Revelation Irish Woman

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It hurts
being clothed with the moon

As that woman about to give birth
in front of the dragon

particular misshapen fruit
dealt the powerful blow of a knife, in the chest

to devoted insanities grotesque
call

In pain
I am in pain in the dark places pain, paints still water with spit of the fire

To the blade that was laid in the carved bone, an altar
an ancient image of divinity

will it speak the tongue of bones tonight.

Revelation Irish Woman
Her head peeked beyond
all the towers
countless
spirals painted
Of herself
in the center of a microcosm
An all-encompassing universality of nature

a role model
for the human monstrous role, I am now in the performed, now

y – axis whirl moving of the let – ergo going to nothing

My look at the city was one of prison
I

am here – behind bars.

This is a city
in

the middle of a prison.

Into the wilderness
as is a desolate
place

And full of serpents and scorpions

“travailing in birth, and pained to be delivered”

The forest unbathed
by an ocean of blood

An unhealed wound beneath
the hot navel

The unpierced rib in the deciding battle
A lonely nest

devoid of it’s Eagle.
from the clime of the blood roth

walking are the possible dragons
That salute, woman
over and over the infinite sea breasts!

And time stuffs the pieced
pierced belly

I am a beastly shrapnel
like a knife

ping of fadead stomach
as around as death, around me you

imagining me, dragon tail’s rise
My mortal body
of immortal progeny!

I summon the Heavens to bow
down to my tentacles

Folded into a clenched fist of Hades in the chains of the river euphoria!

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Leben (Life, Život)


a Sisyphusian average
of tomorrow’s bread
ground from today’s bones
milling from up-slant’s waggle
stirring-in leavens
of ant and grasshoper
pinch of dreams millstone heavy
oiled with sweat or tears
pelting a stone vault
whose chimney (damaged scroll)
sings in flab-cursives shards of ‘un bel di’
that turn hefted and dark
curl down again to
flickering among the blue
and stench of brimstone
dancing in the wings

curse by bullet
repetition sustains
gives endless birth to endless funerals
that begin again endlessly
as a hill-bottom fog

somewhere
a stone boat barnacles with grass
coxswain saints / Charon’ shadow
grinding in place

til then til there
til then and there
stone’s rude wheel
stirring from smoke and dust
a rut in furrow’s garb

endlessly (?…

The Screams of the butterfly

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In terrible airy alofts, flying high,
Adrift in anima amnesia’s,
Floating in fernweh forgottens,
A low birth in abyss’s,
Radiance in replete radials from rages
…In furious vortices.

You chase enchantment phantoms in Elysian fields,
Drips and drops tell tales to pebbling
flowers.
And sea’s shimmering sparkling spray,
Soliloquy’s shadowy opaque on gloaming coasts.

Butterflies, lonesome lighthouse sewn
shores,
The cannibalistic roses sanguine swell in opening horrors,
The star language songs sing and
susurrates,
Tower of Babel nations are euphoric in linguistic relates,
Your Jupiter cult divine drowned in
sacrificial wine.
The great oceans with brumal iced crest glistens luminesce,
Turning their faces in adorations to
eloquent suns.

Fires birthed from hollow
clouds eruption,
Butterflied veins in vain combust without refrain,
Butterflying flits in solar circles, dying in flaming cycles,
Swayed wings desperate, flutter flails
waves weave.
The sea shudders wide and the earth
gasps despondency,
It’s ceasing deceasing pleasing, powers
Gods.
Deserving of death, deserving of life…
Let him live…let him die…
Despised executioner, I…
But let departures be without
punishment.
The triumphant arrogant live…
…but if only…for one more moment.

It floats through sullen azure arches,
Delicates warbles sinking on failing ash
spark.
Strained in chained,
Fallen empires cycle timidly,
The swath mutes bitterly.
The screams of the butterfly.
In this witchly silence, the birds have no
name.

Howled realizations of impending
demise,
Roars in restless logos, linguistic
anguishing reviles.
The icy knife lunges, twisting in chests,
The dogs went wild from the scent,
Snake holes sent, trails for sour spent.

