Babylonia 2, work in progress, by Layla Al Kiz Kulesi – Not for you

Dedicated to Hatun Amira Sirbegovic, Sarıkız of Gure, born in the kingdom Kurkuma, Sultana’s Efendi, Kizlar Aghasi, general of the girls etcetera.. An inscription as well as a dedication found in the Orhon valley on the language of unintelligible speech, a really badass alphabet., next to the bloody dagger and Turkish runes, written in a pretty messy way.

Translated into English: by a completely self-taught idiot

time and place: Belgrade, 2019 is under the water and under the Turkish invasion of operation Atilla code.

The poem follows a fair maiden Dihya Layla al – female seer and military leader who has just returned from 7th century mission in the Maghreb, known as Kiz Kulesi, leading the resistance of  N’Nonmiton Beninin our mothers amazons under the parole Things Fall Apart, about whose lady mother, Valide Hatun is quarantined in an Clinic for Infectious Diseases for 20 days while reading the book of Leviticus that tells how to quarantine leppers and other creatures suffering from a new age zoonotic virus and, fair maiden’s mother in a desire to overcome her naturally caused  thanatophobia, even when there is no sign of any illness, obsessed with the idea to arrange her own funeral as in the scriptures, the nails and hair trimmed, a burying-place out of mundane sight. Highly on both visual appeal and price – it costs a deal of money.  “

Only one person in Belgrade under the water and under the Turkish invasion of operation Atilla code is idle rich and get nailed with expensive funerals, that is Hatun Amra Sirbegovic, Sultana’s Efendi who already bought off off-street visitor parking breaking parking restriction for Turks at cemetery Highgate in England.

But Amira and Dihya Layla al – female seer fair maiden used to be best friends, but now they avoid each other at all costs…  using only diacritical sign, or accent – or a glyph added as a form of ancient The Ghegs communication often fails to give Layla the necessary visa to enter Belgrade under Amira’s ancestors’ concubinage… illegible handwriting…  

This poem had a number of beginnings.

The thoughts are real. The language is nothing.

As i lowered behind ‘tisnt pleasant place

I shhh the breath of screaming inside beginning

I listen to her lung congestion

Limit fluid with damp swabs

Scattered the herbs given by her doctors

She’s my mother quite abjured

With all the death rattle winds that blow

Doth my mother yet survive

Ask Eyguieres curse tablet

Holding pet birds as offerings

 with healing and resurrection.

A winged  beardless youth and old

Will trap her in a sack

A down-turned torch and wreath or butterfly

Buried on the battlefield as spartan

Sentimental gesture

In ériubanbafódla a world of delights

She’ coughing annwyfn, annwvyn, or annwfyn
to this outburst of impression with voicing

Like a whisper of the valley beside the golden plated river

Full of shit.

Mother continues:

Yet many of the cobbles rose up from smitten wisdom

House of Lazarus, house of ruins

Drunk with the innocence

Burning bamboo flute with the holy spirit

Leave the bloody track behind

As i am of silent but gazing roses as in strange land

Where an earthquake endears the choking sighs of men

You, thus hammered by your moistful hatred, created sheckels of

Slaughterers sight, stubborn little twat

This pale you are, like the dead on the board to the cemetery

Mother is angry:

You, fashioned through your grim advances

To common sense appealing like a pyet of honest man

I will not wind a long worn confessions

Obscurities to hide my desiderata

But augment my blisses and talents and your

Mommas bardship, you little cunt

Thus I made a pax and bonum with your enemies

I bravely fought like spartan god of laughter

Their narrow-minded provincial pettiness

As requiescat in pace may rest in peace

Your leering forward wars passed this noon long time ago

, so tis all in case I shall die

Someone must pay the funeral

Quick you purmblid brat hark

And swift, push away every ounce of furore

In all of the inferno bibles writes

Fringe the sad toothless minstrels

And idly forgive, while doing so, collect some debt

Ask our foe for money, is the urgency where to organize my funeral

Cast the bitches away they are changeful with stitches

‘tis all in case your mamma gone away

Oh stars shining through the weight of centuries

Not to a gall to an enemy but a pride, your enemy is sage in this unfortune

To fight or stand-alone far from the work of divine

Yet a tower is melt and she’d helped to  stood hard by…

Mother is grabbing my cloth resembling jesus garment. Her mouth, agape:

A tragedy. Yet I made a deal with monster

With her bestial sense and will

Gorgona is expecting you at this moment, ah!

