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.

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Abortion poem


The storms lopped off that head of
quiet cities
giant waiting room
and
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

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

Say something.

Closes with a
little
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
Everything

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

Children!
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
descending
to
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…
SHH!
THE TRIUMPHANT SILENCE TINKLE
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

Nascency


I supervise and I punish
I do not destroy, I suppress
between the hidden and obvious,
through desires and laws, to death and kinship
About a law of merged vessels
The invention of humanity is so tempting.
The position can be inverted
and the Earth were
and the sky were
and stone by stone were
I’m a sculptor
in Aphrodite’s hands
I beg
I curse
I hug time
to run backwards

RESURRECTION


In the beginning, I created two zeroes
two zeros, they were, in the beginning at the beginning
people fluttering vainly in my ringing words in the belly

I screwed up, yet again.
I moved again to the bus 26
again I did not return the corpses to the place
I picked up the phone again

It was me … I made their death to the end
with the patches in my hands that I covered them
with a pudding of water
from where I would catch the fruits of theirs
blood, I cleaned them dirty, helpless to control myself.

My poems revealed a deadly activity.
sometimes I’m too quick, hasty react
so I missed the victim.

(Temperamental bird
was walking into the circle, tweeting:

People like to nod over their heads to be loved.
I know it was important to them, more than respect.

Great’ve performed
I am now released to the pasture of life,
with whipped flowers on the throat.

I flew to tell you that you will not be alone.
On the road waiting for you, only the dead can understand.
And on the way, you are waiting,
the alarm clocks do not ring for a dream)

Now astonishment took the stomach. Behold the miracle.
Because the dead are not coming back. Plant them in a tomb,
fill their suitcases, like a plate of porridge
yet they are here.

The dead are coming back.
Always. They have unpleasant names, they are nameless.

I ring for you, stand up, life is one,
grabbed you .. Live!
then slowly retreats,

It inserts the umbra, traps,
passing days, same days wear headgear and grey caps.
Neither a dirty sock is no exception.

You’re becoming a monk from
silence.

Loneliness then soaked
With the melody rising,
with the harmony of the sphere a bit of my old dirt.

I’ve been drinking lots of benzodiazepines before
resurrection, a happy event
I’m a character forever lost in the brand of everyone
postal address,

once beautiful, now one of many, decrypted, glued
for the machine from which the paper is fed, printed in legitimate crumpled letters.

I and Jesus are like a nail and baptism.
I have an appointment with a psychiatrist at five.

@Leila Samarrai Mehdi

21st Century – Salieri’s revenge


In the 21st century music is no longer a friend of the muses. It has become a tool for “good” entertainment and for money -making exclusively, and those “goals” are the only criteria for its existence. Don’t even get me started on the visual arts and literature. (It’s tragic) The question remains: what is a writer (painter, musician) to do in such a climate, where even he is despised as a selfish, ridiculous creature who “lives in his/her own world” not having a clue about “real life”, the one whose art is mainly a cheap mask as an excuse for laziness (well, not all that cheap…)
It is irrational to think that art can be more than a hobby for a woman or a man unless it is eventually paid for. And in order to be paid, in cash or by credit card, it is necessary for you, my dear friend and colleague, to have a big shiny house and to be financially more than secure and possibly a lord or a count. Then all of it makes some sense! This is a typical relativization of a pondering mediocrity.
What to do? What could be done in a climate like this? The answer is: No matter what, the artists should refuse to listen to the shrill voice of this unhappy, materialistic, desolate era, removed from all of humanity. Their work must be done in silence, for the next who will accept it with a smile or refuse it with burst into laughter.

joshkutchai_salierisrevenge