a bee.
The skies rumble with agreement, justifying innate deliverance:
higher thunder, growling bolt and the lightning!
Bless Gateshead and the British jackal,
Caricatures abound, all intellectuals say, all fools agree.
Gold-plated lead is the glory sought on the cradle of faithlessness.
What designation is borne by the puffy pockets?
Too unconcerned lay I, never is prudent to disregard
the want of endangered seeds sleeping in burnt lands.
Up Punisher, you drunken goat,
and lend your men with horns to the noble task.
***

all rights deserved by ©Leila Samarrai, 2019

edited by: Obinna Eruchie

www.allpoetry.com/Obinnex

https://www.poemhunter.com/obinna-kenechukwu-eruchie/

For, living in fear is a death that never ceases.


Fear often recurs, fear often repeats itself, he has tact, he is musical, he likes to preen, very sure of himself, constant grooming. he gets closer and faster to our hairs and says, I’m here, I love you.
Fear is a kind tenant to us, he pays his rent on time, he truly understands us, he cares about our toothache while crying out loud he would alert us to Mrs Flamehead, the landlord, a wicked woman hooked up forever with a broom and with a cloth scarf on her head
You have to run away, says Fear, you have to run away, his words have it a great sound of reprimand, his cold sentences, like icy droplets of sweat, in search of a wet knot made of piles of weakness.
For, living in fear is a death that never ceases.

Some deaths come to make others’ lives easier


Some deaths come to make others’ lives easier. The phrase “Not to speak ill of the dead” falls into the category of grievous hurt and thought defects, lies that are told as “good day” good evening “good night” how are you or… Today, it’s the hottest day of the summer, or… .”Not to speak ill of the dead ”- Just passing the time of day – So much for decorum.

People die, dogs stay longer


 I could write about a woman

who sounds like Johnny Mitchell’s

Alcoholic tobacco mix

I could act a strange attachment

to the Middle Ages
Or to learn that I don’t know-how

to keep quiet about my love
I can be a cloud or a tree that are always there,

but they emerge from us
i may be the lack of touch

 that excites more than touch wants

 

Before Monday is Sunday,
and Sunday is the day that oughta pass on
There are days you don’t trust right away.
Exactly why you find them attractive.
the kind of days you fall in love with.
Because of the breath of carnival and erotic currents
Closed in winter and promiscuous in summer
A woman trapped in a male name. And vice versa
Tanned fabric, with Egypt sticking through.
Nile, Crocodile skin

 

Embracing your High Noon in the Louvre
as if carrying a plaque on its grave
On the back, Michelangelo and naked statues
Both, crooked teeth and a huge tompus
And they trembled and quivered and fumed.

Being a chimney among the cherries in bloom
Strikes with echoes and some memories
Endure then!
Early spring is relentless, always has been.
When pigeons walk harmlessly in front

of the doors of the madhouse

and branches of bureaucratic hell
It strikes now as the bird’s wing

slams into the counter glass


People die
Dogs stay longer
Finally, they die too

 

you can be a minuscule that will live for you
“Not to speak ill of the dead”
So they told you,
I’ve told myself along the way.
‘good afternoon”” Good evening’
good night’
how are you’
“Today, it’s the hottest day of the summer.”
Just passing the time of day
Some deaths come to make others’ lives easier

My words will survive slander, speculation,
anonymity and controversy
outlaw artists
I’m the big Division eye, I’m my own deity
the gods are not to blame,

they have taken and embraced it firmly
what they were offered
to make it easier for them to fill their heads,

they must first be emptied 

I can’t distinguish a diadem from a bag of potatoes
the silence underlines that I’m just whining
grey, blue, colourful,
all this wanted to love and be loved
that land,
look!
Watch the willows sway,
the shadow ran out before the hand of death

 and the whisper of life
the bullet erodes the body

 from a lonely void to a deep silence
like the sound of it losing itself
in the deaf wind
fifteen years of life, as a mistake.