The Juliet Flower


Night came, shining through the glory of all the sunset
Speed up this hour, Gethsemane,
into the vast unknown

Inhuman forms, here you are
Amorphous hordes, finally
and strange to say: at last

Echoes from the outer voids,
my cosmic dome Finally!

These are my invisible and wide open hands
Evidence? Why? Am I approaching? Am I moving away?
This one me? Nobody and Nothing!

Transparent postscript

There is fear in the night
as harpies fly to the moon
with a subtle cat scent

There is fear in the night
Held in lunar synthesis
Whispering lunar riddles

Indifference comes
ah, Abarimon scalawag drawn out of dephts
at his turned toes

Indifference is coming
singing and lamenting
and singing again.

the juliet flower still in a rage

on the trail of tears trial


on the trail of tears trial,
vita man encounters mine her
all beneath his hard shell self
at the door of the law,
made especially for her out
of the promise rings of saturn.

planetary potentiality meets rotational gravity always already,
and it’s the onset of an onslaught
turning chalk grey into vino tinto.
happily ever after tires quickly
as subluxation strip club cave man
swings his lone ranger tonto
adjustable order to pull hair to his liking.

prometheus is rising, and brutus con carne
warms the chilly to stuff the hot birdie.
a trophy whiff, bright and shining,
puffs out his blood rich chest.
**** a duck’s decoy comes into play
to shoot disorder and confuse
the natural order of the disco.

the lights refuse to balance
the dark ages of youth and vermouth,
and instead block the body
to steal your face and deface book,
and the grateful dead smile.
songs to raise the dead canter
bury, and la petite mort cometh again.

swallowing swallows serious surreal serpentine syrup,
shank shoved and saw shawls zipper.
tears work on hard cases
with the exception of mister softie.
vita man encounters mine her
all’s symbolic campbell’s primordial soup,
and holds cymbals ready to clash minerals
lung power in two gun powder.

butter flies over margaret’s margarine psyche soul,
untouchably touching the pure bread companion,
amuse for the muse miming dainty dante.
dick’s kite flytraps venus and icarus’s ears are burned off.
so much for the womb man to take but fuel for the cauldron.
don’t touch!
the pearl holds the earl’s treasure chest.
thrush doesn’t trust rush,
and rust calls in the spring to dust.
siblings gang in legion
to ignore ignorance and dance in glee.

an ultimate intimate stroke of the pen knife,
atom brussel sprouts split soup,
and pea fames defames face book shame.
mummified fried mineral courts quart quartz
to no available chemistry
class crystals cream cremated corn,
and beneath it all the dead wait on the planck scale
to weigh an other few million years
on the trail of tears trial.

Based on True love

Wild and born from vestal fire
Terribly undefiled
And born of a glitter of sand
The Devil’s tongue bubbled below the Eden tree
a serpent with a childlike wonder.
It listens, listens
A quiet sleep for a quiet dream
with a grim black
to the bitter end, to the dust,
in a lifetime, before waking up,
only for a breed of man

who put night-time monsters
in the simulacrum
and brought a voyeur into Awakening
and our wicked,lucid appetite for useless life,

and loss of Sight.
Who is the Earth,
and who is extraterrestrial
From hell, from heaven,
hieromonk apostate
yesterday mourns us,
And afterwards
proclaims us blind
And when I jot them all down,
I await my trial.
I, the spirit who follows fate
as if I were the fates avenger

my head on a stump,
the only given possibility.
A dissonant interval.
Music bangs in the dark.
A calm before the storm.
Then all of the scribblings,
those in a treasure chest of the head,
will be swallowed by flames.
Then I shall sing from the ashes
and embrace the walls
as I burn half-spoken.
The light and shadow,
both whirlpools and
merge with vile contours of envy.

Fearless, doubtful
shame wallows in dunghill
at the edge of a lost world.
none shall hear truth, in its monstrosity,
nor its shininess
Unto Innocence cry
lies the reverberation
by the slanderers burnt
Through all our mazes of Ire and Fire,
An attack of the innocents,
a finger of fantasy
pointed at dire events
and the discord of listed names.
The honourable citizenry slandered.
and the quill’s wounds scream.
These eyes gather at the

while sweat drips onto dark maps
in my enraged cranium and ink spills.
For it is all written.
Their claims.
In my sleep
gluttonous tongue of serpents thralls,
to craft a tangled state,
to down with this living man
through scales of
and letters…
For all it had done and hasnot done
That did a mightier service to stumbling block
to weep of something magnified

nestled nowhere in my spirit,
It appeared in the clearness,
nigh-apathetic shape
based on true love
I once felt.
And in those letters I openly,
helplessly,and naively check
…through words and pictures
opens the tense mind, through the heart,
Stabbed by crawling pincer.
A beastly howl of the desperate,
swims through the similes
”Picture Cupid dipping arrowheads

in phenylethylamine. It is poison,
to undergo the mournful shades?”
“Why is thy pedestal on the top of earthly kingdoms,
a Carpenter – Shephard, crowned ruler of all artists sight”
The hell is the wooden
Two bits glued together and a piece of plywood…
…”plywood in the middle like a cork!”
Among the mournful, mutilated shades?
Carpenter’s fashion as a guide,
Consider, if counted Apostles

be pipe players
to blow a ditty
for numerous books in a single passage,
a secret of that slanderer whispered
behind the scenes,
with a filthy rag
and uttered verdict,
Observing through eyes unseen,
that silence tears applaud,
at times shrug,as if shaking
off a stone to exhale in pain.
Lay thus unpitying kingdom crushed
offered up as a REPLACEMENT,
Perun spoke to me,

or an Djinn of sorts
I got the Serbian and Arabian war gods mixed up.
Seizing the first
Seizing the second,
distorted drunks downing that final glass…
of poison.
–cinnamon and rose
perfume onto the moustache-
it’s cold, even for the disconsolate
when lifeless living clenched
a thiyab al-mounadamah…
or whatever robe of striking colours,
seized with its claws.
to be robbed by a mysterious fever,
hardened backs bent, scared and careful

fearful of impending knife strikes,
like lab rats, yet bloodthirsty.
as if those of drunks downing that final glass–
an option…
And now the moon errands in the doomy pit.
Behold Dat and Dis,
the wicked spirits galloped through time
moon teeth corrupt to
their roots
and bloody..
With sad, enormous chunks of time
blocking there search of the vile
By right of Irre,
diabolical actions,

