the end of silence


climax
socks under sandals
holes below
pork rinds
shiny bare heels
Take that to your goddamn death
where you so disgraced us
when so trips over her damn shoe cousin
ascends to dark
between toilet and scaffolding
it couldn’t, it couldn’t be anymore
there in the pigeon feathers

from massive fat steaks
dense ground clusters
sparkling in the shadow of the warehouse
for medical waste
well sprinkled with rust of iron bones
under the window sill, balcony
from which the Crown Prince’s worm will be processed
Verklaa war on
the beginning of the stench and the end of silence

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

Imagination


If I was, with my imagination,
discerning through the voice the kind
or the monstrous spirit in every living being
(with whom I would converse),

That same imagination discerned me the existence,
of the unused prints of such melodious,
and yet so unloving,

Voices not yet revived,
which are yet to rush, buzz, roar and call
the dark, unexplored worlds

Threatens to suck in and pull
the fear unclear, mixed with loathing,
walking integrals made of blood, meat and malice

All of humanity towards the corpses of eons,
the polyphony of murmurs,
screams, roars

From the purple mouth of the Dark,
creaming, maddened medusas
with horse necks and with bodies of the bull. . .

Who scratched the disc of Dark,
who flipped the pages of the atlas of Death
who, hungry for red meat,

Search and grab,
swallow, storm, crush with their feet
bodies dismembered and the transcript of antique nostalgia

Dedicated to the wiccans and the undead,
on the slopes the pierced the grounds,
like forks into soft meat

Stretching far above the tips of malicious temples.
as well as Belobog proposes to the Boogey,

With her scary face and open jaws with no teeth.
Hercules searching for Persephone,
but, the drama one, not the lyrical one!

When the sky is bloated with gray clouds,
and the rain does not drip drops,
but bubbles like cursed membranes….

Did they have faces?
even if they did, those would be dark curves of circles
in Nothingness itself.

Tzap, poof, abracadabra, doo!

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.

The bravery of authentic existence is a choice.


The poet is the one whose mind and heart are puzzled over things, many of them gave up.

The poet, as the last Mohican, with his art, connects immortal to mortal, in the garden of the separating paths.

The poet suggests that the beauty of the spirit of the only permanent value in relation to which everything else does not matter. It never dies and the only shining at all times
as the moonlight that with its splendour breaks the blackness of the night.

Even when it sees the dark, and when surrounded by darkness, the poet offers light.
His poems are a conscious choice by which the poet moves the boundaries of the darkness pushing him out of his world glittering path to anyone who wants to see and do not tap in the dark.

Poems are prayers with which the poet boldly breaks false, dormant peace calling for awakening and liberation from grotesque characters whose zombie-like existence kills the liveliness of art and spiritual creation.

In the rousing kiss of the poetry,  the creator is ready to play their life convinced that only the beauty of pure artistic expression can win perversion.

Through the depth of their poems of which will not give up the poet shows that the bravery of authentic existence is a choice.

The poem must be an impeccably solid structure. It must be – solid.
The poem is a work of art. And the act must be closed in itself. This must be impeccable.

The one verse in the poem has several blind streets, signposts and goals than a writer ever succeeds to create a dozen pages.

 

The star-shaped polygon


Let’s see behind the disease, dementia, raptures

The star-shaped polygon

Is the manifestation of our sensibility

Of images of all the teachers and relatives

Who stole the follies of our will

at the end of our search for insight, trust, and compassion

Let’s strengthen our bewildering defences

Let’s rule Dantesque inferno

Let’s preserve our mysterious secrets

To be gentle but persistently questioning yourself

Towards the futurity

2

Its fluid.. time of chaos and madness?

Apart from misinterpreting, did I just say that out loud?

Not just the emergence theory of odds and ends

As one devil of a long time crouches in the shadow

Made by the cybernetic for the sake of lust a fornicator

Quite different from pornos no class pimp

What does he know about pain, haha

While taking apart our new vertebrae

Azazel rolls back his eyes, the better to see us with,

Fiddling with our scorched spine

He survives, he processes, he adapts, he metabolizes.

The light – brown spirit is the last little turd

In infinite brilliance

While his inner worm of

Lust is devouring and tearing him up

He will eventually become

Plain, gelatinous turkey

Just one last forlorn wish

To  float eternally,  out – of – body – experience

In a never-ending chain, very much out of the way.

