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.

 

 

 

Disappearance


1.
Who could voice from lips the language of Gods,
and stay not in recall’s room yet unloved,
a sailor who dreamt of bridging the wings
of earth, the blind man who stood the sirens
and stayed cold and recognised on the shore.
2.
I swung in the rain within Hades and
torched the warrior’s burgh in windy Troy.
I cried over the misery of a
stone forgotten me, a solitary
woman in solitary confinement,
the sun of a day warped, a skeleton
waving, a bird in the pink afternoon,
my sigh sparkling towards the horizon…
3.
Fires shrieked!
Lord! My chorus burst forth
and all wishes evaporated
into the all-seeing, faded margin.
4.
Storm raging inside,
my head aching out
a grain of salt
in this driblet of blood.
5.
Et Vous… pagans who gnawed my manuscripts,
listen to the wind of centuries
tangling the strings of a gaggle of pissed off gods.
6.
Unloved, peckish heart!
Rainy absence on the shore
becomes my name!
7.
I saw these images
on the bloodied road:
first: me falling to my knees.
Second: back on my feet, struggling.
Third: the lips of Judas.
8.
Words speak silence,
not lust nor curses,
emptying in darkness,
fragmented, apart.
My nothingness announced.
9
Everything was said,
phrases like
crushed glass
in the mouth,
heard only as lies,
if heard at all.
10
As I trudge through the light-trickled night
I wonder why, is it just me,
my heavens, my restless darkness.
***

all rights deserved by ©Leila Samarrai, 2019

edited by: Obinna Eruchie

www.allpoetry.com/Obinnex

https://www.poemhunter.com/obinna-kenechukwu-eruchie/

Omnia fluit


Aye, and an imploring monk plays
On the common Spanish needles
Of burr marigold!

When rippled winds blare
And flowers’ form will crack no more,
The springs’ fountains that were seen so
fragrant and green,

Green earth
With rich frozen pudding all candied o’er,
henceforth stringed instrument lass, with her white wine face
And her air kiss so dreadfully pale violet.

But it is not so, with those that go
Through frost and snow, both great and small,
We are here to-day and gone to-morrow.

Editor: Obinna Eruchie

Birth


It’s my step-coloured colour
without touch
soil
through Xanadu colours,
echo over the break
scared
before
silicate water joints
in suddenly shortened
short illustration
And bullet is an abbreviation.
fired
to the shores, marked on the fires
fired through the meat
reflects the

bright fracture
and how Wenge is born again
from the womb of the earth
brightness of the sun, swollen white
gray light of Mikado flowers

Macro close up of
a pedicel
arranged on a stem

THE END, Inspired by inimitable insipid individuals, infinitely inconsequential


THE END, Inspired by inimitable insipid individuals, infinitely inconsequential

The word is dead.
1
Then
One day
Nothing left to fear.
There is no Logos.
There is no Nature.
No, there is neither.
2
I saw how my twenty-first-century poems,
Or at least what I think they once were,
Now turned into
An unrecitable torment
Of making
A testimony of sorts… For what?!
The unseen, the unspoken,
It is enough to vanish,
But I am in the know
Of how much it would please
My talented adversaries.

So I will remain a stone
That writes
there is no poet here.
there is no poetry there.
general paralysis
Madness
Blindness
There is no poet, there is no poetry, there is no poet, no poetry, no style,
no language, no music, the word is dead, rest assured.
Please, rest assured, please, please rest!

3
…. and that would be it.
I AM the verse
Without fresh air
prostrate –
beside the river of Babylon
where everything is seated
some amigos,
a friendly barbecue,
adventures,
Dyed bodies of cannibals
And a cheerful toast.
my irritated imagination
my symbolism
my twinkling lights
Resplendent to be sniffed
The intermittency of appalling scenes…

