Things I Do to Survive


Along the catacombs

surrounded by whirlwinds of dread

and howls of the killed

and the slaughtered and ready for testing.

– for in the final phase,

Some try to resist, an unplanned,

human, nature-provided ability

To shift focus and fear for the bare sense.

The optical ability enhances,

images of merry demons

A smiling dance around the iris.

The main phase then ensues,

upon the rapid degradation

of potential to maintain one’s own

I and in this struggle, the eyes expand,

bulging in fear,

staring at the monster,

the shifted human form

which has the same countenance,

but shaded and bloodied with lack of feelings,

whose disgusting, dry mouth opened and

utter the Kafkian judgment

This is where the compilation comes

of several entities

pretending to be friends, godsisters and neighbors

in one singular entity,

hostile, radically evil with malicious intent and death in mind –

and the following sudden departure of a loving being

comes in, a being that uttered a judgment

out of nowhere,

using the nature-given freedom of MAN to think,

to use a flaw in its mind map,

each to his own moral metrics and laws of fidelity,

The universal reality consisted of

no more than a handful of cigarette buds

and other than rage at the impotent God

who punishes the good and awards the weak,

something that cannot be known,

but merely believed,

It was soft, hiding spot

The ship of illusions that friendship was possible.

I owe you moments of bliss.

Whenever entering my head, with roots, the wind,

the breath of tropical sun,

I struggle to survive my friends, godsisters and neighbors

in one singular entity,

hostile, radically evil with malicious intent and death in mind.

to go in pairs and be bound to a pack,

somewhere out there, on the edge of the lost world,

its monstrosity, but also its shininess,

None will notice it gone, or even as having existed.

The light and shadow play will merge with the vile contours of envy.

doubt and shame,

A haze, a wave in my thoughts,

a vortex where they wallow

in whirlpools and abysses of the deeps

A vision of a lunatic,

a nightmare with a hundred thousand deaths.

Obsession with fear.

An attack of the innocents,

A finger of fantasy pointed at them, listed their names.

a battle not to disembark the ship of illusions

And when they stick a knife in your back,

Everything moans in bliss.

The cowardly lack of will of the people

to stand up against the dictatorship of the benefactor

And peddled at their flaws – I am trying to survive!

To barely get by

a mass of people, conventional shoulder-patting,

well-intentioned advice from good people

Soft, muddy picture,

Then the image comes into focus

and a zoom-in of someone’s eyes.

Then the eyes spoke with fiery passion

and that would last for ten seconds

or so on a movie screen.

From the upper corner an unseen ghostly hand

recording what is happening in the writing on the wall

holds a great feast, and drinks from the vessels

that had been looted in the destruction of the First Temple. ..

The terrified Belshazzar calls for his wise men,

But they are unable to read the writing.

Everyone who ever hated me,

eating sandwiches and sewing leather jackets

that I pay on a loan,

Then all of the things in leather, I cannot even recall all of it.

They filled my suitcase, set aside my things

in it as if they were laying

my corpse in a sarcophagus.

(Who are these people?

How come there are so many good intentions in this… )

This is where the separation begins.

The tearing to pieces.

The introduction of chaos.

The whirlwinds in the devil’s plan

from whose monstrosity I shiver even

now when I don’t give a damn.

Photo Credit: “The Struggle Within”, Igor Morski

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Cannibalism in autumn

These are birth torments from the planet on an exhale – no single haiku can save her anymore. we have aborted our own land and humanity – our legacy.
so let’s listen to music and share something from our common past – that’s what art still gives us to fight to the bitter end. or just give up, or rise to the occasion.

The storms lopped off that head of quiet cities, 

giant waiting room and fog-braids
always besides seeing a snake-pit,
crucified orchid looks a uterus.
Along roadsides made of hot coals,
do the trumpet of darkness hide love,
do music of the wind drinking wine,
do frog-brides cast carelessly
their veils over the vertebrates,
do bare-hearted glass frog cast
their steel tools with greater violence
over tin plates?
I wonder!
Is it a stretched time?
Is a hamstring torn apart?
Are all the dead ends found in the night?
With a cello played by umbilical cords as an endless wait
and gallium rains fall from the past,
I should remember those sunbathing naked suburbs
when swings empty as eyes looked at us carelessly.
Say something!
Closes with a little small lobster clasp
of dead children passing through dead children,
a vortex where they wallow
in whirlpools and abysses of the deeps.
Children of the stone men,
my bastards…birth of my birth;
all with ageing faces la tierra,
they’re taking me there…
where bone made of roses clocks in fear.
Through heart’s mouth, cockspur veil of senses,
everything started to grow rapidly,
wood and waves, gimmicks on the face
face in gimmick and stiff thorns.
Children! A bronze plated pendant of stone people,
weathered carving of sweet pastel,
a cutting ladies’ birth of my birth,
and unborn children, sandwiched between ovaries.
I’ll paint myself open-legged pose
like Fridah Kahlo* self-induced abortions,
a nude descending to Dali’s* haiku,
cannibalism in autumn.
Author’s Note:
1. Fridah Kahlo: A Mexican painter known for her many portraits, self-portraits and works inspired by the nature and the artifacts of Mexico. Inspired by the country’s popular culture, she employed a naïve folk art style to explore questions of identity, post colonialism, gender, class and race in Mexican society.
2.  Dali: A Spanish surrealist artist, best known for the striking and bizarre in his work.
copyright by Leila Samarai, ©Belgrade, Serbia, 2019


hello, Readers. If I am not asking for too much, I see you are all too busy cherishing your own worlds, but I do have problems with some sort of cult… knowing how it does sound, I transformed it into a short story. A comment will mean much to me, and sure you can try to ask someone enough insightful and not too scared of books to comment it too. #praying_for_feedback
From a distance, I suppose it’ll seem funny, this butterfly game of THEM I did not want to know and whose goal is to take me to the bottom.
It’s their only role, an awkward, desperate purpose, motivated by nature or nurture.  I’m not the only one. It is their interest, it is their absurd display, in fact, to destroy, not only writers but also artists in general.
Especially in humans.
I’m not sure why they do it – I believe that’s because, when they recognize something and especially someone they badly want to be and cannot, they have the urge to especially assailed a true creative.
They round upon a surprised individual like a pack of wolves devastating them like avalanches devastating the slopes every winter.
“We will seal your fate, you…  Creative!” – it’s in a whisper. So tangible…
In my case, it doesn’t work that way.
I have long ago said goodbye to those thousand tangible whispers a and I  found a place to launch a church, in the eternal vortex of discovered and permanent creation. It houses a stage for me, as for other actors, it’s a theatre in sacred time, with new games
which are destined to be lost and found simultaneously.
Reptiles do not know that.
I have seen through them, therefore we know their ambitions, it’s my comprehension, a responsive chord as the keynote to my success.
What I got is the confidence that makes me laugh at them. Their predicament makes me laugh.
I am laughing at the idea that they would ever get any idea on controlling a clear whisper, they, eyeless spectres of the abomination, hidden among uncomfortable shadows, those… germs. *
Thie hidden plot is the place I crucified and revealed their true nature until they are praying in public gathering places.
My understanding of them, as the pack of germs, makes them weak, until I, as an individual, grow stronger.
I see them twittering on a heating plate, sie zwitschern, zwitschern! they are floundering underneath the dampening pads, thinking they touched me. Admirable is simply how hard they try.
By the way, I know that they hacked me WordPress and email. Why did not I report them to the police? Who says I didn’t …
They are safe now.
*germs, their heart so blackened with depravity, their very existence such a web of violence and crime