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

There 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

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,
look!
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.

Beloved

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
Yet
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

Duo

https://www.poemhunter.com/poem/duo-8/

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
unencumbered

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

Hush

You will go blind soon I think

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
whispering.

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
Echoes
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.