Is it applicable also to stone?

Behold! Should you not dying, live;and living;die.

.. from the veil outward…

Ornaments and objects

A shrine to

Malleable walls

Cave jewelry

The falling through

The respiration by spilled images

Blazed with the day

In which I drowned

My inner Bishop

Bring back the change

Merely muffled roars and groans

In time.

You sing that song


Read that song.

That same stupid song

For the last three decades

This song you sing every morning

Where’s the song you’re gonna sing?

As the Deep is going down


You plunge into maelstrom of

Recycled paper

I saw, I felt, I sank

You got tased

You experienced extensive

Art production.

Surrender, fighgting and fighting  surrender

Is it applicable also to stone?

Ah I hate when liquid rock

Dips like that.








House of Lazarus

House of Lazarus, house of ruins

Burning bamboo flute beneath those shores unfold

Beneath the dreadful moon

Divine Dryads, while letal shades cheer my troubled hour – leave

that bloody track behind

As i am of silent but gazing roses as in strange land

Where an earthquake endears the choking sighs of men

You, thus hammered by your moistful hatred, created sheckels of

Slaughterers sight –

This pale you are, like the living on the board to the cemetery

Where broods the horde of ravens putrefying.




The Clock

We stand on the brink of abysses of the deeps.
merely feel the frightening, introverted search
we have displaced ourselves in fantasy
and multiply ourselves as we please

We peer through our silence
observing through eyes unseen,
that silence tears through,
at times shrugs and as if shaking of a stone,

that particular motion, then like exhaling in pain,
went over our years with a filthy rag
to stop lasting, breasts of bile and blood,
room full of blood, venom and suffering.

A real-life zombie land – wrinkled faces, pale,
as if robbed by a fever,
hardened backs bent,
scared and careful of the impending knife strike,
like lab rats, yet bloodthirsty.

We dug our venomous teeth into it,
the skin, used our flesh, skin,
as a sacrifice for we had long decided
to set the clock, let it tick, until the end.

all rights deserved by ©Leila Samarrai, 2019

The pain of vibrant flowers scraped out Pandora

Poem for my 43rd birthday – Authors note: This means nothing

Everything, the October announcement,
a hand of god nebulae form three dirty yellow patches of fog,
and five days of compassion dipped in the pupil,
arose mododktil, rags…to see eternity, friability
opposites as growing cold rivers always appear
Heavenly heroes of soiled masks
they get in and out far from both of them celebrants
these two should be washed well under the delta
in dark sun, waltz between them.
“I’m toxic to rabbits” – “one”
“I burn deep credentials,”” two”
toxic to 43 minefields,
“both” in the home of deceased ornaments
“I celebrated it!”
In the harmonious belly of the Tiber
at the home of the late son’s brother’s son
(whispering, wryly amused):
He was a Spartacus but he did not have a house
he killed the Romans killed the Romans
in lapis lazuli Stygian river…
(demented innkeepers with hairy ties waiting tables)
My late geographical years – what did real biology give me,
but capsule in genetics, a blend of two good motives
with the drop of wars here and there,
playing the bulls that yield the mythical image of red light
under the blue bridge*
towering faces, held by Gordie’s knot,
cut by a stiffened Jon Snow sword,
a sense of scale.
For the character to be rounded—
how sick beasts bow before pigeons,
how they instead tread the shoes of the dead homeless,
bread crumb and the ice cube,
how they, in turn, leave the climax
how sick is that?
It dilutes the palate budding
with the sweetness of sweet howling,
when the poison slowly…
wrings out stone fruit prussic acid branches,
comfy being…being half-open mistletoe
in a bed of amaryllis’ healed, clouded mind;
a well runs and disappears when lifting the curtain
the bells will sound like…
The pain of vibrant flowers scraped out Pandora,
logical and – hardened berries,
celebration knows no celebration,
muddy half of the evening between the grey substances,
less and less becomes more,
time is oh, the power of secrecy barefoot gift,
a day feels like a night and morning reeks like noon.
October on the wall!
What is in the box? Sisyphus and with ribbons on!
*The Blue Bridge, place in Belgrade for prostitution (lowest prices) Part of Belgrade actually bears the name “Bridge of Whores”: Behind it lies the suffering of women under the Turks, a river of blood flowed towards the Danube

all rights deserved by ©Leila Samarrai, 2019

edited by: Obinna Eruchie

People die, dogs stay longer

 I could write about a woman

who sounds like Johnny Mitchell’s

Alcoholic tobacco mix

I could act a strange attachment

to the Middle Ages
Or to learn that I don’t know-how

to keep quiet about my love
I can be a cloud or a tree that are always there,

but they emerge from us
i may be the lack of touch

 that excites more than touch wants


Before Monday is Sunday,
and Sunday is the day that oughta pass on
There are days you don’t trust right away.
Exactly why you find them attractive.
the kind of days you fall in love with.
Because of the breath of carnival and erotic currents
Closed in winter and promiscuous in summer
A woman trapped in a male name. And vice versa
Tanned fabric, with Egypt sticking through.
Nile, Crocodile skin


Embracing your High Noon in the Louvre
as if carrying a plaque on its grave
On the back, Michelangelo and naked statues
Both, crooked teeth and a huge tompus
And they trembled and quivered and fumed.

