Does the silence agree with the talk
in Sunday’s tumultuous land,
the eternal also facing each other;
mocking songs are
cut to someone else’s life,
fed defamatory method and threat.

Whether oblivion can overcome man,
whether it is accepted malice;
and so many stories were full of tears
that were invented about me,
this is the land that undeniably witnesses
all slanderous humans.

Picture walls these will keep the sky and dream,
dissolved light rain over the land encourages truthful Pilate;
it is possible that at some point you will believe it,
the kingdom of heaven is like the kingdom of men
and the son to whose bow they came
about the three kings for the worship of Christ
and their son never shines
and their paths are shifted east;
thought – dream which erodes the body,
like the last quarter of full moon.

Slanderer, I saw they were in you,
the flames of the crown,
future dawns and secret nights;
later, in a land of injustice, I was lost
as when a friend or unknown love is sought.

Copyright © 2019 by Leila Samarrai
Editor: Obinna Eruchie

A marsh makes Lamastu with Layla, in the night, Slanderers Part Two (Poem by Leila Samarrai to her slanderers)

Of Vicious Being Rabisu, and the Nightmare
Of doing what is bad to his neighbor.,
who put night time monsters in this 
Brought a voyeur  into Awakening
and all our wicked and lucid appetite for  useless life
With loss of  Sight, who here is an Earthling, a
and who an extraterrestrial
From hell, from heaven, hieromonk apostate
yester morn us,  And afterwards proclaims us blind
And when I jot them all down,
I will await my trial, I the spirit who follows her fate
as if it were the fate of an avenger,
my head on a stump, the only given possibility.
A dissonant interval. Music banging in the dark.
A calm before the storm.
Then all of the scribblings, those in my treasure chest
as well as my head, will be swallowed by flames.
Then I shall sing from the ashes and embrace the walls
as I burn half-spoken
A vicious being, Rabisu*, takes all kinds of form,
he lasts to the bitter end,
to the dust, in a lifetime,
before waking up, only for some breed of men

Both the light and shadow,
both whirlpools and abysses
of the deeps, merge with vile contours of envy.
Fearless, doubtful shame wallow in dunghill
In the edge of the lost world,
none shall hear the truth, its monstrosity,
but also its shininess
Unto Innocence cry lies  the reverberation
by the slanderers burnt in
Through all our mazes of Ire and Fire,
An attack of the innocents,
a finger of fantasy pointed at dire events
to  avengeance a discord of (thy) listed names.
The honourable citizenry slandered.
and the quill’s wounds scream
These eyes of mine get me to the windowsill,
while sweat drips onto the dark maps
in my enraged cranium and the ink spills.
For it is all written. Their claims.
In my sleep
Irritant, gluttonous tongue of the serpent
to craft a tangled state,  to down with this living man
through the scales of slander, and those letters…
oh, such letters!

For all, it had done and for all hast not done
That I did a mightier service to stumbling block and weep
of something magnified, nesting nowhere  in my spirit,
for it appeared in the clearest,
nigh-apathetic shape based on true love I once  felt

And in those letters I openly,
helplessly and naively checked all
…through words and pictures
opened the tense mind, through the heart, stabbed
As leans in crawling pincer

A beastly howl of the desperate,
undiminished, swim through the similes
But said Prowler of the Desert:
” Picture Cupid dipping arrowheads
in phenylethylamine. It is poison,
to undergo the mournful shades?
Why is thy sight pedestal on the top of earthly kingdoms,
a Carpenter – Shephard, crowned ruler of all artists,
The hell is this damn wooden bench!
Two massive bits glued together and a piece of plywood…
…plywood in the middle like a cork!”
Among the mournful, mutilated shades?

Anything but  lights, carpenter’s fashion as a guide,
Consider,  if to count Apostles be pipe players
did a ditty
for numerous books in a single passage,
a secret of that slanderer trash whispering
behind the scenes, with a filthy rag
and uttered verdict, razor-sharp.

Observing through eyes unseen,
that silence tears through applaud,
at times shrugs and as if shaking
of a stone, then like exhaling in pain,
The motion of slanderer.
The devil’s work

Lye thus unpitying kingdom crushed
offered up as a REPLACEMENT does,
Perun himself spoke to me,
or an Arab Djinn of sorts
I got the Serbian and Arabian war gods mixed up.
Seizing the first
Seizing the second, distorted drunks downing that final glass…
of poison.
– If only plastered cinnamon and rose perfume onto her moustache- it’s cold, even for the disconsolate when lifeless living
clenched a thiyab al-mounadamah…

or whatever robe of striking colours,
seized with its claws.
if robbed by a mysterious fever,
hardened backs bent, scared and careful
of the impending knife strike,
like lab rats, yet bloodthirsty.

as if those of drunks downing that final glass…
an option

And now the moon  errands in the doomy pit
Behold Dat and Dis, the wicked spirits
galloped back through time
moon teeth corrupt to their roots and bloody..
Too well I blind and rue the stare at me
with a flaming eye.
Aflame in anger.
The moon has nothing to do with it.


That with sad, enormous chunks of time
Has lost us blocking the thorough research of vile
By right of Irre, diabolical actions,
By right of Slime, rash must go  behind
By right of  War, taken out  insidiously
By right of a lipstick-wearing actor, taken out comically.
By right of treacheries, idiocies, taken out vigorously
 From fell to fell descended Iscariot’s slanders
to set asag – disease of the benign red shores.

