During a hellish night
Intrigue ate you
In turbulent water
Tongue burns from gall
Shave your beards!
And you shall see truth:
Shackled naked bodies
Stumble through underground passages.
Will be the eternal memory
Of sun’s fiasco.
One little, two little, three little coxcomb
pray slack our rage
with a futile thought
so I heard them strumpet through the weeping dark
reverberating as the Sable laughed, howls
hot coles, abstract, to fill in the gap
as thus released my rain barrel
And as he spoke a new man die
so add blind dangling
that sudden light sound within those holes
of years for tears
to be bloodthirsty is better than a droop, let’s toast
to 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
Goes through loneliness,
Always blowing quieter.
Copyright © 2019 by Leila Samarrai Mehdi
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law
Each day was supposed to be different
then the day before it
but it was not
They were all the same.
Sweaty ones, but not for one drop of golden sun
but out of fear
a solitary woman in a solitary confinement
This is sweet stealing stench, with bewildering light
they did the grid, each detail fresh, for me
to dwell in the memory of an oblivion
even if it’s one that belongs to many others
When I looked at the brown – blue vault
I, maddened, dreamed of green pastures in
fair and happy land
where the sun smiles shining through
where I’m not fearing any woman or man
Enhancing a pleasure or a grief
Blowing death’s odour and bitter breath
hidden in pharynx throbbing flame
either in the midst of sweetish Now either
in the midst of the ancient ice baths
The fortunes in this life…
With the briefest pause, between
the green vigilance and unallocated freedom
from end to endpoints
I will walk quietly at dawn
I will stop this fluent blood day
for I already told my night
to dazzling clarity
If, when walking this city B.,
while moonwalking in its inverted glory
all I can see in my blinded sight is red fibre like
the resplendent body of blood dawn
the soil hardened overnight,
teeth chattering, and great dark clouds ran across
the threatening skyscrapers
and piled on snow falling in the form of slosh.
such a music… like myriads of bell towers,
You call me names, like… humdrum deaf prisoner
you may leave a tiny Tim poem to posterity,
like she swallowed a handful of ecstasy and that
she imagines all of this happening in a roomful of mirrors – numerous
Slime’s books in a single passage,
a secret of that trash whispering behind the scenes
Of Slime’s city, there is no place to get to
Still, I keep walking
Along with endless noise of impossibility,
bemused faeces and insane homeless people,
their fingers numb in the wind, extending their hands.
After so many years, only impurity, enormous chunks of
time blocking the thorough research of vile and
concrete, diabolical actions, the trash behind the curtains is
part of the show, taken out secretly and insidiously by a
So many treacheries, idiocies, drives to criticize me, destroy me, I,
I…I totally matter!
So I paint its portrait, feverishly shaking
A tyranny of the gut, this and nothing else.
The drunkenness of hate, this and… whatever other
mad souls think
the day in the day of chronicle
that will forever remain silent,
Unfortunate in its own way,
dragging other boring grey days with it.
One written page, one bullet fired,
one rebellion squashed,
Beyond the veil of blazing sullenness
Time is ticking. Space dying,
Loud, empty, but their eyes do not match their grinning teeth.
I become a stumbling cave dweller surrounded
by whirlwinds of dread and howls of the killed
and the slaughtered and ready for testing.
This is how a soul starts getting vile
a replica of an ancient corpse stumbling about caves.
with hidden knives, they were taught to use
to pick the victim’s innermost
layers of brain cutting their cingulum, with pleasure.
a hellish butcher with bloodthirsty pleasure
reading all of my innermost desires and fears
Inside was a real-life zombie land – wrinkled faces, pale as if robbed by a mysterious fever, hardened backs bent, scared and careful of the impending knife strike, like lab rats, yet bloodthirsty.
Not a single NOBODY.
Nobody and somebody.
All is Nobody and Somebody.
Like those birds forever trapped mid-air,
shot with an arrow of the final reaper on earth.
The old Gods are dying of laughter,
Either the asylum or the sword remains.
“I know what I’ll do. I’ll give you a drachma!”
The landlady waves the electric bill,
eyeing me as if I were her lamb meant for slaughter,
but I am a she-dreamer of beautiful lips.
Jesus understands me, we speak the same tongue.
Amunet agrees, and envelops me in her generous embrace.
The cities understand, the blindness sees,
the blood of the innocents still flows as I cast
the curse of the fiery tongue on the Daemonion
after I’ve sacrificed myself to the world outside.
She burns at the doorstep, bills in embered hand…
O, how we do not forgive our debtors.
And glory be to the hellish tower of slaves!
Glory! Amen, oh Babylon!
I walk thy streets, bare and free.
Rabbi Isa, deliver me not from Evil.