Icarus unspeakable without wings,
Eternal falling resonance in eternity
sings.
The unsettling crackling of film off it’s
reels,
Whooshing winds of terror revealed,
A thousand knives trembled eyes,
Broken winged horses and broken sighs.
Winged intimacy with deceasing,
Can you hear this breaking mercy?

Dropped to knee’s from flight, in front of shining seas light,
Womb burst swallowing lightning, torn
harsh flesh darkness in vain,
A new beast is born from the stain.
The cry of the caterpillar.

Falling lightning, beast in nerve cell
mornings,
Beast in miasmas with air on fire, breath a blazed!
Permeated atmosphere suffused
imbued.
She hoods submerging stars and turns
off the sun,
She transcends death threshing and flies
in the whirlwind storm,
Lunacy grasps the winged with scorn.

Transfigurations to sinister,
The harmonies collapse in desolation,
The intestines scream dissolution.
Sinking stars feverishly shaking black,
Red retch blood glares,
The veins swell chthonic flares.
Unquenchable expires,
Unsatiated thirst…fires!

This dawn of tamed passion possessed,
Mantles tremble in lowering laments,
The black forests gloam obsidian under
black moons,
The earthquakes grumble morbidity too
soon.
Dying iris turns transient,
Swallows hushed in sallow hollows,
The Hearances reviled,
The howl of the butterfly.
On this heartbreak soil
Deathly modus’s susurrous’s shipwrecks.
The Reaper ravages us all…
…For loss of her.

BUTTERFLY: Death, I heard you while you were breathing…
I heard you while you were sleeping…
I heard you while you were weeping….
I heard you while you were screaming…
Centuries of noosed escape,
Eons of eluding fate.
Shrieked clarions called silent,
On immortal heights.
The laughter of the butterfly.

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

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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


Fie oh an’t fie



Fie oh an’t fie!

a musical silence, the initial harmony.

discord and struggle, during a white circle,

is babbling some made-up tune


O, the music!

o, the oomph!

stains stains stains

black black black

it’s a livin ‘.


Symbolic dance macabrei,

countless murders,suicides, apparitions,

disturbing unfolding of images at a furious pace,

chasing the dead, the dead, prostitutes,

burning angels and gods,digging through graves,

reviving the underworld,all those armies in retreat,

that blood and fires,the bells

And also the arson
and also the madness of a frantic chase,

Beethoven is played, drinking expensive cognacs

smelling Burmese herbs and caressing stuffed skins.

and that life was lost.


At the royal fair distorted Turkish

Hungarism and Anglicism

in Suleiman’s Palace a special “hu”

they are jumpy transitions,a feature

of that one-act play.


At a furious pace, hilarious noise

FORTE!

and eerie silence alternate,wild dance and terrified stiffness,

punches and hugs,laughter and tears,life and death,

light and darkness,

and that’s life.


A wild drunken wheel roars through the stage,

sucking in people type of a hurricane,horses,

black dogs, beasts from the menagerie,

and, finally, a chorus of more vampiric dead,

suicides from Toledo’s wheel

It’s a part of Life


A suffocating song of horribly black spots

your life was a fight with beasts

believe it! snakes, hyenas and wolves

watch them grin and sing

a curse upon it!

In in a low voice….


© Leila Samarrai

Photo Credit: Ilene Meyer

People dieDogs stay longerFinally, they die too


People die
Dogs stay longer
Finally, they die too

You can be a minuscule that will live for you
“Not to speak ill of the dead”
So they told you,
I’ve told myself along the way.
‘good afternoon”” Good evening’
good night’
how are you’
“Today, it’s the hottest day of the summer.”
Just passing the time of day
Some deaths come to make others’ lives easier

My words will survive slander, speculation,
anonymity and controversy
outlaw artists

I’m the big Division eye, I’m my own deity
the gods are not to blame,
they have taken and embraced it firmly
what they were offered
to make it easier for them to fill their heads,
they must first be emptied

And the furies are fighting
in a fit of crazed rage,
and new martyrs sprout.
Somewhere the harp is buzzing.