Strongly to enumerate a hysterical wretches
in muck of mud and blood –
In horrible destruction only impurity essences
The hours of night taking away a restful pistol
my bullets are ready, my drawers are gone

Passing through door cracks to feed inhospitable winds of the steppe,  the Hetman still rides, knight.
A marsh makes Lamastu with Laylah, in the night
*Rabisu and Lamastu are nightmarish demons in ancient mythologies
*Laylah is Arabic name, means “Night”

Slanderers, talking spoons of carved wood Part One, Poem by Leila Samarrai to her slanderers

Ay the dreadful powers dive
into the bald grin and  skull face,
when oft flesh of my arms tolls
in rib-costals and ulnar bones
Vengeance upon the transgression insacks
talking spoons of carved wood
On citron tables babble brutish monsters
Now all abhor, as I beheld, the king of kings
comes from a long line of midwives.
So fell the shouting metre along the burning village
Behold the pillows, no feathers had they
to recollect grapevine telegraph
And as they printing injecting tall tale prattle
about those rubbing bones inside me
But govern ill the slanderers under the yoke,
blackening Tempter’s skins, peeling all provinces
and provinces  have cast dispersions on you
Krnjača Romans,
with platters of peacock tongue and fried dormice
goes ire of pomegranate wine and naked waiter
enjoyable pastime, these, thus degenerate
at whispering gallery
all the night they excavating a murderous echo
a mirror and rouge pot
bright as obelisk of usurtasen
I come out to you carrying a redfish,
which is just right Janbiya dagger towards
feast’s flying cut tongues averted
to serve the afternoon to drink tea and gossip


Does the silence agree with the talk
in Sunday’s tumultuous land
the eternal also facing each other
mocking songs are
reduced to someone else’s life
fed defamatory method and threat

Whether oblivion can overcome man
whether it is accepted malice
and so many stories are mournful
that were invented about me
this is the land of undeniable witness
all libellous human

Picture walls these will keep the sky
and dream, dissolved light rain
over the land encourages truthful Pilate
it is possible that at some point you will believe it
the kingdom of heaven is like the kingdom of men

and the son to whose bow they came
about the three kings for the worship of Christ
and their son never shines
and their paths are shifted east
thought – dream
which erodes the body, like the last quarter of full moon


I saw they were in you, the flames of the crown
future dawns and secret nights
later, in a land of injustice, I was lost
as when a friend or unknown love is sought


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.





Serbia, a literary black hole.


When you take one look at all of the things being published today, with zero criteria, then it’s clear that Serbian literary scene exists merely due to money. They did not move one step out of communism. Where they were literarily is where they still are, except the market is far smaller, and poverty of intellectual and any other kind far greater. There isn’t even a Serbian literary scene, nor is it allowed to exist. Critics are at their positions, established authors at their own, primarily political, then literary, or artistic. In short, literature in Serbia only exists at the level of gossip

It is a complete systematic collapse here, and with zero respect for the author and copyright, nothing will get better and Serbia will remain a literary black hole, irrespective of the vast number of people willing and capable of writing something.

Nobody publishes poetry collections, because there is no profit there. It is well known: the author has to pay someone to publish their book, this is the alpha and omega of it all. The publisher does not care a bit beyond that. If by any chance the author ‘gains prominence’, then he will be endlessly reprinted, copyright will be broken and the publisher will claim to be doing a favor to the author by these reprints. Printing itself is cheap. For instance, someone’s book of aphorisms or short stories can be sold online, it is also in bookstores, and the author is not at all notified of this, nor has any insight into the matter.

And the publishing itself is reduced to moneymaking. You got the green, you publish the paper. If by chance you become a household name, you will be published, but the ‘sweet sweet cream’ will largely be theirs, the publishers’, and yet they will also tell you how fortunate you are to be published. So, the copyright of your works is completely vulnerable, or nonexistent. The publisher does not give a damn about quality, they don’t even read what you give them, or merely skim through it. Everything comes down to the money, cash that is, and sex. Which is, again, a good topic for a story or a novel, even journalism as a sociological phenomenon, at the end of the day. It is a mark of an era and a country.


Not to mention the misogyny, the treatment of a woman, a smart, beautiful, attractive woman who, by the way, is an excellent writer. In short, the treatment of meat in Serbian literature. Cheap trafficking and treating the female author as a piece of meat, a sex object with no right to think, but to bow her head. You can be as smart as you want, unless you do what the slime wants you to do, nothing gets published, no career, no living by doing what you love most and know best. Speaking of various chauvinisms, why keep quiet of this one. To me at least, these people are laden with complexes and cannot achieve sexual or amorous pleasure normally, or whatever else they need, and this is where the sickness begins, the blackmail. In everyday circumstances, they know that they cannot reach beautiful, smart and talented women, and they use their pseudo-power to prove themselves to their friends and their own selves. It is cheap trafficking, and I believe that women, in that sense, have it harder than men. Little is written of this, nobody speaks of this, and it is the cancer of life in this here country, in this here system-less system and criminalized society. I still believe that it doesn’t necessarily have to be so, but now I point to the literary world not being a bright-colored gentle butterfly which contains all the beauty of this world. Talented people are leaving, we are losing the intellectuals, we are losing people who could raise this country out of the muck. And then we wonder how Mrkonjić and Ilić become ministers. It is clear: violence and sex, the basis of reality shows, completely transferred into the literary sphere, which should, at least, be a bastion against the flood of pap and primitivism.