- Aaron Douglas
- The Judgment Day
all rights deserved by ©Leila Samarrai, 2019
edited by: Obinna Eruchie
all rights deserved by ©Leila Samarrai, 2019
edited by: Obinna Eruchie
Sorrow is hidden in a head crowned in blood
Towards the wisdom called Jerusalem
You are killing the man who listens to the distance
Is “Ecce Homo” truly there
The higher hierarchy of Spain
While time flows despair descends to haemorrhage
Never painfully, not admitting pain
A bird I am
A bird with a desire to die in Spain.
I will write in the report
She is hiding in soft fruits
Mortified Julia Burgos
Otherworldly memory ticks away six o’clock
Vanity on the fox’s trail
Behold, a miracle!
Supposedly one-sided at instants
Suitable for a scrambled moment
The martyr and her daughter who wash their feet
Tasseled with nails instead of sandals
Anything but sough
Shores and scrapings fantasizing
Daughter do you wish the powder to slip you
To disturb the onus, non-being and tendrils
Wistful across the stones you overcome
Blacker than night
You fear there will no longer be vertebrates
It is the third hour in the night After
You do not grasp – the spilt blood is chiming
From unveiling you wrongfully dread
In agony of you yourself
While we pine atop Grecian terraces.
Still, rivers are audible in endeavour
And at that conjoined
In mirrors is the road to land of the dead
And worshippers of the chronometer
And the unachievable bloom of summer
Put the pigeon on the fire my daughter
We are going to satiate ourselves
Grasshoppers as well my daughter
Before they abandon us through the windows
I forefeel that the unreliable man
quiets his breath and embarks on the way
of Beauty, Ordinance and Wars
The signs along the path are the only thing left for you
processing attempts as each memorising
sublime flash of evil genius
penetrates my mind
blinding ringing echo of fire
awaiting for the return of some being
I personally have never witnessed before
and yet continue bearing like
a treasured secret code of the heart
to share yet long as if to cherish
as the 1st discoverer
place pregnant backup aids by not
cherish its prized moments
along well-penned lines of living it.
Fates will always be differentiating
between origins of true life.
However, origins of free will
truthfully never differ
in any fate brought
between those trying to be heard.
A whisper triggers thirst for knowledge in
While a panicked scream can send us running
in the wrong path, secluded from all else
I can finally close the lid of my eyes
in being inspired, eyes wait not for
the dawn’s whistling birds’ dream
in sync with mine of better days break for all
to see us walk past through another evil eye
on its way,
of poetically rhythmic challenge
to pledge in well-penned form.
Everything is without my past weakening crutch
in our daily healing needs
if ever we hope to carry our torches healthily
throughout our chosen marathons of life.
to share something as oneness itself.
This poem was inspired by waking up without coffee (I’m just going to buy it ..) as well as being near Nietzsche where I read his Genealogy of Morality not as a reader but as a hammer reader, strict and concentrated in righteous anger, and eventually I brought decision, to be like a handsome Erendira, a character from a novel by Gabriel García Márquez, who is slandered by three-four soulless old hags that embody evil and corruption, and Erendira, especially after drinking coffee, embodies innocence and love. At first I thought, looking at García Márquez, I would write a poem reminiscent of medieval hikes, provencal or troubadour tunes, immersed in the dense and fertile world of the Caribbean, but eventually, I decided on a Kafka-Nietzschean kiss in the courtroom with the aforementioned three old crones.
Morning, will it be thrust for absolution and we will find it?
continue at full gallop towards twisted lip grown
Morning – gains it gives away.
The blood lood in a leather water bag
midnight express mattered maddened
of hemp to a solid kettle
My inflamed Midnight Express set greedily
to sail sailed boulevard chest with luminous shafts
and I, straining in strength, almost sweeps the wariness
till spiced wine has blossomed I clutch beyond dark sense
of boiling kettle
clinging to the staves of a billboard, carved with stones
storm air now hurled awakened, now brushed its coolness on my mouth
I drink my tea the grass-filled mouth root-bulbs..
I stare at the next morning,
the eye could scarcely petrify my
But, my morning – in all is innocent, untested in its passion.
Morning – clear checked to crawl on its glabella
the sluggish slowness of the weird noses of the snail
the intestines drag behind it like an inconspicuous shit show
cracked turnip heads are fevered with a bunch of opioid wasps
I am waiting for an ambulance that is forbidden to come
I’m getting cold though I’m already getting hotter
in future courtrooms, in n Blekinge, Sweden, where I spill the eye of the killer who BjörketorpRunestone(s) me by mobiles:
Incessantly plagues by Maleficence Heerz tooya
a genus of parasitic moth found in Mexico’s mornings
make a night’s work of her neck, so long as the qualities of
morning skinny band of tissue spurted down
I’ve already stood trial for those hope diamonds.
The Curse of the Crying Boy Painting
I stole at St. Peter’s haunt club
a malachite, vibrant indifference femme fatale
the gamboge tree pace the Khmer fields
waiting for widow spider nymphs hourglass-shaped widows
Sheds, barns, and cobweb outhouses.
the iconic courtroom sketch
wandering vendors and loud neighbours and
short weird film behind Kafka whose future
is in the egg.
a fixture in the K. poetry scene – a cigarette femme fatale holder
drinks her menstrual cup blood bedecked and thickened blood
earrings and a comb for a disgraced bold judge
of femme Fatale slanderer, half-sleep yawns
the surrounding swamps of the travelling circus
a gatekeeper a stool
pair natural prairie dog foot earring
a labyrinth utterly find as quite as cold
I’m no longer cold but someone else is always hotter
dark funeral hat for or next to the naked mole-rat
on a dark night full of corners
the imaginary gaze of a goth Kafka’s tint
to let the letters go racing a bit demented
until within the ring-dove wails of morning winter
For you it’s , and for us – Just waiting for someone to come to get us
to grab us, give us a sitz bath, to kiss and bring us together.
the quiet will stumble
like a whipped
wild horse, a moment
in a deaf room
under deaf stars,
a scream, anchored
to the whisper.
Praised be otherness of others!
Test the final stroke
especially if effective
observe the infinite weakness of the rest
rundown old barrels
They look just like the other ones.
I used to live in
the gun of a gaggle of snakes
in the heart of the tulips
Do not obsess over the minute details
up until that point as strong as a megalith
and the crown mockery of time
is my witness to this,
brackish bamboo and poor slave woman Zina*,
raving, rabid, she – the black spaz
oh, how we drank at those gatherings…
To each breath of a justified EW!
the invisible mirror kept filling up
with a full reflection of an enraged tiger.
I contain myself.
through space the bestiary
a pipe player did a ditty
in the background.
The music cried out, sad.
no place for a walk
with endless noise of possibility
a little more impossibilities and
Morbid, the liquid tulips
scream laughing as they drop
and crabs come out of their throats.
One madminge less
Gone! Poof! The Alcatraz document!
Bridging the gap between mere existence and true life.
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