Grasps, than fractured, decentred, she faints.


Such malice i subdue it and go

To procession

To not so tender creature

And quiescent, down to the 4 deeps

Impossible, for monster to ascend also

Troubles behind its nature stood and bound

Her thorn mind, stupidity in terror’s strength

Obedience to common sense, glowing on the idiot’s shore

Thundering the spider’s pavements

As I sermon Belgrade’s street preparing for the march

Rescinding mid flirtation, breathing beneath blocks

Apathetically dazed.

The final act is done than changed

Not yet with an eager move

And cold incessant

I dare not name it

A sceptre form insatiate – armour shining

Possible, yet how impossible

I do believe and I do not believe

The grave is closed and cradled and now respire

My mother, piece be with thy possible ashes but this shall not thrive

Not a shackle to borrow either friends or foes

And this one yet appals, with horn and falls

Ambitious killing brand

Carnage fruitful vile and many falls

From her false peaks of goodness

Profoundly disturbed drunk sloppy

Of a lucky fate still soul-sucking ghoul

Praise be Gugalanna, more then mongoose

Of nightmare size

Of vampiric menace,

On earth sent

So soft the farewell once was – snatched from ashes

From cafes… flashback (sentimental mode on)

Once generous fire I loved (not holding back at all)

Remnant of madness almost as my arts

Engaging in the falsehood of charm

And sparrows to her bosom

Her belongings, golden hair as my memories

Secluded before me

I could worship you!… To funerals.

My mother! An endosperm of mirrored settlings

Deals and horror by the devil’s river

Daredevil sticks

For since they two together draw a new book

Secret circle to reclaim the wise reward, a mystery

Not rest, may the liquor absolve you beyond compare

Rest not that buried a long time ago

Since than gugalanna drinks my blood compelling

So sweetly bloody Renfield’s syndrome

As cocktail in sunrise with ice and cookbooks.. For the bloody slaying


End of flashback (obsessive pathetical pathos mode off)

All the Tartini’ sonatas in woe

Flaming with pitless perdition

This being done, my winged mother, by clavicula salomonis

Is not enough to cure a witch as you are her physician

Still muse upon the mother’s spirit in wish to comfort bring

The poverty foul of carrying all complete,

Mother’s proposals make to hast seen Mupphy…

To gather the light from the beast pocket and arrange

Her shiny happy laughing funeral.

Washed in running water.

After being laid on a flat board…..



And how from thence I…

Facing the blossoming willows of mine

Estetica etica

Facing anxieties and colonies a la lazaretto

Leprosarium in Ceasar’s house

Before the judgment in wrath and fury and torture

And time – kama pazam yesh leha ?

Help Amira

Why patterns gold and darkened

A  pound, an ounce, the box of a mind

Will be opened from the heart

Between fields and tripled cover blooms

Dismal to shroud me, thy is the castle

Can tie breed idolatry for salad for I am poor

‘tis some bravery of which I am ashamed of

That there is nothing but

 miles left to go to cemetery

Put no difference friends or foes

To dust we all returnest

And overflows has passed

Duelling thew grave, magicians and mobs

Such is a graveyard, overcrowded

Off to the open moor  forever shared

A large box a choice of colours

A blind glass and a plate

With fitting body worth of engagement

As well as our friendly foes.

Thy is the castle! Thy thy!
Thy is!

