I’m not ashamed
of inspirations, veins, and tendons of terrible snakes
I love stinking flies, heavy in copper
I love sick roses
It’s just a little thorn left on my cheek
and I have no allusions
and I have no illusions whatsoever
and I do not deserve relief
I ate a mirror from a counter of fifty young bunches
in someone’s stomach,
so my home became a little cramped.
I ate a motionless spider immortalized in cobwebs

I’m floating on a tray of a busy Belgrade street
in a deaf room
I was bent and hungry looking at the sky
from an ideal angle
behold, hands are peeling away in glass,
at an incomparable address restores faith
in the mortal covenant with innate signs

Here, my hands are quite a clear
Part of the speech on the other side of the sheet
she misspelt the right words,
he collected the blurred images
all that was spilt and collected
into one flashing point
between locks and secret places

after much effort and hard work
I managed to turn the mythical river
towards the old man from the beginning
that doesn’t get off track
he is alive, but he is away from home
whenever I pass by

You came out of yourself finally like a pigeon from a cage
and the symbolism of the tiny sparks that disappear
I collect
sometimes absent sometimes
all around with irrepressible actions
emptiness, freedom of oblivion,
successful metaphors swallowed symbols
tamed snake, the foremother of small intestines
you shine a green light like a mythical image
there are many great secrets in orientation
and I play the game I found myself in

I drag toys behind me for people to hear
a flower came out of the way to pray to the god,
a sail, red, juicy like hell on a grill
The glassmaker rolls from conviction to the throat
between the heart and the abyss
his cheek dropped, a glint in his speech
which house is burnt in flames? – I see its reflection already growing in the stone

I switched roles with the one I hunt
now it’s lurking inside and luring me inside
help squeeze my lips to miss me
close my door so my days don’t go away
toss a grenade to slow them downs
so they didn’t see us go through the mirror.

The Birth of Narcissus

My eyes look down to gaze upon the lake
and I found my face dressed in the sun’s light;
upon the lake’s surface, the radiance
of my face yields me to kneel before it.
My prized face, beside I, your fond bearer,
you are my one true love with fair features
I gaze to touch with my newborn stretched arms;
recreating myself, but in my own image.
Lithe mirror, what pure formed creature I am,
I do get pricked by piss-poor perfection
I have no room for this damned society
of humanity’s thoughtless castaways,
Now that I have found my mad reflection!
One vanity, one ilk, one jealousy
that gazes at what she can never touch!
No more! And one love always responded.
With this new love brought from Heaven to Earth,
with this eye-catching life hove into view
from the freezing water, no more head-path,
no more dark clouds overhead my shoulders
with the selfsame sharp-tasting smell of storm
there will be…No! No more waking life, no!
No more wounds in my back, no tears at night!
No more…at the end of the sun’s journey!
My mind crystal to see love is the key;
my hand is taking the silvered mirror;
my keen lips are kissing the lips of God;
my first date I am having with Myself.
written by Leila Samarrai
edited by: Obinna Eruchie

Spirituality is left in awe


Act like your descriptive resiliency’s mirrored colours
careful paints its true meanings
share your intents by stepping back now

in looking forward to the future
with awaiting wonderment’s
of which though patience is its virtue

an inspirationally creative aspect
of creatively limitless boundaries

of poetic freedom
drew me into my own struggles
of limitless distance and times

sought after poetry’s portrayals turn abouts,
opportunity’s beliefs best-suited points
shared beliefs are offering

in this our written life’s transfigurations
contracts placed in times
the accordance of rebuilding these once

broken doors of opportunities
that we now stand for by reminiscing

of be fronted justices cause
to unite peacefully
before the those forgotten within

reveal themselves rejuvenated
by our rights left uncharted
perhaps by their own fears blinded efforts

to remember love’s potential as well.
a shared reminder of the gift’s surpassed rarity
of achieving one’s goal’s of inclusion’s

all-encompassing uniqueness
of perceiving life’s ongoing
reflective self-empowerment’s ability’s

unto others seeking solaces redemptive
fully understood
compassionate mysticisms carefully laid before them

in hopes of seeing someone’s mirrored imagery
right behind them
backing their own stories

no matter what stands in front of these attempts
to be in the moment’s
where just knowing someones guiding the hand

you’ve held is all that truly matters —
act like spirituality is left in awe
and then the sorrows like this one…

past will be my own recuperative times’ narratives
focusing solely on my own similarly
poetic journals of rediscovery