3.

No meat, no tears, no rotten teeth,

No frog’ s breath,

No decaying holes,

No sweat secretion,

No wrecked drops of self, ever!

Just cold cold floating turkey lingering

in Time and Space

 

Forever.

The existence of reality, in 4 cantos, Leila Samarrai, edited version


The existence of reality, in 4 cantos, Leila Samarrai

Spoiler warning: this poem contains a huge amount of high-quality madness

The guillotine would have fallen, but
The chain was rusty
Another client complained
That his head was still on his shoulders
Others had more luck
It’s called the lucky reduction of torment

(from an unknown author, probably pissed)

They wish she could disappear,
A Woman Who’s Not Here

(head falls into the basket. the audience cheers)

2
I am huddled in my bed,
covered toe-to-head,
the bugs of psyche keep me company
Pollution pollution everywhere
Water water everywhere
Psycho bugs everywhere

Money yet again

Divinity, hear me (says another poet):
If I surrender my being to you in blind ecstasy of love,
If I’m to assist you in your sadistic experiments over humans
if I am your fourth Antichrist….”

“What do you want?”

“Hail, sweet Malice
These mortals just need to shut their face-cunts.”

There are flickering colourstorn away from my tormented eyes
The head rises again.
The skull also rises.
For now in the dark I am going mad, by blessing of the night. Bollocks.

To be unwanted, uncaredfor, friendless, unvalued, rejected, unwelcome, shunned, spurned, bitch-slapped
With heart alone, I cared not.
Now has begun my transition!

You’ll find pleasure through tribulations
in shudder burning water rat – a – tat stately in flames
We are the womb, we are the abyss, we are the tomb we are exhumed
We are the womb, we are the abyss

I offer you my dream divine
Inside of which but a poor neighborhood
I offer you the beggar’s beauty equipment
ragged white tights with black polka dots
one garbage bag
and a money can

I offer you the saint who lived as a beggar
beggars celebrate humanity
spitting on Man
goods and chattels, filthy rags of beggars

3

O Nature, made of mercury
You are never visible
Yet you are warm, you are cold, you are dry
You are moist
Whose end is God

It took me ten years to vomit out slimy bodies from my voice box
The rest are grim reechoes in the dark, holding my failed wig
in made up hands
along with the humoured rats whose presence is forgotten

For the corpses do not die
For the damned do not die

Wait!
I am a corpse.
And you want me to put makeup on for the whole of eternity?

4

I am huddled in my bed,
Now my sheet stands upright,
I fill up with semen, pullulate and sprout, grow up to the muscles,
tissue, blush, luxury of cheeks, an eyeful glow.
My hands touch the icy cold air.
I, ever the bellend,wander around the world and clap my hands,

Then only a whisper is heard and wheezing, the crying, wailing.
The dog begins to howl.

The Bastard never dies

Carry me
Carry me there..to
the existence of reality.
(grave bursting)
My schizoid brother in need
Never again alone will we bleed.

The scream of butterflies, edited version


The scream of butterflies 

It is like a desert where time isn’t told by clocks
it is like the crevice for the jailer to peer into a cell
it is why the birds, to me, have no name
it is the cause of my timid disruptions
it is the cause of my fallen kingdoms
It is not a creature known to human heart
that remains unmentioned amid my words.
SERBIA.

in this land that is not even my own
in this land where proud Palm Readers tell fortunes
(I might say that Serbia is a witchly soil
but there is no magic inside it)

Can I even be alive?
within the poem that screams while singing

(a witchly silence)
me, a flower studded in silence

If I have to die here
leave me to open up in silence
I, a strained water
I, a chained tree
I, a shepherdess in the witch forest
I, the mutes well of
a dying swath or mad, screaming butterflies
yes…

Bitterness? Or purity?
deceptive ventures
and useless experience
you have set in stone my human loneliness

Let us out of here, miss S! ..!!!! (scream of butterflies)
let us fly through
your sullen azure arch
In return,
we’ll celebrate you as a jailer
on the 25thanniversary of your hammer – existence, scavenger
we will glorify you, we… we, the winged corpses in the pit.

This night of torture
this dawn of tamed passion
this heartbreak soil.