It’s called ‘Untitled’ and I think that’s appropriate.


Since I seem to have missed you
with the sluggish slowness of the snail
I was looking for you, then

in sweet
adeptness
of
suicidal
winding trail

I was looking for you. God,
on the goblins of the landscape
and not finding your sun in a snare of the desert
in a city that has already strangled me
I was and remained a social donkey
Maybe a little cracked
hobbledehoy
with oversized pantaloons

Am I dog slobber as for bone-in brown oils and gasoline?
are all made up of peach chops
while there somewhere a killer whispers in mobile?
glory is a group work on systematic harvest gleanings.
in a sculpture of parchment of unfinished manuscripts
in my grave, I will crew
this morning
outpatient.

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Non Believer


My poem Non Believer has no independent identity. It is tied with myself based on my sinister intentions of composing that poem. i.e per the intentions behind writing it.
It meant to be tied with the audience too but due to the word-for-word translation ii e due to rendering of text from one language to another one word as Latin would have said: “verbum pro verbo”) with or without conveying the sense of the original whole, I cannot judge whether I was able to write exactly my indescribable painful experience. Sorry about it!

Who would want this
who wanted this?

If there’ s a God
who did this
if there’ s one
if there’ s one
if only you knew how much I hated you
God
You made out you’re merciful
But what about those like me
giving in to temptations
totally outclassed us in the first half
The ducklings
she wanted to be free


You don’t think I’d ignore the whole thing
You think I’d make a fool of myself like you?
Don’t you think I know who you are?
Didn’t you think I forgot about you?
Don’ t you think that I know that?
you think this lousy toilette chain is gonna keep me out?
do you think I wanted THIS?
somebody wanted to make sure
you didn’t get it
Who would want to…
if there’s momentum
if there’s…

2
At this hour
to live that horror again
always afraidit’ s for the first time
during this month decades of incarceration…
And bars on the windows.
driven through my heart
Bedridden, I know how to pray
tearfully
I will honour the words but
I was never a believer
I don’ t…I don’ t… I don’ t
do you?

3

Recasting happens all the time on soaps.
It’s way past bedtime, a lifetime ago
I summon thee, songbirds, humans
and some nonhuman primates
Me, I call it looking for friendly foes.
Me, I carried them in a dead child body.
another sin
another immaculate conception
between the pillars of Babilon
I go off about
pygmy marmoset babbling language
I am PhD in even more than one million
I speak in rhythmic patterns just as hearing infants do
mumble, grumble
nag nag nag
Unlike me,
The bloody heathens
The wicked
are unable to phonate

3
Now turn around a little, round and round
get on the ground
pick a grass, stones, lichen
There are crops to harvest
Pour it into their green wings
make fun of some poor bastard
(crudely)

If you’ re there
But if you’ re there
No, no, don’ t worry, don’ t worry
I’ll be here.
I’ll be right there
I understand that I understand that.
all these things were said

4
if you do exist
keep in mind to give me hope
a torture by hope
as if there’ s something or someone
waiting for me
a comfortable life, the sound of a faraway star
gig’s on pastoral Saturdays
playing the guqin lute
such beautiful music
Nice inscription on my footsteps chain
once plentiful, was once, a long time ago

5
when there were no other worries
I know I want to believe that
I will walk along free,
even with a good deal of leisure,
rather than between grey, tired bars
under arrest, in cuffs, doing time, for a long time

Now, give me a kiss on my imprint
even though it had been raised
by contusions and shrapnel
a belt, a child has been jailed and flogged
was once, I was eight
and now…
The cage must be tired I am
The Colour Sick Pearl
do it
before I fall asleep into a soporific roar of the waves

They’ll be right in
above my head
They, the very same.
to take me away

Rooted in the last morning of a bullet
Amen.

Leila Samarrai

The Merciless Atheistic Love – Recital, Leila Samarrai, edited version


RECITAL: Are you not too slow and pious to
persecute me, and nail me to the cross
in the eyes of theThief
two canine teeth are ruptured by nails and his funereal tell
(for I and the Almighty bovine get along like Jesus and his cross)
caught a sense of all the Gospels

GOD: Not again! I already did it 2000 years ago!

