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

O .. o .. OOO, Bloody!

Quite passionate, a tour de force.
As early as the first, then the second paragraph to
expand upon,
to provide arguments
to the qualification, you laid… laid out, oh dear, determined losing myself
… In the title, yeah, said the word,
in the upside-down text
hung on an imaginary hook
I scream at my bosses flats, mouths open on
O.. o.. OOO, Bloody!

Conductors in the brain are burned out,
dendrites massacred like the Persians at the Marathon.
Pyramidal layers of nerve cells grow out
into the burning pyramid burned by smoke,
they want out Out of my head, go home to your Egypt.
The top of the pyramid punctured my forehead,
and I stuck to Lucifer,
and the last broken eagle-eyed, neuron,
as the last Mohican to run from the wolf’s burrow
with one dizzy flip, noise, noise, delirium, explosion.
My head is empty and my eyes bleed to death.
Since then, I have visions that I do not share with the honest world.

I, Princess Ciniska of Sparta,
the first woman to win the ancient Olympics,
if I have to tell you all about myself,
I met the god Pan, who, seeing me
as gigantic, angry and powerful, got a panic attack.
and I proceeded westward to Athens…
to things whips out from the wall, grabs your head
and re-arranges your brain, right?
with three jaws three scissors and three knives

Didn’t you see that they slapped me?
They… within the shadows..!
All I have to do is tell you that the next phase,
before my final and inexorable arrest,
is to throw my feet in the moonlight.

For I saw the sky that was pouring out the rain of damnation
While green blind dogs that have bitten off all the earth
with balsamic muzzles   long the weeping path
I saw I saw I saw, and I fell dead
The land god made in anger,
seal bones that once littered the shore
of the shipwrecks caught by offshore rocks

The Stark Empire

Even as the flame of snows things is wont
becoming avalanches of oblivion
to stark empire of blank stares only,

So likewise was it there
a pan flute of weeping reeds
to die in fields from point to heel.

Who is that one who writhes fingers
burning the house,
more than the absence of everything
Returns indoors a redder flame –

To that one grapple, from jag to jag
and non-resurrected bodies
If you will have me a flood in a drop of rain
down there along that naked aeons, compliment me,
so that death may be delayed.

Flames fall, star parachute
I stood even as the friar who is beholding many herds
a non-lizard star that will
bow the tail and disappear between
surprised fingers.

The dolorous no,
my eyes will not cry
nor will this mouth weep for terror

The trial begins. Witches!

My ashes descend.
written by Leila Samarrai
edited by: Obinna Eruchie

From the diary of a mad writer after…/ the shot

Soon it will all be over. Damn them, the reversed optics of my intracranial madness are picking up the pace. I am no longer a woman, but a macroscopic particle. A peg-top. Call me Peg-Top. This I will do so suddenly, so feverishly, and yet so calmly, my hand will not quake. I will lightly lean forward, legs spread to the width of my shoulders, yes… Calm your body. Aim carefully. Pull the trigger. Take a deep breath. Aim, pull, calm…calm…

Beside absurd begins the strategy.
The wheels of the little machine drill,
She! Grinds the finger rolled in gunpowder with the trigger
Like in the dough,
Illuminates the brain with destructive noise.
May they fire, the clerk murderer should fire and all those others
Who will after the shot carry me out in pieces.

Abortion poem

The storms lopped off that head of
quiet cities
giant waiting room
fog – braids

always besides seeing
a snake – pit
crucified orchid looks like a uterus.
along roadsides made of hot coals

Do the trumpet of darkness hide love
do music of the wind drinking wine
do carelessly frog – brides
cast their veils
over the vertebrates
do bare-hearted glass frog
cast their steel tools with greater violence
over tin plates
I wonder.

Is it a stretched time
a hamstring torn apart
all the dead ends in the night.
with a cello played by umbilical cords

as an endless wait
and gallium rains
fall from the past

I should remember

sunbathing naked suburbs
when swings empty as eyes looked at us carelessly

Say something.

Closes with a
small lobster clasp
of dead children passing through dead children

a vortex where they wallow
in whirlpools and abysses of the deeps.
Children of the stone men

My bastards… birth of my birth.
all with ageing faces
la tierra
They’re taking me there..
where bone made of roses clocks in fear.

Through heart’s mouth
cockspur veil of senses

started to grow rapidly
wood and waves
gimmicks on the face
face in gimmick and stiff thorns

a bronze plated pendant of
stone people
weathered carving

of sweet pastel, a cutting ladies’
birth of my birth, and unborn
children, sandwiched between ovaries

I’ll paint myself
open-legged pose
like Frida Kahlo
self-induced abortions
a nude
Dali’s haiku

Cannibalism in autumn

a kite, a sunflower

lurking around, ready to pounce
swamps, billabongs, creeks,
canine voices, the first whale
and cosmic hieroglyphics
in creamy emptiness
reverberating riverbeds, and waterholes.

I can’t
I don’t know
how it comes to…
I can’ t, I can’ t, I can’ t, I can’ t,
I can’ t
I don’t know
It’ s like… it’ s like a
2 or 3
in my name to…
and I am there…
proud erected Gallipoli cross

But I to Apollos But I to Kyzaghan But I to Bunyip
O, Moines..
down the throat of sunflowers
fused fiery letters

a kite