House of Freaks


I went towards the timeless ocean of temporality,
to the very beginning, on the shores
of cursed waters where dead faces grinned

Speak will I not of the terror I saw upon the rough-hewn coast
may evil see you, black tooth bite you
and fume its pungent breath into your soul –
they pull my sleeve, pull me with them,
as I scream and fling stones at them,
and whichever I reach out for, they kick it hard,
and this lasted for a while, until they fled.

 

As is the circle that gone around this heat
I walk like a sleepwalker, through memories.
who may they be, they whose violence can’t be undone, like filth
which nature makes all roundabout in this sick land?

Whose land is this?
The witch smacked her hands together,
demons came out of her evil eye,
and I woke up, seeing it as round and round as the sun.
A dark glow was white in the newly-born day.

 

Here she is. Cathedral front porch.
The Gilded Angel, the entrance hidden
the hour’s missing
under the golden light
and with the body of cherubim

 

I do not want to enter damn thing,
but facing the cruel world in the beast,
fear came over me, it swore at me insanely
and gave me a smack on the cheek.

 

While I quivered terrified on the accusing wind,
and at one moment stopped,
lost in the light
of the merciless machine which kept chugging,
non-stop, looking at me vengefully, demanding more…
my skin is sensitive, it will not endure this.

 

Perchance evokes from its lofty perches
aflame in anger in House of Freaks
time is ticking. Space dying,
on display for carnival patrons
step warriors clad in leather armour, their axes bloodied
with a wicked howl of the wind
More and more near approaching
human chicken tarred and feathered
“We accept you, we accept you”

It took my hand and got me in.

Look. The sign is crookedly placed!
in front of the church!
all of this clowning around,
this house
this wire
this fleur-de-lis
all of this is wrong,
instances inscribes threatening riddles
forcing a finger into the joke
above the shield
a royal crown, with church gates shut!

Where, where are you taking me…
what misfortune is this?!

The Merry Christmas to the Invisible Man


Author’s note: You are reading this poem at your own peril.

The gongs produce outlandish sounds
which are yet to inundate each other and,
in the end, every vibration forms
a single steely blow making the bony lobes
of the skeletons’ former ears bleed for a moment.

A spectral voice speaking a human tongue
booms anon exhibiting adjacency,
unlike the remote effects of the gong.
the voice is an authoritative and shadowy bass.
“TO THE MERRY CHRISTMAS!”

The Bethlehem’s star, starry night candle
whose care breathed in drops below
Canaan Fir, a large belly Ho-Ho-Ho
audible
if invisible

The mistletoe, the woodman
with wood notes at Eve
In humble guise, they came this night,
the cries of Bethlehem…

And says screams creeps far into
the Christmas tree, of gathering gloom.
the Druids’ cure-all mistletoes
silver tinsel shimmering white

Cut out sleigh bells from the stone-cold tomb.
then meet church bells
at the top of bleeding almond-eyed tree,
together with a loop of lily-white, ribbon.

And filled it with holy light, you, Myrrh,
dance, evoke my dancing skeletons
as pond is frozen, as the music rose with
notes shine out a-far,
frosty Carol is making her moans,

(unfolding ghosts into oblivion
akin to an Unfinished Fantasy -):

a throng of underground hallways,
secret passages and catacombs –
one branch of which leads into the Purgatory,
the other into the Painter’s Assembly

Observe!!
my marigolds, my wounds
and parlour made of clarigolds.

Knock knock!
who is it
Invisible man
audible
if invisible

And then I subside into a pensive state,
while Santa watches me furtively.

I asked myself what keeps the people warm
under this gale which caresses the skin
as gently as a skeletal hand would,
eternally un-warm, the icy liberators
of the esophagus.

Confused and pondering,
exactly like a man whose wife had just
spontaneously combusted before his eyes,
I was trudging along the street covered in snow.

I was singing:

Peace to the blackly squats,
peace to fear in the night,
for that mad mistletoes housed an abbot from the graves
in the cheerful blessing night

Between me and the monster (Expulsion)


Behold the corpses, with the human living tissue
Who implants their brains, in the human molecule
Behold the dead cell remains dead

Thus multiplies unusually imitating the human immune system
Near to the early stages of metamorphosis
And those hidden knives of deceit

the hellish butcher was as the hellish butcher a just man,
Its stumbling cave dweller was so benign,
And of brain cutting their cingulum

Blindly feels everything up in the darkness
Out of their eyes along with the catacombs
Surrounded by whirlwinds of dread and howl

Evil people, this way, that way, this was how I lay,
Alone, In black wreckage,
Now from the creak-opening and now
The decrepit mouse-coloured door,
Peeling and crumbling.