No need to waste money on broken someone’s hart

With the sound of the gusle

The Turkish March, a crystal chandelier

And a long-nosed ballerina
and cruelties’ deadly disease

Mistake  may be hours, Amira said

There there my fatigue

By my distress

I cried over the misery
of a stone forgotten who won’t shine

On shiny dollar

No shine will follow by the silent dust

Again again again in the night

A drowsy thing


Amid the



The tamarind…

(the tension rises)

… from the nemrut mountains to kütahya fortress!

With choicest

Defunct, I, pazamnik

Sword in one hand, quill in another

                                                          janissary agha, imotional

Haya basir tip haca giziroglu

Sultan Mustafa, tsar of all the Turks

Made his dawn attack upon  the beauty matchless Layla kız kulesi

By the swordlike words in black robes and black clouds

Kanuni Mustafa

 Was an imotionally man, by zodiac of the Turk

The battle at the dolomites peaks

 And there she is,

Switch, call-in, with privacy position mounted on 1-gang plate

Surface mount, one single button

Pale as the dolomites peaks

She presses and presses and presses and presses

Buzzing sounds coming from one

Hill to another

From vashundol to  foulfell, and the abysm

And the rest’s uncertain.

A murmur, a rustle a beeping

To the stars and moon, imploring the Jupiter

Until my name has cast its light upon the dolomites peaks

Less attuned her voice to the tambur

Membranophone foe with variola face

As the outline of the hills, repeating forms or not

But two equal halves, a slouched by the

Seeing Turkish forces on the magic work

O prince warrior of old kurkuma brave

Defending every piece of his interefone

Kız kulesi:

Intercom kingdom it is called, after capturing Belgrade

In 1501.

 By agha kanuni and his beloved daughter

Sarıkız of gure to

Prevent kulesi to purge the evil fire and

With two-headed dragon would

Take it to it to the tower

What a Kaz,

With one blue eye and one eye either green, yellow, or brown

At maiden’s tower

At the intercom’s pallid peak they peaked that grey wolfess

With šayṭāniyy tricks and pale intercom buttons.

                                                 and now, without further ado

How do you like dragged Diana fire blow?

Sancta maria out of the woods!

Bless death!

And the devil of another


Bloody  mounding tall chains of pearl

Becoming one Bosnian bastud that occasioned

If we teeter at my last circulation

An alt-right gauntlet!

A nitro through our Thora(x)

Argon through our mouth,

Or in through our corpses out


 down through our gas chambers

In pits, on pyres

With petals and then dumped

Two words – five syllables

Through vapours and vista

Into reverie

For rich clouds to use rain

Like blaedre, blaeddre use catheter bag

For peeing fever and chills

And my hollo perish even in fog smoke white

Pain antediluvian terrafirma destruction

Becoming one experiencing fasciculation

If shaitan don’t die of

Twanging a wiry  mind

Amoebas first I trust he will use

The remains of that former argosy sometime in

The course of the year present.

Of vinal ism

An infinitessimal

 I shd.

 spectamur agendo; or rather, not by the act but the effect

Shd. Etc.

+al philology

. (parenthesis. Can’t afford high gates’ hands well

At the outset.) Not.


The cruel scorpion Sigismundo in the chains

Beneath the toad &venomous web, the lucky golden

Accordant of mortal arm

Will  keeping the wolverine from the

Work in progress


Tranquil pill in ageless freedom

Quarantine is fangless tooth

A loveseat hell den all imposed

illegible handwriting…  go and cut the Cedars of Lebanon… 

You are safe

You are free

You are beautiful


And as far as anybody can tell, sub-power of Enhanced Speed – Lady Mother is still alive, suddenly appear then disappear from Europe, especially when flying. bat-like wings which they use to capture prey,  using gothic makeup, she eased the dread and worry of thanatophobia and viruses, an avid taphophile, attending the course of gravestone arts, epitaphs and how to dig the tombs without using the wings. Someone reported a great fire near London – the Highgate East Cemetary is still badly damaged in an arson attack by pyromaniac extremist in 2022. There is a cenotaph of a famous Sir stolen)

Leila Samarrai: THE ADVENTURES OF BORIS K, Intro

Leila Samarrai


Веlgrade, 2013.

