Requiem for a mosquito, may your spirit rest upon these toxic fumes


1

I love your milk colour, nearby madhouse,
I love your fatuum traitors cry,
To Now or Once, to hellholes or sneak thieves
Which summons the harlots of Time.

Pull the drains, sewer bunnies.
may your spirit rest upon these toxic fumes,
I love your shiny little bumps, your aggro,
Simply… I love your shaft.

The Belgrade on Krnjača*
screwed up its sewage line to
contaminate the crime scene.
with raw sewage.

The Wraith will come dragged along the floor
Belgrade, you are an asylum in the open river
while sailing on a burning duvet

2

To Kunst for homeless god
to Happiness and vindictive mosquitoes
to calls of local bar hopping slut.
and fine Sers missing communal apartment.

Spraying for mosquitoes!
are you my executioner?
you’ve disarmed the vengeful mosquitos
itching
cursing
a short-tempered star
a lightning strike
frost in dictionary

And soon.. all these years
seem just like a blink
of the bite.. inseminated…
earthquake!

Don’ t get nervous phantom of the
birthplace shores.

Requiem for a mosquito
and soon, your music shall come,
some slacker roadkill shall come,
plastic heart shall soak it all in.

Like ammonium nitrate…
3
To add mincemeat out of the filthy Ser
mix mixture carefully into medicinal
soup
For Hannibal.

Poke and doodle
In the pokey, up to the rectum river,
then
plant yourself like a squatter

And… put some ice in the urinals.

 

*Krnjača (Serbian CyrillicКрњачаpronounced [kř̩ɲat͡ʃa]) is an urban neighborhood of Belgrade, the capital of Serbia. It is located in Belgrade’s municipality of Palilula. (source: Wikipedia)

My poetical journey – Follow me here, too – Wattpadd.com


212383005-352-k870845

https://www.wattpad.com/story/212385128-the-darkness-will-understand

https://www.wattpad.com/832024370-poems-from-my-travels-egypt-ankh

https://www.wattpad.com/832217214-poems-from-my-travels-the-curse-of-helena-of-troy

https://www.wattpad.com/832217214-poems-from-my-travels-the-curse-of-helena-of-troy

 

https://www.wattpad.com/user/LeilaSamarrai

 

I will continue to write my poems (epic poetry genre – for this book) for the book “Poems from my travels”

Untitled

Thank you Ephemeral Elegies magazine for your recognition and your professionalism


Sappho wrote Confessional poetry, Augustine wrote Confessions, Wittman spoke of himself, but when it comes to poetic personal storytelling, then one thinks of confessional American poetry in the 1960s (Plath, Sexton, from the position of woman and the second wave of feminism) because psychological psychoanalysis is much more pronounced in confessional poets than in their aforementioned predecessors.
This is a very interesting topic indeed and like all poets, I do not like my work to be moulded and read in a biographical key because my poetry does not renounce universality for speaking of the most intimate truths and existential states – it has an archetypal model.
I don’t consider myself a confessional poet, but in this poem, I spoke emphatically about intimate truths, and I’m glad Ephemeral Elegies magazine recognized it and decided to publish my poem live on their site now:

https://ephemeralelegies.com/2020/01/21/1976s-laughing-little-girl-swinging-high-on-outdoor-swing-by-leila-samarrai/

 

 

 

“The Adventures of Boris K.” is now live and available for purchase in the Kindle Store


Kindle ebook of dystopian adventures of Boris K. “The Adventures of Boris K.” by Leila Samarrai is now live and available for purchase in the Kindle Store

 

