Forgiveness Poem

There is no death except for one.
That hour is yet to come.
However, time and space do not exist.
And I remain a naked hungry ghost.
a faded fire in the eyes,
a numb hand on my chest
as I lay dying, among the graves.
a wide-open mouth spitting
hundreds of poisonous flowers.
A knife impaled in the stomach,
made up of a thousand thunder bolts!
I’m purged through a holy fire of bonfires and stars!
What thrill’s wave!
Bloody ravines everywhere,
Bastards over the world:
malvados, screams, bloody ravine, villain
Schwein, everywhere,
now and to come:
I absolve you all.



written by Leila Samarrai
edited by: Obinna Eruchie

A marsh makes Lamastu with Layla, in the night, Slanderers Part Two (Poem by Leila Samarrai to her slanderers)

Of Vicious Being Rabisu, and the Nightmare
Of doing what is bad to his neighbor.,
who put night time monsters in this 
Brought a voyeur  into Awakening
and all our wicked and lucid appetite for  useless life
With loss of  Sight, who here is an Earthling, a
and who an extraterrestrial
From hell, from heaven, hieromonk apostate
yester morn us,  And afterwards proclaims us blind
And when I jot them all down,
I will await my trial, I the spirit who follows her fate
as if it were the fate of an avenger,
my head on a stump, the only given possibility.
A dissonant interval. Music banging in the dark.
A calm before the storm.
Then all of the scribblings, those in my treasure chest
as well as my head, will be swallowed by flames.
Then I shall sing from the ashes and embrace the walls
as I burn half-spoken
A vicious being, Rabisu*, takes all kinds of form,
he lasts to the bitter end,
to the dust, in a lifetime,
before waking up, only for some breed of men

Both the light and shadow,
both whirlpools and abysses
of the deeps, merge with vile contours of envy.
Fearless, doubtful shame wallow in dunghill
In the edge of the lost world,
none shall hear the truth, its monstrosity,
but also its shininess
Unto Innocence cry lies  the reverberation
by the slanderers burnt in
Through all our mazes of Ire and Fire,
An attack of the innocents,
a finger of fantasy pointed at dire events
to  avengeance a discord of (thy) listed names.
The honourable citizenry slandered.
and the quill’s wounds scream
These eyes of mine get me to the windowsill,
while sweat drips onto the dark maps
in my enraged cranium and the ink spills.
For it is all written. Their claims.
In my sleep
Irritant, gluttonous tongue of the serpent
to craft a tangled state,  to down with this living man
through the scales of slander, and those letters…
oh, such letters!

For all, it had done and for all hast not done
That I did a mightier service to stumbling block and weep
of something magnified, nesting nowhere  in my spirit,
for it appeared in the clearest,
nigh-apathetic shape based on true love I once  felt

And in those letters I openly,
helplessly and naively checked all
…through words and pictures
opened the tense mind, through the heart, stabbed
As leans in crawling pincer

A beastly howl of the desperate,
undiminished, swim through the similes
But said Prowler of the Desert:
” Picture Cupid dipping arrowheads
in phenylethylamine. It is poison,
to undergo the mournful shades?
Why is thy sight pedestal on the top of earthly kingdoms,
a Carpenter – Shephard, crowned ruler of all artists,
The hell is this damn wooden bench!
Two massive bits glued together and a piece of plywood…
…plywood in the middle like a cork!”
Among the mournful, mutilated shades?

Anything but  lights, carpenter’s fashion as a guide,
Consider,  if to count Apostles be pipe players
did a ditty
for numerous books in a single passage,
a secret of that slanderer trash whispering
behind the scenes, with a filthy rag
and uttered verdict, razor-sharp.

Observing through eyes unseen,
that silence tears through applaud,
at times shrugs and as if shaking
of a stone, then like exhaling in pain,
The motion of slanderer.
The devil’s work

Lye thus unpitying kingdom crushed
offered up as a REPLACEMENT does,
Perun himself spoke to me,
or an Arab 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.
– If only plastered cinnamon and rose perfume onto her 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.
if robbed by a mysterious fever,
hardened backs bent, scared and careful
of the impending knife strike,
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 back through time
moon teeth corrupt to their roots and bloody..
Too well I blind and rue the stare at me
with a flaming eye.
Aflame in anger.
The moon has nothing to do with it.


That with sad, enormous chunks of time
Has lost us blocking the thorough research of 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 a lipstick-wearing actor, taken out comically.
By right of treacheries, idiocies, taken out vigorously
 From fell to fell descended Iscariot’s slanders
to set asag – disease of the benign red shores.

Strongly to enumerate a hysterical wretches
in muck of mud and blood –
In horrible destruction only impurity essences
The hours of night taking away a restful pistol
my bullets are ready, my drawers are gone

Passing through door cracks to feed inhospitable winds of the steppe,  the Hetman still rides, knight.
A marsh makes Lamastu with Laylah, in the night
*Rabisu and Lamastu are nightmarish demons in ancient mythologies
*Laylah is Arabic name, means “Night”

The witch grandmother song

Not far from the witch grandmother song
nymphomaniac and satan
In the cloud of thought, the voice and the body merge.
who wanted death
to the grandmother of north-eastern Siberia?

I could not dream
because I was never awake
I couldn’t believe it
because I knew I could not stand
what I saw I felt, with experience

Just like you will thank me
for I will not bring
my story
my life
Tell me: thank you for that.

Because we do not go through the minefields.
that does not concern us
complete innocence is not among the martyrs
but between the oppressors and the suspicious faces.

A red vigilance spills
scars that are stuck inside.
and collected at a point
that will blink deep inside of me
the only thing more perfect than a poem

Until the water went out
I washed my blood and stones crowned
In my name
and I’m there
and one – no.