RECITAL CONTINUES:
God abandoned Jesus on the cross.
their sadomasochistic relationship is predicted.

(Footnote “Silence, habits of killer..”, half of 777 verses… from the book “Romans kill the killers, right?” by Atheistus Crucifixianus Genius )

God is silent without a pause, she – God – is black and she listens without a pause, with virtuoso aversion

God is obsessed with Silence.

(Goddess, do you copy these barmy blasphemers?)
(Hysterical screaming in the background)

Pathological silence disorder, morbid,
pathological,
medical
Blessed Sacrament of anguish

God is a godless cuckoo!
I am screaming calm, no flesh ..
no … no … my voice can never be heard.
Voice? Nothing but a tuned idiotic grin, it is said that this is just one mental woman, skinned leather… and she does not know …

GOD: Who the hell is she? I don’t know her!

WHISPERING:
A merciful angel.

SAINT PETER’S REPORT:
Her name is Georgina.
She hates YOU because of what your horrid self had taken from her:

Her childhood
Her youth
Her Reviews, her publishers
Her editors and editing skills
The social life in Serbia
the right to vote (her ID card has been expired for a decade or two, and by no means is she going to renew it or take out a new one)
vaginal orgasm (If it’s any consolation, you had not taken the clitoral O. from her)
her lover
her mistress
Fear
Pain.
Church marriage, though she is baptized
(one of the follies which she sought from you, after the first onset of her holy madness)
You even killed her poor little cat!

Poor Job – (l)ess…

GOD: And how did she end her life?

2
THE CHOIR OF ANGELS:

She didn’t .
She wrote the following before she injected insulin into herself previously admitting her death was not God’s fault nor the State’s but her own; Her hereditary psychophysical deformity
denying this claim five minutes later, blaming unreasonably expensive market prices for her demise
– now it’s just powders down there .. and a few pieces of bones, no sign of the human form inside.
She is not prevented from having some kind of consciousness, a thin pale skin, or a sharp, mathematical and metaphysical mind
She claims that there is no paradise but that we are already deployed in fixed groups in the afterlife.
in the coffin tarnished and polished
planning for the rerun of suicide,
She still recites.

RECITAL:

My Sugar Coffin, Immortal Tootsie Roll, with all due respect to the good deceased tulips
One madminge less, but the new survives, more complex, prone to scrutiny and truths. The seeker.

GOD: Dear God!

RECITAL CONTINUES:

I was putting powder on my cheeks for three nights
on a liar or
the deceived dead
subsided temperamental Countess
of rosy cheeks without a dental crown

GOD: (strikes his fist on the cloud)
Is there any verse where she doesn’t act! Nothing I do for her is good enough. I know that..sometimes.. yes, I am too silent, but I think she exaggerates! Not all are as outspoken as she is.
Hasten to the tomb, Peter!
explain to the aforementioned nutjob that someone has to do God’s work.

Saint Peter
can go down
out of the clouds
when he wants to
thus spoke the lady rocker
aye, gaga, young, wild rocker

RECITAL CONTINUES:

My Tootsie Roll, we’ll intertwine our fingers again someday
one fateful night in passion and destruction
the night flashes, and the sky is close
They have forgotten to lock up my eyes
my name is Georgina
raving, rabid Georgina

PETER:
Then she told: give me Peter’s body
I want his body
I want to notch his body and my soul like a fire
Fire! for
a shimmering night
a night of flames
She rose from the grave
She walked toward me
With a knockdown gaze:
“I baptize you with water to this grave”
She sits on a mahogany bench then,
which is intended for the visitors of the dead
the music is rocking inluxurious splendor
Just tragicomic love noise in the background
played by the orchestra in lacy nightgowns
one sad melody
She licks the remnants of her coquetting life
and her beak is facing the sky
the smell of the sound incites my imagination

GOD: Even Peter has become dirty.
PETER: The cemetery has mud, sir.

RECITAL:

Yes..
overshadowing men are pillocks
They’ve been with plains of wisdom
They’ve been the height of sentimentality
smitten poets
Some of the defeated wove beauty
Or they, too, were simply – poets
Yes..time does not exist
She was fooled by swift motion a long time ago

“Art is a mistake and I must take my leave.” – Goddess, God or Lord puts on a pair of black gloves, although she – the black spaz is not the son of a glove maker.

