Leben (Life, Život)

a Sisyphusian average
of tomorrow’s bread
ground from today’s bones
milling from up-slant’s waggle
stirring-in leavens
of ant and grasshoper
pinch of dreams millstone heavy
oiled with sweat or tears
pelting a stone vault
whose chimney (damaged scroll)
sings in flab-cursives shards of ‘un bel di’
that turn hefted and dark
curl down again to
flickering among the blue
and stench of brimstone
dancing in the wings

curse by bullet
repetition sustains
gives endless birth to endless funerals
that begin again endlessly
as a hill-bottom fog

a stone boat barnacles with grass
coxswain saints / Charon’ shadow
grinding in place

til then til there
til then and there
stone’s rude wheel
stirring from smoke and dust
a rut in furrow’s garb

endlessly (?…

Ascension of albatross


Diabolic grimace from angry vortices
in the waters,

I rise above the waves and the human figures

as albatross.

The crews’ eyes on me,

like they wish they too fly

to save their lives but I flap to rise and flee

from Death with force.

Above the clouds

I soar into the safety

by the sun’s skies,

the poor humans’ sight melts my heart with pity,

they lose their lives

as I look downwards, I could not help but leave

them to Doom’s jaws,

so I rise in flight facing the sun alive,

grand in its place.

Look Back In Laughter 2

I remained in the city too long;
Money launderers and ferals of fascism at the temple,
Psychopathy, landlords and gargoyles of Hades,
Ticked the time of my anxiety agonies.
Inconsequential, just look back in laughter.

Scrying mirror celled phones scream light at zombied fright,
Tribaled in unthinking amorphous greys,
All thoughts delayed, philosophy forbade,
And I am banished from sight.
Look back in cackling.

With knived convulsions, he, throwing (my) poetry ferociously,
My books blades for harrowing Hades,
Cultist bastards out! Damnedable freakshow! Damnedable gargoyle!
I will slaughter your abhorrence with bare bloody hands…
…The dark will understand…
Look back in blackest laughter.

All the dinosaurs resting in me,
Bosch painting horrors imprisoning,
Revived in final clenches of human vulgarities.
Look back in mocking revulsion.

Diabolicus in blockus against stalkers seeking saccharine,
Lurkers performing following and flitting in fealty secrecy,
Diogenes mocking threnody beneath me.
Look behind you and chuckle.

Pharaoh’s prenatal in celestial womb,
Fetus feverish in supernova spasmal tomb,
The wheels of history bitterly consume.
Look back in laughter.

Dire desires drives for immortality.
Surviving slaughterhouses of foetal Ustase.
Gossips to trick track tumultuous trends,
Bends of claimed knowledge pretends.
Look back in howled hysterics

Blow dry magic torments and tricks,
To tame and reign hair she is unsatisfied with,
Primps and prods, baths and pedicure supplicate God’s,
Look back in laughter.

Bus ride’s between rooms,
Foul practicalities alchemy in bloom,
Niels Bohr atomic riots in gloom.
Look down in smiling derision.

Visions ignitions, Dubai dreams,
Luxury sensual collisions, minted pillows,
Spartan dishes fissions in asyluming delights.
It doesn’t matter…so…look back in laughter.

She maneuvers her demise into place,
Stratagem, strategies, tactics of replaced,
Cruel callous laws to sate.
Gorgon eyes to hide behind sanguined shirt,
Secret years she bares the tears growing it on her tit,
She digs sharp venomous teeth into it.
She sets the sacrifice of skin and flesh cancerous,
She wills Cerberus clock, let it tick, let it tock…
…until ends.
Look…look back in laughter.

Imps surround, push, pull, shove, harass, harry me.
But look to lacrimation she!
Struggles and sorrow, proud and pretence somnolent,
Desperate hollows in gambles,
In wilding fae’s, wasting away.
Look back in laughter.

Begging by crumbling fracturing fountain
Sleeping primal in public tempestuous transportation,
Are you insane? Why not give money to my children?
I use to have means like you.
Denarius jangling and dancing portents in my pockets,
Protect your drachma or find cruel fate at equal footing,
And the thronging crowds will cast pitying bones;
“Look at the poor thing, insane! What’s wrong with your head!”
Look back in laughter.

The meter is running and there is no room at the inn,
No apartments to appeasements begin.
She was once alluring in elegance untold.
Brought onto Caucasus from Egypt,
By the sons of Ommaya as per ibn Shaprut’s order,
The minister of Abd al-Rahman III and Sebikhasim,
Enslaved, slandered and scold, humiliated, depleted…sold.
A demigoddess of fulsome breasts,
Luxurious hair and pursed plump lips.
Look back tittering in tragedy.

Rejecting the Omayyad caliph,
He told Shaprut to sell Selima to the Khazar King Josef,
To do as he pleases, and this Hebrew king made Selima,
The slave-woman of Allah.
Selima slender, demure elegant unshakable bamboo,
With disgusts in her squealing breathe taking escaping.
Look back in ironic displacing.

Psychopaths along the rode trode dynastic,
Torchbearers of infinite Emperors.
He’s smells blood on the wind, he smells the sweat of victim,
…He smells competition.
Look back in laughter.

