There are many ways to kill (a man) video version


There will be a knockout chapter
one day all will be concluded,
connected to the extreme,
and the text will be insanely organized.
Magic cube, central core,
dice active layer of the first image,
follow the pictures in the picture, first white cross
and its central orange,
then will follow a different colour,
in the end, a detachable mixture, a riddle puzzled,
an old boy seclusion and the task solved.

The starving cans (video included)


To raise my soul, I tried a hop

and then sojourned to window shop,
I stumbled over an advert,
cringe in me the sight did insert;
pizzas have been my desires sort
my money’s art is always short.
The whole circle around the smell;
A rat’s snout perceives a thing fell*.
I’ve packed everything: starving cans,
enemies who crave to poison my plans.
Stormy shadow, metaphor’s height
have raised defeat to come to light,
the bus cards I can never stand.
Naught has been let flown from my hand.
At the gray poetry cemetery,
I dumped waste to face it about.
My song… was not, in her memory
that holds void, my song, it is out
of place, it has lost the look now.
Once upon a time, was meow,
and meow you smelt still smells same.
Meow, my life is in dearth’s frame.
They…are dead…and grown over swear – words in the wind showed in this den.
My house, my red home, ruin then
took, left my life to outdoor bare.
Red times I encounter pertain
to have lodge in my heart no pain.
I feel one’s presence resurface,
I feel that old morrow in place.
Unfit to stay here anymore
(Cry in the distance, a tiger’s roar).
Their liking for you is never true,
and you are just pretending too.
The wind vanished like the dry dew.
Someone takes off your memory
your face their eyes forgot to see,
to laugh you are finally free.

 

Editor: Obinna Eruchie

www.allpoetry.com/Obinnex

Late Night Poets discussing my poem “Dervish”, with comments


Dervish

I had learned the secrets of the universe
from the manuscript itself,
and had felt the tones in the best of my fingertip muscles.

Now, wasn’t it Music who went to the desert to know…
that, in the wasteland of life, here,
under this tree may my body be as the one of the Savior,
and may the menace itself visit me,
to engender within me a sacred tone…

He uses a ney. A Crooked Pan.
a ney..Karghy tuiduk, an instrument of wind.

And a Crooked Pan trapped me on the spot with her first tone
in the vortex where music enters the man
and disappears inside of him somewhere.

And I, Dervish, played the instrument made of hollow reed,
skillfully shuffling his fingers across the ney holes.
It was a round-up of the movement of music dug deep into the rhythm.

I danced swept by the accord of divine forces
streaming from “the spheres” –
and within the Dervish’s song through the typhoon,
I spun around faster and faster in an unexpected manifestation of the universe,

to perceive, through the binding
of the heavens and the earth,
a universe of love and a different godly principle,
hypnotically repeating “Masnavi, Masnavi” pushing close to a hallucination.

– The spiral is the evolution of the circle.

Transcendental, indeed. It can be performed with an echo. Oh, how sonorous, Orpheus.

Ah, I felt that the spiral is open for my musical ears.
I must continue! I must!

All the way to the devil’s tail! – the scream no longer slumbered in the throat, and my face went black and blue as if both tar and wax were poured on it.
the spiral is the evolution of the circle – even though he was still speaking, a force of dead nature! It was clear to me now, this Dervish who was miles away… somewhere close to the horizon, leaving only the memory of his wild stare and …oh, and… I cannot forget what I have just heard… ah, I would never forget! And some of it is already gone!

this strong tonal ace to win in a cruel and uncompromising game of destruction for the purpose of creation.

– Well go on, then, finish it! – I grabbed the Dervish’s shoulders desperately – Finish it, I want to hear more! Until the end! You barely played anything at all, so why did you stop playing? I want you to play all the way to the coda, do you understand me? All the way to the devil’s tail!
– Look into yourself. This is where music is hidden.
Do not despair, I shall come again and rebuild all of those ruins…
in a century or two because I have something important to do.

ap7ap8

Requiem for a mosquito, poetry recital


https://leilasamarrai.wordpress.com/2019/06/09/requiem-for-a-mosquito-may-your-spirit-rest-upon-these-toxic-fumes/

Requiem for a mosquito, may your spirit rest upon these toxic fumes

 

1

I love your milk colour, nearby madhouse,
I love your fatuum traitors cry,
To Now or Once, to hellholes or sneak thieves
Which summons the harlots of Time.

Pull the drains, sewer bunnies.
may your spirit rest upon these toxic fumes,
I love your shiny little bumps, your aggro,
Simply… I love your shaft.

The Belgrade on Krnjača*
screwed up its sewage line to
contaminate the crime scene.
with raw sewage.

The Wraith will come dragged along the floor
Belgrade, you are an asylum in the open river
while sailing on a burning duvet

2

To Kunst for homeless god
to Happiness and vindictive mosquitoes
to calls of local bar hopping slut.
and fine Sers missing communal apartment.

Spraying for mosquitoes!
are you my executioner?
you’ve disarmed the vengeful mosquitos
itching
cursing
a short-tempered star
a lightning strike
frost in dictionary

And soon.. all these years
seem just like a blink
of the bite.. inseminated…
earthquake!

Don’ t get nervous phantom of the
birthplace shores.

Requiem for a mosquito
and soon, your music shall come,
some slacker roadkill shall come,
plastic heart shall soak it all in.

Like ammonium nitrate…
3
To add mincemeat out of the filthy Ser
mix mixture carefully into medicinal
soup
For Hannibal.

Poke and doodle
In the pokey, up to the rectum river,
then
plant yourself like a squatter

And… put some ice in the urinals.

 

*Krnjača (Serbian CyrillicКрњачаpronounced [kř̩ɲat͡ʃa]) is an urban neighborhood of Belgrade, the capital of Serbia. It is located in Belgrade’s municipality of Palilula. (source: Wikipedia)

At least it wasn’t you


Culturally modified verses by Leila Samarrai as an allusion to the growing importance of misandric non – autohomophobic non-feminist females in the love or sort of.. relationships of women today who embrace them with joy and exaltation, as well as their dreams of a strict matriarchy and a misandric society! The poem probably came about after the disappointment of the Sappho –  Hannover foundations’ support, which supports joint housing projects for two notorious lesbians.

lyrics: Between females

soundtrack: Greek / Roman Music – Organographia VI