It’s just some lunatic
Whispering softly..
mourning the Dream of a Death

People die
Dogs stay longer
Finally, they die too

When silence shortly breaks through the syllables


Bright through the eternal year

Of dragons roaring on the enchanted coast;

Entombed in its trains, ships, androidphones

Inglorious two faced porcupines swung down

from branch to branch

with their hell-scaped train,swift as the quivering needle wheels

Twinkling mystically in the nn spectred space

Offering Virgo withered fingers

O wit despised and dumb despair,

When silence shortly breaks through the syllables

or the polyphony of purple blinking bats

or

the seed erodes the bowel of life.

You sink into the abyss of sad evil,

you build the toweron the cape

of a pork sword.

Life is like that.

it is neither insolent nor magical drama

but a detail of an indifferent act

Against the Colossus – is gapes went forth,

Of the gape of tortured within the Giant;

The might of that perspective you shattered,the lightning

– it blasts in through our monsters ears

What a bewithced, unhappy session

Writhe with me and torturechambering with me

….the snuffed-out exam rigorosumperspective ……

Horror, dread and despairto anyone

with nerves of steel

scratch and rake of splintered

beneath the veneer of beauty deep

2

I want to be a Picasso Guitar artificial

42 strings, 4 necks, and 2 sound holes.

fire sounds are in fashion

Be careful not to burn yourself with this one!

Merely another liar

The masked messenger

welwel

some rag man from the bushsome back (h) end from the god

By wicked night!

Here is the hollows angry furrows

and the inflamed tongue set greedily to lick

The shining rhombohedron

and the flesh of the flesh of a tree;

which grows

Death, Thee, master of our civilizations,

ourdidacticisms, our dialectics, our métiers, our measures, our…

for which wave-driven machines

are you bat plant bringing

the pile of corpses without coffins

the pulse, grave, mute,the color, the fraction,

the hard life,the hard eternal life.

Let us not fear.

The Balloonman come

running from tree called life and the last essence!

he has to suffer from myth to myth,

Ew, ecumenical Mary.

make my soul conceive

to carry

so much for such a ridiculous point.

Welwel!

Author: Leila Leila Al SamarraiPhoto Credit: The Garden of Earthly Delights, Right Panel Acrylic Print, Hieronymus Bosch

Spin


SPIN

Part One

THE GREAT BEAR’S NECK

This is a time for a single canopy
at the intersection of summer roads
This is a time for all
these dark blue little knights, harlequins,
had lost their sense of intrigue – from behind the mask
of a two-headed monster
Horn-rimmed thick glasses partially clouded
the murky look of the vulture.

And in false sleep you are born ruinous

The Andean bear pointed his muzzle at you.
His hair was like a cockatoo
after his crest was plucked out.
‘Tis the season of giving roses,
a golden petal for the first time seen

Petal, a complete structure shaped like a bone
within the red coffin of oasis
’tis the season of taking,
of implanting self-possession, is dictated by a trigger,
like a revolver trigger which tears down

every cell
in the great earthquake
each bar taken out by small grippers
bent toward the oath of time dying

Laugh, you… sniggering miniature knots
get sentimental, damn you
Imagine that you are intentional
Sensitive, of no consequence.

and what you saw – IT.
and what weighs upon the heart- cut it,
with a white noose
and around the Great Bear’s neck
From the fruit. From the crack

2

Part Two:

DREAM WEAVER

Rabies and foreigners.
They’re boiling
green fire.

Fighting them is impossible.
Their world survives, their red eyes are
aflame with a glow
of a killer’s sword.
They chop off heads, eat limbs,
and all of it together, as per a deal.
They shake after what they do to you,
fall to pieces – and they do not stop.

By the Apate, in the twilight
catch several and kill for Eirene
the gray-haired old East-European immigrant,
each breath making her larynx inflate.
Cancerous growth in her larynx are
aching to burst out.
As does the barrel of the gun peering from out
of a white rug wrapped and on her knees.

Do they paint, do they talk …
not only – All suitors of all sorts themselves enthral –
into the weaver-room; and there, there,
where the azure globe
of the Penelope’s needle burned
they leap forth, mortally self-wounded.

Spin…Spin Spin…Spin, you.. wicker backet!