The Nymphet’s acrimony


I am the Aeolian echo in the wind
I am the Logos tucked away under the tongue
I am the first things that had joined the choir invisible
O holy night of offense.
I, the Nymphet in the bud,
the Goddess of the dreadful Hymen
an unloved goat-nymph
the envy of all Hellenic islets
lulling betwixt the crests
of the couple of mad waves
inhabited by the covetous
sweat driblets of my restlessness
pouring from my voluptuous thighs
I was caressed by butterfly shadows
entangled in the lux
fleeting as an emotion
my breasts smashed among the covetous crags
my womb became a satchel of acrimony
O holy night of offense.
I was raised a wild one among the lunatics,
a tabula rasa with madness scribbled on it.
Howls of animus heard when the seminal
river breaks beneath the gibbous moon
below the navel where milky pearls
drip into deluges of steamy rivulets
below the eyebrow where the fears
woundingly drip into the eyes of undulant sadness
Lo, rascaldom
lurking lightly, gazing scoundrelaxedly
multiplied deception is built out of perspiration
Lo, a countenance of tears
bear witness at length of the weep
behold a tattered redeeming herz

Scream and Whisper, Leila Samarrai


THE_SCREAM_by_CalvinHollywood

image found here

May the screams echo. After that
The silence will stumble like a whipped wild horse;
A moment pilled inside the throat
Overpowers the yowl and endless wind
That whimpers down the roads of land we are condemned to
In a deaf room, in a deaf night, by deaf ears
The scream in my throat is anchored
To the howling whisper.

Recommendation of Nemesis, Leila Samarrai


Yes,
We met by the reflection of the eyes,
Echoed the enamored god
Like Echo mortally in love with pretty Narcissus,
The future suicide from who will grow
The flower and myth of sin with oneself.

With oneself I found that:
My mouth is sutured
My hands mourning songs without masochistic pleasures.
Do you seek within her the aesthetic artistic utterance with truth and freedom?
Or merely an attempt to put things in their real place.
I knew I shall say the monstrous everything or I will say nothing.

(The Minotaur of Tales)
Kill her, Leila!
May the sword taste her stomach and breasts
After your fingers and face!
Kill her, and do not mourn her!

It is a gamble, card playing,
A splendid, glorious and retched plea,
To disclose and discover the flaming blade.
When somebody wriggles out from the tomb of missed emotions
And meets the sure philistine love,
She will give a blunt hit to the head to the beautiful creature that offers useless things and deceptive poetry

And then, the philistine, leaps out of the dark smiling with a giant boudoir of safety and comfort,
Kisses his pretty trophy on the forehead, coldly and peacefully taming
The passionate, flaming eyes by nature, mired into futile struggle.

(Joan of Ark)
Stab her, Leila!
Stab her with a spear!
Remember the dungeons and betrayals!
Remembrance is death for repentance!

We met at one of the impossible places,
We were a pair of unforeseen miracles.
It was a gift, a curse and futility.
Where the glance hits both the one and the other.
The glance that brings and takes away:
Her. Me. HerMe.

The abyss among people laughs in the faces of those who give away their deepest thoughts
Or the histories of loved beings.
At the end, a tatter thrown to the road is left.

A fable interesting to none, the secret in the service of the one who scares and enchants.
Will our great freedom and intrepidity judge us out of most noble incentives?
Will our anxieties, the magnificent relics with brutal renditions, whirl in other letters?

Monstrous legislations are governing people and the black hour chokes within us
Both the thinker and the emotive man.
Wrapped in black atmosphere, we buckle, grow pale, the throat spreads its limits
And fear sprouts outside with words attacked by assumptions
And the horrible remembrances followed by cruel pain, self pity and remorse.

(Shepherd Henry Roberts of Salem)
Leila, burn the witch!
Hair by hair let her burn!
May she scream helpless!

Without the strength to continue the letter,
Stumbled by the free to:
Say more!
Sat faster!
(necessarily trivial)
I wish to sing
The way it should be or should never.

(Recommendation of Nemesis)
Leila, kill the heart memento
Pertaining to the mocking bird!

She (it) is the boil in my stomach,
She eats it and minces it, destroys
The nightmare from which you cannot awaken by anything except walking and sleepwalking,
While she climbs to heights with a view to the Precipice,
That fills the eyes of the caught sleeper with horror.

(Poe’s recommendation)
Leila, kill her in her own vomit
Without right for mesmerization.