The first Creature caught me.
When we that black wreckage encountered,
Who came beside the battle not to disembark
The ship of illusions between me and the monster,
Gazes at us

Thus the femininity was no cause for hysteria
By grotesque calls were repeating themselves who seized
An unbending pride, and cried out, “Rather the end horror of it!”

Maybe they’ll cut my throat during sleep?
No, I must do this myself for them to mask their existence,
And I would liken an insane person
And they would become one more victim the richer,

Those who know of the human mind more than
Before my death,
Then the further development of technology
Of destruction of Man
Would ensue, right there
Near the end of the century,

When we a company of the great demons terrify
Who curse every person who manages to force them out
Gazed at us, out of his or her body or to fight back.

Behold the evildoers, with the soft, muddy picture
Whose image comes into focus and a zoom-in
Behold for ten seconds or so on a movie screen.

On the threshold of the creation
Of whoever it might be.

Hydrocyanic acid confession


Hydrocyanic acid confession

I am full of cyanide,
for I am alone and unloved.
I have some of your facial features,
I laughed aloud
as if I were entering a bat cave,
but it was not laughter that a happy being
stretched out due to joy,
it was desperation, it was torture.

Even now I grin, but bareheaded and alone,
I keep hiccoughing and do vomit on occasion,
right here in this tiny nylon bag.
Want some? No?

I have criteria.

I know the nature of doubt.
The whirlwind of trickery
contains
an endless number of smaller whirlpools
of seemingly irrelevant events
I and my doubt became one.
A stone of crude profile rolling
and gathering various bits and bobs.
But this was far before…before…

WEEPS. CONTINUES AFTER A FEW SECONDS WITH A CALMER VOICE.

I have complicated my own life
with freelance work,
the earnings…

And more oil paintings, Vincenzo for instance.

Hungover from work and sunken from the anguish,
with sunken cheekbones from leaning them on the wrist
of my weary hand,
with my head like a lid of a burnt saucepan

I WAS
flailing with the night where my butchery voice pierced the heavens.
I escaped under the sight of an ax

Seeking for a spot where it could drive its blade
and lay bare any hidden molars
under my golden hair.

The woolly hat on my head was undergoing
piloerection
and took on the shape of a well-coiffed
hairstyle

Assessing the sufferer, only to jump into his lap
and take off another chunk of meat.
a bit slim, but still gracious
I growled silently, but pleased.

– And the wife?

– Left on a short trip,

My wicked thing. I must go home, my wife is in that ashtray waiting.

But that was far before…before…

‘You should have killed me first, then give a speech,’ Sleeping Mathilde, an excerpt


I am posting Daenerys’s tributes at FB https://www.facebook.com/leila.mehdi.12935 all they long… read this chapter. It was written in 2006… before the show and this is not The Game of Thrones. It is finished in 2014
But, my Mathilde is slightly different than Daenerys…

‘You should have killed me first, then give a speech,’ Sleeping Mathilde, an excerpt

Undead Mathilde takes over the Hasse Castle, north of Vasteras

***
‘I know all the guards Orian ever spoke to. You were not among them. You did not follow a single command I issued. I know what you did with the trenches. You buried them, and in them, you’ve buried the bodies of my many loyal guards. You brought your own men. Do you think I am unaware of the dagger at my throat and that the tower guards’ arrows aiming at me, or of the gate being unlocked? I wonder who dragged you here to begin with.’
‘Almric, Olof’s brother.’ He smiled and lunged at her with a dagger.

She grabbed the sharp end with her hand, confusing him for a moment, then giving him a powerful knee kick to the crotch.
The guards pulled out their arrows and tightened their bows.
‘Stop…’ Tamson gurgled, but I could no longer hear him, for I went numb out of fear for our fates.
At that moment, from the highest point of a tower, an arrow pierced the rebel’s leg, and then the other went into his palm. The mistress grabbed him and blood covered her long, white fingers. ‘Almric, you say?’

Dark shadows were dancing on her face, while the guards were returning the arrows to their quivers.
‘Are they dead as well?’ Tamson asked. His confused look was aimed at the archers, many of which, as he knew, were hidden in the deepest parts of the tower. It was the last line of defence, therefore it had to have been heavily guarded. ‘Where are my men? Maybe in that trench, you mentioned?’
Mathilde burst out laughing.