DYSTOPIAN ADVENTURES
This collection of thematically and temporally interconnected stories (which would make some readers hastily declare it a novel), represents a piece which, due to many of its features, stands out from the contemporary Serbian literary production. Boris K. is, just as Josef K., a man stuck in a trial (Victor Pelevin would call it a transition from nothing to nothing), as well as a postmodern coquetting with stereotypes, twisting them, with metatextuality. Situated, not by accident, in Phenomenonpublic, a pseudo-country and a pseudo-democracy, Boris K. is a man whose life, identity, life circumstances, the world around him, all change faster than the statuses on social networks. Boris K. is “a 21st century boy – everybody’s toy”, but, as the English would say, “nobody’s fool as well”. Speaking of dystopias, we must mention Winston Smith from Orwell’s “1984”. Paranoia and societal pressure exist, Oceania where Smith lives is nothing else but a microcosm in the same manner that Phenomenonpublic is. But, unlike Smith, Boris K. has places to go. Nobody is stopping him. His freedom of choice is, at first glance, absolute. But every so often a self-appointed tribune of the plebs a la Megaimportanceshire can appear who will ruin his good fortune. Let’s not forget: there is a strong satirical lining within these stories, predominantly taking aim against liberal capitalism, kleptarchy, corporations, xenophobia, and prejudices of all kinds. And, of course, what the Phenomenonpublicans love most is to wail for their deceased to whom they attribute traits which, during their lifetime, they had not seen. The living are friable – the dead are indestructible. Sound familiar? It should.

THE UNENDING SOLUTION TO LARGE SCALE CONFLICT OR WARS


THE UNENDING SOLUTION TO LARGE SCALE CONFLICT OR WARS In the beauty of journalism and what its values represent in truth and in the essence and the service of humanity, Leila Samarrai and Lawal Jimoh, L27, we, believe in the power of words and languages, solve one of the most concerning World issues or problems facing the World or the Globe today dealing with Large Scale Conflict or Wars imploring the light of accommodation, love and unity guiding our differences and cunning claim superiority with the work titled, “The Happening”, to be translated into all languages and shared to the World across and through all media of communication. Work Title: The Happening Authors: Leila Samarrai and Lawal Jimoh Genre: POETRY Number of Lines: 37

The Happening By Leila Samarrai and Lawal Jimoh, LJ, L27

Lawal Jimoh:
When death disguised, dressed in riot,
that day, no road for you and chariot,
because to console the soulless soul
for some reasons unknown to known,
there is wisdom not to have started

the fight, we are now on the field
that is awaiting the decay of times
to fuel the ground its returning.
Your birth gives reasons to light
a generation and its reborn is grace.
Do you remember, when birth places
your turn? Do you want to remember,
when death places your return?

Leila Samarrai:
What time that furious haunting flares
of a disastrous dominator’s reign
of the weeping dark?

The ocean whispers they never flew by plane.
Somewhere in the background,
I can hear their booming voices:
until the moment Soldier pounces his plane
on a selected target
and joins the virgins
in Paradise.

Where we would end the invisible war
by invisible war by invisible war
for booze-smelling oil, embarking on a crusade
a stone’s throw away from the cursives of the blood
for cemeteries and unclean places

and the knives were weeping
and the bombs were weeping
and the planes were mourning
until becoming the river Jordan.

— Leila Samarrai and Lawal Jimoh, “The Happening”

Videography, more than a documentary, link at:

https://youtu.be/-Gs3wojztSQ

© SmartBankPoetry, 2020. All right reserved.

— Leila Samarrai and Lawal Jimoh, “The Happening” Videography, more than a documentary, link at: https://youtu.be/-Gs3wojztSQ © SmartBankPoetry, 2020. All right reserved.

Goodbye soldier, farewell sword


Horses no longer want to ride you
nor to spur your flame.
Goodbye… never again…
from your blood, bird calls.
Goodbye soldier, farewell sword!
A beaten, spontaneous spectre,
my old robber devoured with time,
I’ve devoured time,
deeper, each tick of time I look
at the earth’s height
and her endlessly round flight path.

