in the quietest valley of the bitter courage


I blossom in the valley of bitter
courage
the rotting tooth

masterly.
funeral good words in the coffin
On shovel!

galloping nonsense
talking about the menacing forms of the Day
longing – cosmic hazards
encompassing – continent-continents

with your thumb in your mouth
big baby
suck up a gold dump
through a snooze.
a humanist angelic song,
cross and neck rope
Pilate, don’t prolong the debate
even though your hands are sweating.
On a basin! And the towels!

Ah, deity! extend the nectar expiration,
honey and thirst.
as an impostor Godot
at the time of my euphoria,
the shackles of the more serious things
steal time behind Beethoven’s scenes
by the way,
I have a long, bearded beard.

The time foretold – I look not like reality,
but rather
the citizens of Calais’  nightmares crusaders
(France, habitat!)
Pontius, you boiling cattle, my fault has erupted
hotter than the Titanic glacier’s
swollen kidney dipped in self-love
try to steal a drop of water from the Source
(Incidents are side)
I’m stealing blasphemes against the wooden bastard
tattletale me to the Gods who performed me

Serbia


“I know what I’ll do. I’ll give you a drachma!”
The landlady waves the electric bill,

eyeing me as if I were her lamb meant for slaughter,
but I am a she-dreamer of beautiful lips.

Jesus understands me, we speak the same tongue.
Amunet agrees, and envelops me in her generous embrace.

The cities understand, the blindness sees,
the blood of the innocents still flows as I cast

the curse of the fiery tongue on the Daemonion
after I’ve sacrificed myself to the world outside.

She burns at the doorstep, bills in embered hand…
O, how we do not forgive our debtors.

And glory be to the hellish tower of slaves!
Glory! Amen, oh Babylon!

I walk thy streets, bare and free.
Rabbi Isa, deliver me not from Evil.

prison

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….