edited by: Obinna Eruchie
Whither, midst this glimmering dew locked
Poised on one crystal sorrows of all might
While glow the loitering through a vast
with its adamantine
with the last steps of you dead arose
there I am, oft far, through mine panther dance
dost thou pulse of
The butterfly in silence
whirled that makes a star
The moonlight of all the earth
be trodden gold
Vainly the quiet reed drain,
sigh on sigh,
whorl on whorl
Nor any love not any rose
Has it a meaning, the Arabian butterfly
Had words of thy distant slumber that feeds on mourn
As our face, your voice, darkly painted
Thy bluebells now, the dead arose
Seek’st thou the sweet records
Of weedy moment or inward eye of river wide,
Or where the rest tossed each other close
On the chafed woodland shod?
There is a Music whose care
Dwellers thy way along that pathless hour-
of the laurelled and illimitable air–
Lone sailing gull,
betrothal ring luminously by
all the world grow
Blossom and blade
The eyes that tell no scarlet
Bringing the tiny thunderings
The moon, like a guardian, are silent in
All day thy silver ornaments were sitting in your hear
At that visit caves the cold, thin thirst away
Yet pour sleep not, Dark, benighted methought
I lay the cup fulfilled was brightest
,, to the welcome of a madwoman haled,
Though the dark night pity me
with flaming flowers close house of glass
And soon that toil of thy auguries shall end
Soon shall you rest in the depth of a
And scream among o the crystal blues; reeds imprisoned
yondering through the mist,
sick white birds feasting
Soon, unchanging glow
on laughter rings
in a virgin cavern the abyss of heaven
Deeply has sunk with clouded eyes whose tears
the surging water marshes blind
ceased to lay ice on to lassitude
Guides through the boundless pallid beholding
Behold the stagnant hour
Did will tread my steps aright?
One little, two little,
three little coxcombs
pray slack our rage
with a futile thought
so I heard them strumpet
through the weeping dark
reverberating as the Sable laughed, howls
hot coals, abstract, to fill in the gap
as thus released my rain barrel.
And as he spoke a new man died,
so add blind dangling
that sudden light sound
within those holes
of years, for tears
to be bloodthirsty
is better than a droop.
to the broken ribs of monstrous peak,
to the powerful crimson arms,
to 12 hanging chandeliers,
to 12 sheep hanging on the iron rod
beyond courtesy of snake to snake in their snake-pit,
to 12 hells lined up in forgotten time,
to mild brightness trickles from the stars,
escape takes off through loneliness,
always blowing quieter.
copyright by Leila Samarrai, summer 2019
Editor: Obinna Eruchie
May’t not displease you, a mantis dance with the bodies of a waltz
If a morning cries in fear that it will never dawn?
Backwards, graffiti painters in colour refugees –
At the needle’s eye let the trail go on.
And as the instinct of the eternal harlot along the Danube shores,
To guard the sun is hiding its freckles
Thus scrutinised by such a stretched forth flames
Diogenes wasted palm holding my candle’s hem
Even now I grin, but bareheaded and alone,
I keep hiccoughing and do vomit on occasion,
right here in this tiny nylon bag.
Want some? No?
I have criteria.
I know the nature of doubt.
The whirlwind of trickery
an endless number of smaller whirlpools
of seemingly irrelevant events
I and my doubt became one.
A stone of crude profile rolling
and gathering various bits and bobs.
But this was far before…before…
WEEPS. CONTINUES AFTER A FEW SECONDS WITH A CALMER VOICE.
I have complicated my own life
with freelance work,
And more oil paintings, Vincenzo for instance.
Hungover from work and sunken from the anguish,
with sunken cheekbones from leaning them on the wrist
of my weary hand,
with my head like a lid of a burnt saucepan
flailing with the night where my butchery voice pierced the heavens.
I escaped under the sight of an ax
Seeking for a spot where it could drive its blade
and lay bare any hidden molars
under my golden hair.
The woolly hat on my head was undergoing
and took on the shape of a well-coiffed
Assessing the sufferer, only to jump into his lap
and take off another chunk of meat.
a bit slim, but still gracious
I growled silently, but pleased.
– And the wife?
– Left on a short trip,
My wicked thing. I must go home, my wife is in that ashtray waiting.
But that was far before…before…
There will be time for me to tell you everything
We quail, not live.
We dance on rugs of fern
In rhythm of the certainly dead
Beware the tear of the lunatic and bridges with no fences
Victims and solitude of the prayer
Patting on the shoulder
And emptiness in which the counsellors die
Do not be found again
In the meantime, we do not live
Bridging the gap between mere existence and true life.
never learns ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
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