In The Balovale’s tribes mausoleum (of human history od living and dying)


 

Airily at a fragrance-oozing garden                                         a gem-beautified tree leaving a peg of bright white wood

 

Thrilled hand sculpting faces to add to                           by the garden

 

With midsummer rose petals of                                         Venusian Red by the sides floor-strewn in rows

 

 

Too holy to pray                                                                      my eyes looked at the firmament’s high girdle

 

to dive in seclusion into light

 

 

It’ll just be one great summer of red tea

 

and I shall disrobe myself before nature                          and taste of love

 

hear the cortege the flutes and the                                    tambourines

perceived in the wind

 

Entombed beneath the mountains of Himalayas seclusion

 

In The Balovale’s tribes mausoleum

 

where it always smells like greasy secretion

 

during circumcision, an ancient torture for babies

 

 

From ancient precursor to what we call warfare

 

Since Ilyad then Tiberius’ Holocene and the charge of the light brigade

 

were terrifying, inglorious flash which had souls charred to ashes,

 

the blood kept coming from knife-stabbed bodies

 

Blades cut palms from the palm-trees for

 

a chant for selfish prayer of the wildest Brutuses

 

Richards, with all the Henries in between

 

leader, a sociopath in the house of roses

 

to clothe himself in war to taste of blood by fire

 

 

Gold glorified in greed have baited the kings

 

to close their eyes

 

and descend into apathy’s underworld

 

This has to be the end

of attending to gloom

 

Attention, my soul, do not leave your gaiety’s sun unattended.

 

 

I am not some face boiling if you stretch out

like a kid, your tongue at me

 

Here is my skin thick to stand

jackals from your lips                                                                                                                                                                                          handsome replica

 

appliance  is for the sake of ameliorative mankind

 

living with love in my blood is enlivening,

 

living tenderly in the silence..

 

No decay will devour my summers’ bloom

 

Actually, the sun in its beams of glory

will resurrect midsummer dreams

 

 

I want to see you, you… morning house

You, dewy face

You, flowery eye

 

In fact, when I take off this night gown

like a daughter in obedience

 

 

A garden secure,

pleases me with the fragrance, that faylike spell

 

 

myself, I’m a mystic

who seeks the Heavenly

 

I should walk alone with a silent head

to a secluded wood

and dive into darkness

to rise up into light

 

Editor: Obinna Eruchie, https://allpoetry.com/Obinnex

 

Rape Poem


I
Have you ever been raped?
Have you ever dreamt of love while gouging out your eyes?
Has anyone ever drooled saliva onto you, like a demonic dog?
Has anyone’s large lanate limb ever poured into you?
Has anyone ever said to you, ****, you asked for it?
Have you ever been impaled by a man’s spawning seed?
Have you ever been a Turk’s abased experiment?
Has anyone ever called you an abomination of Eve?
Has anyone ever stuffed you like an apple on a spear?
Has anyone ever ripped out your steady beating heart?

Have you ever been raped?
And your bloody lips sang a grotesque song?
And you were cracked open like a clam without the pearl?
Until your uterus pushes out mangled stumps?
And you hold something heinous in your hands?
Until hanging jaws depart into darkness?
Threads of existence are cut and stuffed
And your flesh was resisting?
And your bones were weeping?
And your body was screaming?
Until your womb erupts?
Oh my beautiful face
In deep dark chambers of my heart
Where rats patrol
My flax hair is gone
I am a masterpiece of mad genius
Of the Master of Light
I hide my face in shadows
I’m a starving slave to the Ripper
While blazing gunshots sear my brain
And I pick decaying matter off my skin
I’m extracted from the horny goat’s seed
And licked by his rough bleeding tongue
It’s nothing but the call of a mangled mind
I am that hacked hemisphere of meat
My pulchritudinous petals reach up for light
And they come to me like flies to rotting meat.
A bacchanalian bellowing beast
I am that wrenched woman
Yes…

So I mature like a corpse flower
My pulchritudinous petals reach up for light
And they come to me like flies to rotting meat.

This is the world of lies
Of thirsty angels who die
While still appearing angelic
They’ve lost their shine

Have you ever been raped?
You should join me like a vampire
You’ll be bitten for a limitless life
For a never ending night of screeching sodomy
Yelling screaming crying barking
Blood sweat tears fragments
Whose Hell do you choose?
Are you too a raped ****?

Sun… Please… Father?