Homeless Sun


inspired by pampered materialists pushing books on how to get nirvana forever while arriving from end-of-the-wealth orders whose only concern is wandering between special feasts and diets and signing petitions to protect endangered species, fashioned and on the other hand, after talking to a homeless person

Between toilet and scaffolding climax
seasonal socks under sandals’ scavengers,
flushed out bustards
in the middle of the pigwash
in the spider’s heart.

Axis smuggling honey
in the lungs of the forgotten dragon,
they feed on the wash of light,
they feed on the headache of solitude.
The hypocritical tenants of the silence feed
non-adherents in anti-Images, et symphoniæ.

Give me the torn yours,
the thrown yours
from the basement tapes,
restored cymbal
according to the designs
of its predecessors.

Exiles out of suitable doors,
who drank the moon’s blood
dusted with streaks of powder,
infections, poison, parasites,
coal notes and
bewildered Kafka.

I raise the torch for the sun
they shut off last night
from the current meter.

written by Leila Samarrai, in the summer of 2019, in Belgrade’s district of Krnjača
Editor: Obinna Eruchie
www.allpoetry.com/Obinnex

The starving cans (video included)


To raise my soul, I tried a hop

and then sojourned to window shop,
I stumbled over an advert,
cringe in me the sight did insert;
pizzas have been my desires sort
my money’s art is always short.
The whole circle around the smell;
A rat’s snout perceives a thing fell*.
I’ve packed everything: starving cans,
enemies who crave to poison my plans.
Stormy shadow, metaphor’s height
have raised defeat to come to light,
the bus cards I can never stand.
Naught has been let flown from my hand.
At the gray poetry cemetery,
I dumped waste to face it about.
My song… was not, in her memory
that holds void, my song, it is out
of place, it has lost the look now.
Once upon a time, was meow,
and meow you smelt still smells same.
Meow, my life is in dearth’s frame.
They…are dead…and grown over swear – words in the wind showed in this den.
My house, my red home, ruin then
took, left my life to outdoor bare.
Red times I encounter pertain
to have lodge in my heart no pain.
I feel one’s presence resurface,
I feel that old morrow in place.
Unfit to stay here anymore
(Cry in the distance, a tiger’s roar).
Their liking for you is never true,
and you are just pretending too.
The wind vanished like the dry dew.
Someone takes off your memory
your face their eyes forgot to see,
to laugh you are finally free.

 

Editor: Obinna Eruchie

www.allpoetry.com/Obinnex

Homeless Sun


 

inspired by pampered materialists pushing books on how to get nirvana forever while arriving from end-of-the-wealth orders whose only concern is wandering between special feasts and diets and signing petitions to protect endangered species, fashioned and on the other hand,  after talking to a homeless person

between toilet and scaffolding
climax
seasonal socka under sandals’
scavengers flushed out bustards,
in the middle of the pigwash
in the spider’s heart

axis smuggling honey
in the lungs of the forgotten dragon

they feed on the    wash of light
they feed on the headache of solitude
the hypocritical tenants of the silence feed
non-adherents
in anti-Images, et symphoniæ

Give me the  torn yours, thrown yours                                                            from the basement tapes  restored cymbal
according to the designs of its predecessors
exiles
out of suitable doors
who drank the moon’s blood
dusted with streaks of powder
infections, poison, parasites
coal notes and
bewildered Kafka

I raise the torch for the sun they shut off last night
from the current meter