‘Give me my sword back, you damn Norrbotten witch!’
The shivers that had overcome his body up until that point were gone completely, which she noticed and whispered ‘Almric…’ anew, adding ‘I can understand that. I would have done the same myself. Raise an army of monsters and crush Amerongen, bathe in his blood under the light of the pregnant moon. But where is the wretch now? There he is chanting to himself in the solars begging the serfs to ride him. There are no living here, not anymore.’ To this, I, Jonas Sverker, quivered in fear, but Mathilde had already sent away the guards that wanted to shackle Tamson. There was a tumult in the air from all the rage. Tamson looked at their faces, but they were cloaked. ‘This is your army?’ He laughed. ‘Yeomen whose blood you drank?’
‘How poignant.’ She laughed and tossed him a two-handed sword. ‘I like your courage. What else can you do besides being brave? Since you cannot fight, which we’ve established during regular training.’ She turned her back to him, giving him the chance to cut her down. ‘I can hear the trotting of feet moving to the gates. The monster is here, to lay the beast to rest.’ She spoke without rhyme or reason.
Tamson stood on his shaky feet, the sword in his hand equally as shaky.

‘You wear the robes of Amerongen, giving out the same commands he would, drink blood far more greedily and suck the life out of Norrbotten more rammishly and passionately than he ever could…You are Amerongen. Your soul is rotten, words vile, innocent blood rests on your hands!’ He shouted, swinging his sword to Mathilde. She swiftly turned and he landed on the sharp end of her blade, his heart pierced.
‘You should have killed me first, then give a speech,’ she said, wiping the sword on Abaddon’s back. She turned to the guards….

***

Copyright ©Leila Samarrai Mehdi 2014®

* No part of this novel may be used or reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any way or form or by any means electronic, mechanical, recording, or otherwise without the written permission of the author.*

A Shaman’s Curse, (Serbian original included), an excerpt


At it’s core, this story is about an altered perception during any creative endeavor. (author’s note)

Posted on the website Ljubitelji i autori sf/f/h umjetnosti u BiH

Dediicated to Plato

In medias res

#horror #satire #parody #psychedelic

Why murder? Because of vanity? – an unimaginative mind would say. Your shoes are salted with it and you walk around bloodied like that. You! The author, under the veil of suspicion! There is something fascinating, I speak while I shake and hit a pole, then another, dazed, probably under influence of the spell from that diabolical fiend and his Halverson – I laughed wildly, then growled – something obscenely fascinating in falsifying the work of another. Within the success of an average mind, without cleverness, that which is adorned by incompleteness, that which loans all it has from the Complete one. He is a voyeur, this plagiarist and falsifier. He peeps through the keyhole of your overflowing imagination. He uses voodoo magic! He walks behind you with a smile while your statement, your bleeding, your desperation flows…Or is this a simulacrum, an exaggeration, an illusion, tension caused by a simple fact that Lucius and Ignatius have similar, if not the same surnames. Fact that in the Zerynthia novel one of us was a literary character, and that the other one wrote it. (This secret, dear reader, I’ve kept from you until the very end)And that the literary character dies in a puddle of blood, just like this, with a knife. So who was I? What soul? The one of Zerynthia? And who here is an Earthling, and who an extraterrestrial? TURBAN! – that was my final mad IDEA after which I passed out…

While he’s dreaming…

“Two mad loves”, hahaha, Ignatius. Oriental poetry is not the current trend with us Scandinavian folk.

“Not true. The influx of Arabs in Sweden is growing on a global scale. They have houses, are covered socially…”

“But you’re saying that Zerynthia is east of the Moon.”

“I say that her hair is, which is how he sees it, like the treetop of the Canadian rhododendron. The Moon has nothing to do with it. East – that’s just a direction. From hell, from heaven, was it not already written… But, then the oriental directions have enlightened the people, now hell and heaven and east and west, even the rhododendron and the Moon just confuse them.”

“Who is he, Ignatius, who is he, and who am I”, the publisher with a turban on his head asked.

“Lucius. He gets into different situations where his behavior turns abnormal. If he is even capable of love, that love is damaging, mister publisher man. Still, his work is finally gaining traction. Words are becoming more picky amongst themselves, they defy each other, they even defy publishers and the public, as blind as Homer the topic of reading a good book, the provincial taste over which Lucius reigns inviolably. Margarita agrees with him and once, at a Georgian terrace where they were at in the Bedford Park villa, she confesses to him that not only will he become the new Aki the Pig, but an enlightening reformer in the age when Zerynthia alongside China will be the sovereign ruler of the world – she confesses to him and speaks…ah, speaks and this is one of the most powerful parts where her role shifts from a supporting to a main one, at least in his head, where she speaks to him on a personal, intimate level. The novel becomes novelist-ish, so to speak…”

When he heard this, he, the publisher, a man of quite noticeable facial features covered in yellow feathers and with a flat head in the shape of a hammer, jumped on me and rode me, starting to grind me…down to dust. His body was that of King Kong. In his hand he had a baseball bat and he whack whack whacked into powder, whack into one nothing nothing. YOU ARE AWFUL, IGNATIUS HALVERSON! AND NOW YOU ARE OFFICIALLY NOTHING!