Over there
where the Goddess went they do not know her
she is currently waiting in line at the employment office
for her social security card
cursing the existence of free will and verse

Now He’s unclean like me
He may become a better god
And maybe shall decide to die
It comes down to the same thing.

But, my recital goes on.

RECITAL CONTINUES….

THE LAST MOH’S DAY, Leila Samarrai


Dear fellow readers, even though English is not my mother tongue, I’ve written some poems directly in English.  As you know, poetry is a very delicate matter. I am well aware that I have taken a certain amount of poetic risk, but I truly hope you will like it.

THE LAST MOH’S DAY

1.
The Mohawk day: is lost and gone
The stink of ink in poor stomach and glossary
With glyphs and sad music.
Shall I taste the harp – like sound?
Or mad drums of boats – shaped percussion.
Thus my spite greets humanity.

The Spark once came in a shape so dim
The twofold mirror twinned nobody.
Black nobody in rift crystal, bring no – way not all is there

Nature has so many talents, an old dark breaker
Twisted tree, a mark of blemish
For some only a birth defect
Tiny line of malformation. –
I truly say: she knew her way
So, one day she made Moch’s day.

So I forgot who I was, why I was here in non- subsistence
Never here I’ll never be, no, never – be in co -existence
With the whip of an arty bastard
Stinkers and rats crawl nearby, but stinkers eat the dogs among the living.
Slaughtered ‘em all out of kindness
A sweet act of tender office.
From the sole of Nature’s heart.

At peace vigilance.
The bitter wind is bitter breath.
I smell the lofty gasp in leeway.
Look!The starry skies and snowstorms you gave me.

For what? To see?
How can I?

In such cheer and my good spirits
Only martyrs go to heaven
Since I’m trapped in blowup fashion
In unborn ways of shifting lips, bold to kiss my habitations?

Oh jackals, how I envy you!
God forbid all swift captains to live too long

But on the fancied Moch’ Last Day, one stood in order,
foolish phoenix, sculpted anger –
gun dog on behalf of all afore
And he sang a song of noble, elevated, golden spirits!
A summary for bad luck man, for the misfortune
Praise the boldness!
His face was hope
I, once dead craved my forgotten secret tunes
While he stood so steadily.

2.
At mating time of the Holy Cow, I promise you –
That I shall be seen… there.
Painted blue, with a tear in… this hand!

Tear?
My perturbation of the unexpected wounded inbounds
Took flight quick in the old dark blank
Embracing my own spit again, my forceful and glowing antipathy.

Cheap and petty as the Word demands
When the shell is breaking, the shell must be broken
Holy Hammer for Holy Stroke.

An accusation!
An accusation!
Fair parody of the sacred battle
Blessed are falsehood and misery!*

* – indeed they are!

3.
I despise soft angers.
Like felon who cry: Amen.
My tongue licks tools and means so disgraced
And their flames overlap me.
As falsity of guns and fires. As offence in the path of mind.
The truthful mind is immortal light for those who dare to find

The Blind comfortlessness of the broken king – his nutshell had veiled his
Graced courage.
Finally, do dare.
Shoot!
In all the hearts that fade away.

4.
The tone so sharply flirts with action
Towards betrayals, those wicked offenders
You are the core of Moch’s rubbled grief!
Indeed, is that so?
The vow trembles gladly in the heart of the thief.
The drowning age.

Drowned on All Fool’s day
Is there any cheat to blame for such a shame
Evildoer cries aloud, therefore the “Why” for his heavy laugh
When you see the clown, indeed, you smile.

Laughter is not for the Fool
Too many fragments in the sacred heart
The cruelest mouth that never be so cruel
As my despise of morally sigh..

The jester moans and weeps
Such promises!

You, mislead! It’s common sense
And!
The lawful right of sinful worms
A robbery of hope – invention
Undying interest of Judas
Makes kiss so sweet in amusing farce.

The love is born of necessity
let “why” stay cold for bride to be
Risen from the ashes…
Such palaces for non – such kings

God the Father
God the Father
Where’s your son?
And where’s your sin.

God the Father
God the Father
Where’s your son?
And where’s your sin.