Layout 1


Persons, participants, extras, casual mentions, not-quite-unimportant, perhaps even crucial for the story although (seemingly) collateral, many of whom never appear but are always present – the personifications of context.

Author’s note

Names of political parties

PCP = Party of Conscientious Prosperity

The Communist-Capitalist Conjunction


The Rationally Humanist Party

The Labour-Anarchist Team

The Vocal Party

Coalition SERVICE

CURSE — Communist Ultra Resident Suburban Entente

SCOURGE — Solvent Communist Offspring Union Relevantly Guiding Employees

The Noteworthy Personnel Party

GAOLS — General Alliance Of Lawabiding Socialists

Introduction: The Life and Tribulations of Boris K.

A stone’s throw from a large river, a paradise on earth was built.  According to the media in the friendly Uganda, it was a small country – an oasis of peace among the lighthouse-studded hills. The earth was a shimmering white, as if illuminated by numerous torches; the sky was imbued with various shades of pink. If one was to look at the majestic city from atop a hill, the Republic would have appeared utterly bared in its beauty. People compared it to Ancient Rome, Ancient Egypt and Alexandria, and many reminisced about the golden gates of the city which opened automatically, dousing the newcomers in a veritable deluge of cash.  What the visitors did not know, however, was that, once inside, they would never be able to leave the city. There was but one city gate, and it was heavily guarded. The aforementioned notwithstanding, Citizens were regularly assured by the local media that the Sun, indeed, shone its very brightest in their country, and that its people were – without a shadow of a doubt – most content with their lives and lots.

Following one lavish speech by a certain Member of Parliament – the wealthiest man in the City, who spoke to the people without prevarication, with a lofty style and his head held high – the Republic was named Phenomenublic. His speech was so eloquent and inwrought with poetry.

Many people disliked this flamboyant style and immediately left the premises. Thus they missed on learning about phenomenization.* Yet this citizen, this idealist (to some extent, yes, even a revolutionary), this billionaire, this poet, did not miss the chance to open the door of Knowledge for his fellow Phenomenublicans, describing the terrifying effects of phenomenization with all its limitless powers in his work titled “Res Publicus Phenomesationes, in which he defined this, to put it mildly, unusual occurrence.

If a foreigner was to enter the Republic, he would take one look around and realize that the Republic was not quite what it had seemed. Parts of the city looked sophisticated, some of the sidewalks wrought in solid gold. The buildings were brand new, and the list of reforms published on the eye-catching billboard aprawled across the government building (formed by the coalition of leading parties – CURSE /Communist Ultra Resident Suburban Entente/ and SCOURGE /Solvent Communist Offspring Union Relevantly Guiding Employees/) grew longer by the day. Stepping around the handful of newly built edifices, however, the traveler would find himself staring at ruined asphalt pockmarked with manholes.

Behind those, caught in a strange trance verging on insanity, toothless beggars would emerge with blindfolds over their eyes. Within the shadows of multiple stairways, the narrow streets hid their leprous residents feeding on refuse – those were the losers of phenomenization. The winners – strictly for the greater good, of course – spun stories of the brighter future for these wretches, attempting to allay any and all thoughts of ire, offensive or revenge.

“Dear losers, rejoice! For hunger is the mother of ingenuity and without your leprosy there would be no splendour of this City. It is all, as Buddha had said, just one big spiral going from one extreme to another only to stop in the middle.” And the Losers were satisfied. The greater their satisfaction, the bigger their chances were of becoming clerks or venal top dogs.

“We strongly recommend a bird brain,” the authorities advised a Loser with a scheduled frontal lobotomy. “You will make a grand Minister of health one day,” they’d say.

Mere visitors, however, knew not the secret of this land – it was known to the Grand Pulpiteer alone. To all questions like “Are those just ragamuffins who will put up with anything as they wait, stuck in a manhole, for the arrival of better days ?” he would answer thusly:  “Each and every one of them is infinitely more avaricious, infinitely more hypocritical, than any of those living upstairs in their golden pavilions. You should be aware, my good people, that all the mighty patricians you pout and glower about used to live in manholes once. The roles change, it is only I that remain the same,” whereupon he would laugh and fall into the sweetest of dreams.