Look around…nobody…
Something, someone?…nothing…
Somebody?…nobody in crowns…
Nobody gone to ground…
Nobody is found…
Tomes of related wisdoms nauseate,
The numbers in cruelty mean fate.
Stare intently in tactical laughing.

Strings bind to me in unbreakable unremorseful,
The past hunts behind me.
Medusa drinks me in marbled glass,
In the cruel poison of her irony.
Visages transfixed, trapped in ivory.
Inconsequential…just look back…in laughter.

©® Leila Samarrai


(Dedicated To Corpses, The Beginning Of Ascent) 

 They are dreaming…

In the gardens of Everest, their skulls are hatching sleeping worlds,

Corpses lined in white mare tides…

In pearlescent gardens frozen fingers farmed,

A catamaran of cadavers voyage,

Peering, piercing my fluorescent boots.

At mountains foot; I, driven by the same pyre of Titan’s progeny as permafrost ghosts of yore,

Where earth dwells eternal in limbotic gloom,

And no recompense rewarding corpses ravishing……

…. that never die!
Frost nightingales, closed breath, hands crossed on chests,

Cadaveric beatific, musical marching Everest troops

singing together:
“When all the doors are barricaded,

I still have my mountain to climb.

Behold! I am at the summit!

This is my fate, to set backfires to Gods!

Beware, Sagarmatha, beware!”
Alas, I see now, they are all rather in tatters.

I continue my ascent towards the top temporally transposed.

A treachery for Man and fowl,

To the hoary bitten hell in lonesome choosing,

In airs of complacency,

Yodel-Ay-Ee-Ooo! Gods, do you envy me?!

Like Moses, He precedes me,

Through mountain glass transfixed in shatters,

I am a rock in the wind,

I am a tear in the eye,

I am a warm lie.
Embracing my bones; arid and withered,

Lips caress kiss glazier crystal.

I’m travailing cumuli under savage sky,

The snow veil asphyxiating me…

Fate turned to ruthless ragged raged,

Mountain side with feral fangs.

Assured, confidant, raise me with rope entwined,

Pledged fealty to your opal peaks skyward.

Everest, God’s temple of Dune!

The face of fear!

This insane passion for freedom!

Treachery viligancy to trick dreams morosely.

Rope hold the line!

Axe splines supine!

Skaoi divine, I implore, 

With frosted hands conjoined,

Bare me to heights whither to unknown,

Upon your brawny bow!
We could not absolve our sin,

Nor forgive them.

The world long past,

A grey remittent toy,

Housed in forlorn haunts rejoined.
All eyes upon my pitiless axe!

The axe that rends animas from dresses!

Tears spirits from suites!

Abrogates spirits from abyss’s!

I am piercing peaks,

I am slashing summits,

Eviscerating elevations,

I am murdering the mountain!

The stone exsanguinates…and so do I.
Pater meus, I will not surrender this ascent,

I have tasted the peaks plasmal lust!

Ascension/descension in ecliptic prance dance,

The stars kaleidoscope in nauseous conjunction above.

Delirious risen hiked heights,

Devout surge scale surmount,

Conquering crests crescendo.
Broken mirror, beloved shards painted blue,

Ourea in ice arouse,I am traversing you!

Mother Himalayan Chomolungma,

I am prostrate in ruined depletion dire,

With no more words to wail,

Hymns to howl,

Or Logos to lament.
Dormant worlds below melt in deviled mists,

But in brumal promethean flairs,

I’m become the monster of the mountain!

The pathfinder eternal lost,

A ghost amongst the elevations,

Loathsome…and excommunicated.

Anemone (Breath of Wind)

The spherical gush, gutted fish, the black ghost knife,

Verso verb velocity at the shadow fire opera,

Pitch blasted throats, obsidian soul vocal chords.

blood pulse carouse,

I become flame word on inflammable parchment,

I become the refuse that doesn’t die in dire,

You are the luminescence that doesn’t expire.

A women whom reapers fail to tread, nor scythes to harvest,

Like myself; ensorcell and spell sempiternal.

Dominion over a huge…black…whisper…

Dissolving in the teeth of death’s cut trees,

That lispers immortally in terrified misspell.

Fish gnawed cross of wood and brass,

Quick as flash lightning bound by fangs,

Four wolf packs slithe and vanishing serpents,

Exigency in hungry worlds,

Pictures scuttled on the ocean floor. 

It is the time of the dead, 

From beginning to end,

The time of the dead.

The time of the living – in the vapids and cruels;

The black is breaking…

The black is breaking…

The Ides of March, there lay the albatross,

Poor beggar – unknowing, unthinking and blind

,In a threatening verse he preferred to die.

But winged Icarus pervades,

It’s tolling the zither quietly,

And the wind cries: “Anemone”

I’m cutting the ties, the Empire dies, in entangling shadows,

Naked God crucified in the commons.

And man on earth walks alone,

Sanguined feet marching to Adam’s sepulchre.

You played God and God danced along,

You played the devil, peddled your essence, paltered your prescience.

You are:

Insurgent exemplar!

Conjurer empiricist!

Caesar executioner!

You are Harlequin!

You are Icarus!

You are Prometheus!

You are a corpse that never dies.

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.