Being a chimney among the cherries in bloom
Strikes with echoes and some memories
Endure then!
Early spring is relentless, always has been.
When pigeons walk harmlessly in front

of the doors of the madhouse

and branches of bureaucratic hell
It strikes now as the bird’s wing

slams into the counter glass

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 

I can’t distinguish a diadem from a bag of potatoes
the silence underlines that I’m just whining
grey, blue, colourful,
all this wanted to love and be loved
that land,
Watch the willows sway,
the shadow ran out before the hand of death

 and the whisper of life
the bullet erodes the body

 from a lonely void to a deep silence
like the sound of it losing itself
in the deaf wind
fifteen years of life, as a mistake.

The Theatre of the Dead – A Letter from Contemporary Poet to the Dead Fellow in Craft

Contemporary Poet:
(Life’s Pleas and Questions)

To start conversing beneath the soil,
watching death through a kaleidoscope,
the way it was lifted by the movie directors
and transplanted onto a movie screen.
In the opacity of the grave, there is water,
and gifts from the deceased one’s kinfolk
there is a lid which each of the departed –
once their eyes get used to the darkness,
that is – knows how to open.

Such suicidal maudlinism
from a vainglorious extraordinarium,
contemplating life and scribing
butterfingered sentences
Could it be said that you have managed retain
your catchpenny vanity even here and now?

I was inhumed with a hoard of quills and ink
Hence a misdirected bullet
I cannot bear to bid adieu sans the drama,
brought glad tidings to the world.
Extolling the sperm of Schiller and Whitman

O mine mister man O’Neil!
You grazing on the Irish pastures;
your entire life you wanted to be a simple shepherd,
and detach yourself from the homeland
that made you dedicate a stylized,
though dull prose dealing with wandering, wanderers, garbage collectors on an odyssey, Odysseys on the garbage heap of the world, you whose mother wanted you to be a priest!

You celebrated nicotine addicts
thinking I don’t belong among you
you who had your landed estates,
printing presses and titles,
oh how outraged you are by my novel
which would, had it ever been written,
outshine all of those burning thoughts
brought to you by a gust of wind,
which you fruitlessly call inspiration.

A seemingly impenetrable wall.
to the very end of the Earth and back.
the Earth is the Earth.
it belongs to the Living more than it belongs to the Dead.
their voices freed of the dark tone of cymbals
caused by the loamy walls

Reverberations lag behind the initial stroke,
rippling through the stagnant air
in the vast cave of the famous dead’s burning thoughts.
hordes of extras are shouting from the darkness;
murmurs, muttering, coughing and disapprovals
are heard, mixing with hysterical laughter
coming from the Department of Music&Theatre.

Startup the lights, antagonists!
let there be Music!
the Dance of Death commenced to the sound
of a cacophonous piano
brilliantly commingling variations to Salieri.
as the tempo accelerated unwaveringly,
Mozart kept flooring the piano pedals
as if they belonged on a priceless car.
his diminutive skull and compact hands
alternately rising and falling,
he guzzled from an empty bottle,
cackling, basking in the luminescence
of lanterns supplied by the archangels,
spilling over the entire gambling hall.

Clapping their metacarpals and phalanges
this crepitation lent rhythm to the eerie waltz,
fellow artists, write!
compose an ode, dancing to the rhythm with such skill!
get your bones clapping and your pens scraping,
smear the ink across your cranial bones!
here we are, performing for you the Dance of Death –
perform for us the story of a life!
bring out your musty quills,
ladies and gentlemen and with those marvellous
brains of yours – laden with letters, quills, brushes and paints
as they all undoubtedly are – highlight the wax figures’ tragedies.
grant them minuscule lampion houses to cram their meek lives into, dress them in patchwork quilts or golden harem pants;
make them heroes or cowards, thieves, traitors,
moralists and/or decent folk.

The Death’s Replica:

Let your quills glide as we,
borne by this eerie waltz, glide and lend rhythm.
we entertain you, resembling those models who,
weary of posing,
start pitching apples at each other
in order to keep their spirits awake;
and thus, seduced by the lyres
and the naked bodies wrapped in rugs
covered in Persian patterns,
those beauties maintain their perfect
comeliness devoid of boredom!

Hark the two ribalds!
‘Tis no dance, – ’tis no art, but a mass that accompanies our toils.


Dark, deep and challenging spaces cut in white,
sharp flat does not only show random links
to the dark circles of Dante’s hell.
It is a hell of beings and languages,
a devastated wreckage,
death bypassing speech,
the newly born meaning that stops
the contest of the resistance and challenge,
a helpless page filled with dead bodies.
But I am not a corpse that never dies.