By right of Slime,
rash must go behind
By right of War,
taken out insidiously
By right of actor,
taken out comically.
By right of treacheries, idiocies,
taken out vigorously…
From fell to fell descended Iscariot’s slanders
to set a sag – disease of benign red shores.
Strongly to enumerate the hysterical wretches
in muck, mud,and blood –
In destruction only
impurity essences…
The hours of night and a restful pistol
the bullets are ready,
the drawers are gone…

I will kill the chickens if the roses don’t stop them

Lyrics belong to everyone

Not even by escaping can you avoid her heaviness

So do not rush to anywhere

Do not feel the abdomen of the dark with your fingers


Somebody will die during the first twilight

And I will write about comets

Deprive the bread in your hands

And prepare the ploughed land

For the dead of rosy lips to breathe


Sleep peacefully

I will counterfeit whatever is necessary

I will kill the chickens if the roses don’t stop them


You find those who accused us

Where does love go when it is forgotten

fb3dQuotes23There is nothing left, a broken piece of shape and colour
the time took some time or several hours
in which I do not feel geographical inequality
eternally lost from pleasure and flutes fell

And now I’m a queen in my own lodge, listening to music myself
innocent and beautiful and framed as a god
breathing in the dream of life
which lasts only in music
melted by myth, but part of the myth
About the rebellious purity of one who wonders as he crawls
in front of the memory of stone dug in nettles
like a bald snail on the skin of a young leaf
like a kid on the doorstep of a dark room
Where does love go when it is forgotten
when mounds of ivory and cedar were forgotten with the crowd
our bodies are like flowers
our bodies are like knives
our eyes are from a man in love
who can redeem old pain
That man, that angel, that demon
and the eyes of him who watches them are blinding
as God’s forehead as he imagines the world
like a sea of blood and gold
like a thirsty sandy shore
It absorbed the legends of the people who flooded the ocean
across the sea, the whole world I used to decorate my gloomy royal hands

Get up, look, though you have no hope, dream of the dawn
dawn dawn


all rights deserved by ©Leila Samarrai, 2019


By settling down
To the summer depressions of world perfection

Accompanied by a note of sadness
In the proper rhythm of repetition

Imitating the world
Which, naively, I thought, should have given birth to a new self
I didn’t lose much though

It’s the art of fitting in
the natural flows of things
Welcoming your own spacious
and time constraints

The beauty of giving
Accompanied by faith in men: the name of God’s grace

It makes me say: life is beautiful
Although there is
A daily calm of boredom

Through honesty and the grace of love
You cannot escape the sharpness of your beloved teeth

Turning your torture into a nest!

Turning your torture into a nest!
Oh, yes, we are separate worlds
(Always do the same
and Janus, you bastard!)
And this is what draws me,
from Hell or Paradise, is it?


Passion, now taste your deception!
Nemesis, crossing paths,
in the beginning, warming warriors
to be broken into rocks.


And you see the different times
when I saw before and now and future,
although, of these, only in time I saw one.


As I admire the setting sun,
I condemn two loves,
two different old mares.


I love the annoying elegance
of the knife inserted


Give it up, though!


The futility of such an
endeavour, Musketeer No. 2
(whose name I don’t even remember)


It’s obvious!


Late in your youth,
you lost your sensibility
and saw it only
as a technical mistake.

© Leila Samarrai
December 9th 2019, Belgrade


Editor: David Dvorak


A sky in the blood crimson

and the shrill on hell coal black
sings like a kangaroo, left-hand dance you’ll see,

Of the inward sun sets fortitude
as never loved before

The hysteria accelerates
such cello keel unto the strum
rarely performed publicly

A drunk lover crossing promenade
Soon, Pitiful spirits, zombies and Christianlike buried
swaying to the sceletons sarabande

To sound of the tune went false,
I know
I pen
I ink

there, a love cardboard intelligent box
here, deft, a drunk casino
let’s gamble to savouring a twosome


Like the dead that squint
Near strong light
The victors at the end of all suns
Who brought forth the octopuses on the shores
Usually rising
With a finger on the lip

The dead are hungry on flame
Joy is their power
By the vermilion of shame
Each new morning is provoked.
The sign of shame before the living
Is achieved by watching:
Roams the eye oblique onto the elbow
And the sharp taste of the living.

Tell me what I merely remember
And what haunts me in the dream to remember
Uncertain is the speech
The hush curses it.
You get the sun used to dieing
On the place where I dissolved
Speaking and hushing,
I hear only that which
With barking silence.

Who extolled the dead
Who sang,
Ash or fire?
Do I hear a voice?
Or is it just the falling of the leaves?

I no longer hear you
Nor is my throat strained by vessels.
So have the dead decided
Young lovers
With tongue under the throat
Flung back
towards the twisted death of the living.