Myself being a one-digit (index finger) slow texter
beyond tired and dreams of tomorrow
await me in slumbers welcoming.

all rights deserved by ©Leila Samarrai, 2019

Life is a dream

Life is a dream
for awakened men
to walk in it
and aspire at their desires
to wear flesh;
a dream in which they sleepwalk
up and down the hills
to the valley of fruits.

For some it is a dream full and clear
like the looking glass
they can reflect their lives on heavenly.
For many it is a dream shattered
like shards of broken porcelain
they who walk in it
face misery from hell
that stays to taunt them.

Editor: Obinna Eruchie

Merry get-togethers from Alcatraz (Zina)

Who can kill the one who looks
a lot like the other one
at don Quixote armour
loneliness is how it is

Praised be otherness of others!

Test the final stroke
especially if effective
observe the infinite weakness of the rest
rundown old barrels

They look just like the other ones.
I used to live in
the gun of a gaggle of snakes
in the heart of the tulips

Do not obsess over the minute details
up until that point as strong as a megalith
and the crown mockery of time
is my witness to this,

brackish bamboo and poor slave woman Zina*,
raving, rabid, she – the black spaz
merry get-togethers,
oh, how we drank at those gatherings…

To each breath of a justified EW!
the invisible mirror kept filling up
with a full reflection of an enraged tiger.
I contain myself.

Fears flew
through space the bestiary
a pipe player did a ditty
in the background.

The music cried out, sad.
no place for a walk
with endless noise of possibility
a little more impossibilities and

Morbid, the liquid tulips
scream laughing as they drop
and crabs come out of their throats.
One madminge less
Gone! Poof! The Alcatraz document!

Author’s note:

While resting from my presence…

image: Dreamlike Photo Manipulations by Mikko Raima

An existence
A germ of eternity

A peasant spouse, the God of Death,
With bulging eyes and mouths-a-shiver,
And then the story goes;

Befitting my dark being’s tastes,
In spite of insanity and oblivion –
With in tune, swings of the pen within the place.

My soul’s tale is clear.
I dissolved it.
A trap of hallucinations, thus I whispered,

(daring not to
listen any further.)
When I think towards a time when I was NOT
Without knowing how, or when, or from where
I stepped in deep darkness…

Wickedness with a wink,

but a concept of rhythm and tempo
Wherein the uttered swung enchanted,
Rooted in the intuition of this spirit of darkness

Or whatever was sent to get me
I melt.
An unfinished temple

With the presence of the spirits there for eons,
The true polyglots, storms of words,
Yet calming, mildly warning,

A vast gathering around me, out of nowhere
An unseen ghostly hand recording what is happening
And out of nowhere and unbeknownst to me

That self-exile, quite disgusting mystery
My malice is going for theatrics.
For I AM, for I am NOT,

I am exactly the same, the cross built,
A shrine in the castle,
(Of the entire
human experience…)

Sick of scribbles – nothing
Sick of wisdom – nothing
Too alive to die

Entangled with the ray of death
And stepped away suddenly,
Neither dead nor living to live,

Everything lasts in shades long buried.
A wild eternity dismembered
By monstrous hands of the gods moan.

I reached the edge of the gradient,
Entangled with the ray of death and
Stepped away suddenly.

And finally, at once,
Until I’ve taken a
Bite of my mental wellbeing…

I shut my eyes…
To fill with fear
To inhale the scent

While resting from my presence.