Preparations for the memorial service were well under way in the Phenomenublic – dully covered by the daily newspapers Informer,The Phenomenublic News and each and every one of the 76,548 Phenomenublican TV stations.

“Boris K has died – a bohemian and an intellectual, a Loser with no regular occupation, declared redundant. Penultimate among the last, or so it has been said, yet once upon a time the ultimate coffee bringer. A seasoned communist and ‘the most eminent of glass cutters’, an honorary member of the Nutritionist Association. His faithful admirers flock in from the remotest of areas… Members of the Losers’ Party are expected to attend the funeral; the widely famous State Jester will be performing fairy tales in the style of One Thousand and One Nights, sponsored by the publishing house Scheherazade & daughter,” thundered from the loudspeakers mounted atop the Phenomenublican government building.

The news were received with no small amount of surprise, as Boris K. was known to be healthy as a horse.

“Considering how many tons of protein powder he pumped into his muscular superhero body, we kind of expected him to live at least ten times as long as Methuselah,” some said.

“But haven’t you heart he was a bit… Especially as of late,” the others whispered.

“It has to be the alcohol that finally got to him,” still others mused.

Regardless of being a gym regular, it was a fact well known that Boris K. was no stranger to tossing back a drink or two (just to relax, mind you) before returning to the latest job he was assigned to – that of an armourer. He was cleaning semi-automatic rifles at the National Museum when, as rumour would have it, one of them accidentally went off.

Accidentally? Boris K had a significant number of enemies.

One of them was known to be the rude mustachioed post office clerk. Infuriated by Boris’ “Operation Feather Pillow” which he used for courting women – soliciting them in passing and, contrary to all logic and necessity, slapping their behinds while flaunting his flexor muscles – and utterly outraged by being the only female Boris K. had failed to smack, she threatened revenge, becoming more aggressive towards her Post office clients with every passing day.

Others pointed their fingers at the mayor Haji-Honorstone.

Others still were quite adamant in their beliefs: “A completely kooky guy; I’m glad he is dead. And I will surely attend the commemoration.”

Whether they hated him or loved him, prior to his completely unexpected and sudden death he was respected by many for his contradictory nature: “A bit strange, but most industrious lad.” He really did give the impression of being a young man.

Boris did not mince words. He was known as a traveler through space and time, an urban legend equally respected for his relentless devotion to work as for his wealth of both manual and intellectual skills.

“The best known taxi driver in the world after De Niro,” the citizens of Phenomenublic whispered amongst each other.

A rumor spread recently that Boris K. was working on something very important before he died and that many different hands were involved in his “departure”. It was expected “never to be completely explained”.

The Phenomenublic Jester, a man of vast imagination (and, if the local lore and beliefs are to be trusted, Boris’ own fraternal twin brother) was invited to deliver the eulogy. Before long, scenery of impressive proportions was set on the main Phenomenublican square.

“Let us bury him, and get it over with once and for all!” Head of the Ventriloquist Association swore up and down that those were the exact words the Prime Minister Paramountson, affectionately referred to as “Whitebeard”, uttered upon the occasion.

The memorial service was held on a sunny day, under an almost white sky adorned by little but the pompous sun. And what a service it was! First to arrive were the Losers. They sat themselves down by the open waste containers, hardly believing their luck in managing to escape the manholes. Dressed in formal black suits and white hats in honor of Boris K they devoured the food prepared, piously planting handfuls of altar candles into the ground. Eventually they settled down to listen to the advertised stories, as told by the Jester, the waste container genie.

Professional sound systems guaranteed the quality of sound. Powerful video beams placed at the main square, where the memorial service was scheduled to be held, alternately displayed video messages, advertisements, and the gloomy face of the pondering Jester; he was planning on using the final part of his speech to demystify a secret: who exactly was Boris K?