4
Vigilance interrupts
The idyllic life in a nightmare
I am a cosmopolitan, widespread disease
My hair stands
The table’s edge.
5
My tears after awakening
Are crocodile dung
Tears drowned in a bathtub
The smelly bath
In the embrace of blindness
She delivers the Thor to the nails
I buoy to the ceiling
all manuscripts
planks of ink…
Serbia’s camp
Prison hospital.
6
I’m a polite woman without any hustle
I have performed hundreds of poetry experiments,
If I merely wanted it, I could easily die during one
Now I’m off to the lab
to disinfect Myself.
Sorry, Pater Noster – Aunt, with your fluttering cassock,
Sorry Pater Noster – Uncle, who holds the keys to the Heavens and the Ferraris
I did not know how to bounce along the national rustic jig
Cumbersome I kept stumbling over
I am not a good believer
I, neither pretty nor young enough for the title of Holy
Forgive me, for I am not a good Serb
Sorry, Mater Noster, forgive, forgive!
8
My cheeks are hollowed out from verse pimping
Goodness, lovers and girlfriends for dinner, it is a lavish part
of the poetic end, isn’t it?
But they do not serve me as a poetess
Nor do they moisten my stanzas with fragrances
9
As I write my last public address (Do give us a hand, please) I am clenching my breasts in my palms
I recall my early youth
Sometimes the light is born within me
Very noticeable
More fervent than the dawn of time, priests would say
Mostly I feel the night inside me
riddled with bullets and bloody wolf hunts,
FERRO ET IGNI
I adore the deos until after their ouster
They aim for my life, appear to me with claws and marks
Through dubious astrological trials
10
I am watching the sea that I will never see
In this accursed hamlet,
I describe the sluggish steps of Kings
sneaking by palaces at Samarra
Which will never whisper
I recognize the images of distant landscapes
in the verse that does not unveil itself to me
There is no nature in poetry
she is sick of the three pens and mangled alphabet.
Her belly is swollen
There is no promised land to continue towards
on one’s pilgrimage
I am dust, bloated and greedy
denied
With this departure from the country of poetry, with a smile of a crying child
answer me, chimera that glides between my rows and my trenches
Be honest, the deep illusion with elephant diphtheria and malignant disease
three lines before the end of.. this, before your affluence rots
and your garments are devoured by moths, INTER NOS,
is it possible for anything to be minisculeto dust?
CHIMERA:
Veni at me… sed wicked… Climax non-est!

The existence of reality, in 4 cantos, Leila Samarrai, edited version


The existence of reality, in 4 cantos, Leila Samarrai

Spoiler warning: this poem contains a huge amount of high-quality madness

The guillotine would have fallen, but
The chain was rusty
Another client complained
That his head was still on his shoulders
Others had more luck
It’s called the lucky reduction of torment

(from an unknown author, probably pissed)

They wish she could disappear,
A Woman Who’s Not Here

(head falls into the basket. the audience cheers)

2
I am huddled in my bed,
covered toe-to-head,
the bugs of psyche keep me company
Pollution pollution everywhere
Water water everywhere
Psycho bugs everywhere

Money yet again

Divinity, hear me (says another poet):
If I surrender my being to you in blind ecstasy of love,
If I’m to assist you in your sadistic experiments over humans
if I am your fourth Antichrist….”

“What do you want?”

“Hail, sweet Malice
These mortals just need to shut their face-cunts.”

There are flickering colourstorn away from my tormented eyes
The head rises again.
The skull also rises.
For now in the dark I am going mad, by blessing of the night. Bollocks.

To be unwanted, uncaredfor, friendless, unvalued, rejected, unwelcome, shunned, spurned, bitch-slapped
With heart alone, I cared not.
Now has begun my transition!

You’ll find pleasure through tribulations
in shudder burning water rat – a – tat stately in flames
We are the womb, we are the abyss, we are the tomb we are exhumed
We are the womb, we are the abyss

I offer you my dream divine
Inside of which but a poor neighborhood
I offer you the beggar’s beauty equipment
ragged white tights with black polka dots
one garbage bag
and a money can

I offer you the saint who lived as a beggar
beggars celebrate humanity
spitting on Man
goods and chattels, filthy rags of beggars

3

O Nature, made of mercury
You are never visible
Yet you are warm, you are cold, you are dry
You are moist
Whose end is God

It took me ten years to vomit out slimy bodies from my voice box
The rest are grim reechoes in the dark, holding my failed wig
in made up hands
along with the humoured rats whose presence is forgotten

For the corpses do not die
For the damned do not die

Wait!
I am a corpse.
And you want me to put makeup on for the whole of eternity?

4

I am huddled in my bed,
Now my sheet stands upright,
I fill up with semen, pullulate and sprout, grow up to the muscles,
tissue, blush, luxury of cheeks, an eyeful glow.
My hands touch the icy cold air.
I, ever the bellend,wander around the world and clap my hands,

Then only a whisper is heard and wheezing, the crying, wailing.
The dog begins to howl.

The Bastard never dies

Carry me
Carry me there..to
the existence of reality.
(grave bursting)
My schizoid brother in need
Never again alone will we bleed.