Serbian original:

ŠAMANOVA KLETVA ili O IDEJAMA
Posvećeno Platonu
image Shaman ~ Jeff Wood

#horor #satira #parodija #psihodelija

Čemu ubistvo? Zbog sujete? – rekao bi neimaginativni um. Njome su ti posoljene cipele i tako krvav koračaš. Ti! Pisac, pod velom suspicije! Postoji nešto fascinantno, govorim dok se tresem i udaram o jednu banderu, potom o drugu, ošamućen, verovatno pd dejstvom čarolije onog dijabolika i njegovog Halversona – divlje sam se nasmejao, potom zarežao – nešto opsceno fascinantno u krivotvorstvu tuđeg rada. U uspehu prosečnog uma, bez pameti, onog što ga krasi nepotpunost, onoga što od Potpunog sve svoje uzajmljuje. Voajer je to, taj plagijator i krivotvor. Viri kroz ključaonicu vaše nabujale mašte. Koristi vudú magije! Za vama sa osmehom korača dok teče vaše kazivanje, vaše krvarenje, vaš očaj… Ili je ovo privid, preuveličavanje, iluzija, napetost izazvana pukom činjenicom da Lucijus i Ignašijus imaju slična, ako ne ista prezimena. Činjenice da je u romanu o Zerentiji jedan od nas bio književni lik, a drugi ga je napisao. (ovu san tajnu, od tebe čitaoče, čuvao do samog kraja) I da književni lik umire u lokvi krvi, baš ovako, sa bodežom. Ko sam bio ja? Koja duša? Da li ona sa Zerentije? I ko je tu Zemljanin, a ko Vanzemaljac? TURBAN!– bila je moja poslednja mahnita IDEJA nakon čega sam se onesvestio… ,

Dok sanja…

„Dve lude ljubavi“, ha ha ha. Ignašijuse. Istočnjačka poezija nije aktuelna u nas Skandinavaca.
„Nije tačno. Priliv Arapa u Švedskoj raste na globalnom nivou. Imaju kuće, pokriveno socijalno..“
„Ali ti govoriš da je Zerentija istočno od Meseca“.
„Ja govorim da joj je kosa, a on je tako vidi, nalik na krošnju kanadskog rododendrona. Mesec s tim nema nikakve veze. Istočno – to je samo pravac. Od pakla, od raja, zar ne beše napisano.. Ali, tada su istočni pravci prosvećivali narod, sada ga i pakao i raj i istok i zapad, pa i rododendron i mesec samo zbunjuju“.
„Ko je on, Ignašijuse, ko je on, a ko sam ja?“, upita izdavač sa turbanom na glavi.
„Lucijus. Zapada u različite situacije u kojima je njegovo ponašanje abnormalno. Ukoliko i voli, ta ljubav je štetna, gospodine izdavač. No, njegov rad napokon dobija zamah. Reči postaju izbirljivije međusobno, prkose jedna drugoj, pa i izdavaču i publici, slepoj kao Homer kad je u pitanju dobra knjiga, varoškom ukusu nad kojim Lucijus neprikosnoveno vlada. Margarita se sa njim slaže i jednom, na gruzijskoj terasi gde se nađoše u vili Bedford Park, priznaje mu da ne samo da će od njega postati novi Aki Svinja, već prosvetiteljski reformator u doba kada će Zerentija zajedno sa Kinom suvereno vladati svetom – priznaje mu i govori.. ah, govori i to je jedno od najsnažnijih mesta gde iz sporedne uloge prelazi u glavnu, barem u njegovoj glavi, gde mu se obraća lično, intimno. Roman postaje romansijerski, tako reći..“

Kad to ču, on, izdavač, čovek izrazito markantnih crta lica prekrivenog žutim perjem i spljoštene glave oblika čekića, skoči na mene i zajaha me, počevši da me drobi.. do praha. Telo mu je bilo kao u King Konga. U ruci je držao bejzbolku i udri udri u prah, udri u jedno ništa ništa NIŠTA NE VALJAŠ , IGNAŠIJUSE HALVERSONE I SAD SI ZVANIČNO NIŠTA!