The Jester sighed deeply, Boris’ favourite striped t-shirt held firmly in his hands. Everyone present – including those who had absolutely no idea who this Boris K. fellow was – burst into tears.

Are you wondering who Boris K. was yet?

Spreading his hands, the Jester glanced at the sky and approached the microphone. Catching a glimpse of the reflection of his own weary figure sprawled across the video wall, he began thusly:

unnamed (10)

A word or two on Boris K.

Boris K. – The First Loser of Phenomenization

Some countries were ruled by the Inquisition. Others were subject to questionable privatizations. Boris K’s country was exposed to inexplicable phenomenizations. For Boris K, a man with no permanent occupation, phenomenization was so unexpected that he had no choice but to come to terms with it.

He got into different time periods without the use of a time machine. He found himself performing strangest of jobs without ever applying for them. He kept adapting to the situation, akin to a player advancing to the next level in an unpredictable computer game.

“What have I ever done to deserve the things happening to me?” Boris K. wondered. “I am no different than any other semi-skilled worker who got carried away by the idea of equality in our Republic. I enthusiastically neglected to further my education for the sake of blind faith in “better times” when the voice of the small, the ordinary, and the nameless would be heard as well.”

Boris K. was prepared to endure greatest of sacrifices in order to achieve this goal. As one of the deserving participants at the end of the great Revolution he was offered great benefits – which he promptly refused with utter disgust. It was against just such privileges that he had fought in the first place, he claimed, hence benefiting from them would be contrary to his beliefs. So he settled for an assembler’s job on a car factory production line, where he happily worked 12 hours a day fitting mirrors on the passenger doors.

One day he was laid off. Introduction of new technologies and reductions in work force, or at least that was what he was told; he was well aware the real cause lay in that ultimate evil slowly but surely corroding the fabric of humanity – the profit. Disposed of like an exhausted battery, empty hearted and with eyes full of tears, he moved from his humble but furnished apartment to the so-called “Lepers’ Valley”. The place was nicknamed for its inhabitants: hardly true lepers, but merely desperate souls befallen by a fate similar to Boris’ own. It was dubious in which of the two skins they would have thought themselves better off. The ancient buildings huddling together in irregular patterns, the abodes of unhappy families, were not made of concrete reinforced with Pittsburgh steel; they were built with eco-bricks with insulating layers of pure asbestos, which almost certainly guaranteed the tenants a case of lung cancer. As if there was not enough trouble in their lives.

It was in such a building that Boris K. found his new apartment. It was not the vacancy ad that attracted him, but rather the unusual appearance of the landlady – who was in a habit of swatting at the heads protruding from the adjacent manholes using the highest-circulating newspapers of the City.

“Like swatting flies,” thought Boris K, eyes fastened on a greasy rosary. Frau Suzy (as the landlady was called) and Boris K. exchanged just one glance and immediately recognized each other. Brushing his graying hair back, Boris K inquired about the price. The Frau leveled one measuring, scornful look at him, flicking the ash from her cigarette holder straight onto his hole-pocked shoe. Boris K glanced at her defiantly. Frau’s response came in a raspy, ancient voice.


It was a mantra that meant one thing and one thing only and was uttered by the old woman only on the rarest of occasions. Boris K. liked mature blondes with an attitude, so he decided he would start his mission in that very unfortunate place.

Mission? What mission?

You will find out soon enough.

* Phenomenization, phenomenosition, from fenomenon (gr. φαινόμενо, occurence), something observable but utterly mysterious and untraceble, and better kept that way.



Res Publicus Phenomesationem The people of the Republic have fathomed the secret of the phenomenization by the agency of a mysterious clairvoyant gammer: since the Parliament was hit by a lightning at the moment when there were 111 storks on the roof, 222 members in the building and 333 rants under the foundation – the famous phenomenization occured. The thoughts of storks, rats and Members of Parliament commingled in the air and fell to the ground. Thus certain individuals realized they preferred living in the sewer, others keep trying to fly and carry babies, while the rest just keep babbling about politics. Anything is possible in the land of phenomenization.