The Punisher

Version 1 
Ah, to hell with that creature.
Desert everywhere, unending for the last human soul on Earth.
Each feather is rosy from the inner tissue degradation,
as if a crafty carpenter made tiny bones in my flesh,
making figurines from past dreams with a brush and a chisel.
And then there were the patterns which bubbled after a sleepless night
that were on the back of the hand of that greedy beggar like an undead spirit.
What kind of powerful shriek is that?
Exhaling painfully and clasping my throat, I jolted up.
It’s a fear that boded the upcoming unrest.
More is deserved! And the gods have seen fit to deliver more gifts
for the people of Gateshead and the British jackal! No more than the barbaric getae.
A mockery, on all accounting! A SLIPPY COIN is the glory you deserve.
What name does the rich man carry? I never cared to ask.
But to defy the wishes of the human in need, it’s not wise.
Up Punisher, you drunken goat, and lend your men with horns to the noble task.
Aaron Douglas  
The Judgment Day
Version 2
Stone the Lordling! Parched wilderness,
incessantly breeding the Talisman ashore!
Decaying tissue falcon feather apiece,
as if a beardless carpenter
brewing bones tiny in my beef,
forging fair maiden figurines
from bygone fantasy brushing and chiseling.
Whispered howbeit the drowning merchant,
wagging tail grappling Outrageous Zeus,
such forlornly the alluring fair maiden?
The sobbing tongue hanging in a scabrous well, forcing a jolt.
Ah! The hell of fear! The chaotic Hades! Looming like a bee.
The skies rumble with agreement, justifying innate deliverance:
higher thunder, growling bolt and the lightning!
Bless Gateshead and the British jackal,
Caricatures abound, all intellectuals say, all fools agree.
Gold-plated lead is the glory sought on the cradle of faithlessness.
What designation is borne by the puffy pockets?
Too unconcerned lay I, never is prudent to disregard
the want of endangered seeds sleeping in burnt lands.
Up Punisher, you drunken goat,
and lend your men with horns to the noble task.

all rights deserved by ©Leila Samarrai, 2019

edited by: Obinna Eruchie

The signs along the path are the only thing left for you


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

Conversing silently.


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

(in madness no one has a funeral!)

With the paddle through the storm
so through the head to reflect,
so through the heart to perceive;
the sea gulls aiming for heights
and pirates gulp rum in their feasts.
Oh … you…so conceited veins!
Through the blood blossoming flock…
stiff facial haired shed hot tears,
by the shore the bastards raise
the dead, courtesans spread legs
in waves, hands’ applause in fun!
It’s an old clown, who throws
up the tower from the sand’s
to see (in madness no one
has a funeral!) Are they
by chance living with the dead?
In consent, smile and weeping
have victim, and hindered sword
to freedom has been frenzied
in the hurry of Nature
to lay hands (spineless graveyard!)
While the storm shivers through eyes
oppressed. The grey face bleeds
beside the bloodstream figments,
images of the mute flow;
the city dogs are foamy.
A thirsty slayer in gold
sees Omnipotent logic.
Editor: Obinna Eruchie

sync with mine wishes for the better days for all

a hinted thought within my head’s grasp

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
chasing dreams


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.

Editor: Obinna Eruchie


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.
Yet wonder.
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
runaway monstrosity
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
Luciferian smokiness
until within the ring-dove wails of morning winter

Oh, Daisy.

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.





Scream and Whisper

– We heard the scream!
– But you did not hear the whisper.
Leila Samarrai Mehdi
May the cries echo.
After that

the quiet will stumble
like a whipped

wild horse, a moment
pilled inside

the throat,

the wind
yowling down

our condemned
roads. Waiting,

in a deaf room
under deaf stars,

a scream, anchored
to the whisper.

Merry get-togethers from Alcatraz (Zina)

Who can kill the one who looks
a lot like the other one
at don Quixote armour
loneliness is how it is

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
merry get-togethers,
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.

Fears flew
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!

Author’s note: