Striving for Survival Part 2, Unless I escape in time


 

The Lord said, ‘I have seen my people in bondage, and I have heard their cry,’” “I know their sorrows, and I have come to deliver them from the hand of evil men and lead my people out of that sorrowful place, to a land flowing with milk and honey.” 

 

I say this in voiceover as they carry me through the woods.

To save myself  from the abusive plight.

Bone-chilling words I would direct at a wealthier yeoman

or a more ambitious female Moses,

who would come as was her duty,

quivering like a leaf,

to bow down to me and ask for my blessing –

 

to experience a nervous breakdown,

to cast out my humanity when necessary,

to be raped, beaten,

to endure what it cannot be endured,

to survive my evildoers and the whole twisted nazi society

and to become a blooming superhero. 

Mars exulti!

behold the cruel patterns of the past and the future.

do not let the premonitions dry up

to be ready to be picked up

in fear of being forgotten,

while a fluorescent streetlight of Jailer

stare at me with a flaming eye. Aflame in anger.

 

Due to toxic gases .. public hangings are everyday.

with prayer, as well as participating in pulling a rope, stoning, too ..

Chaotic stoning all day long

paranoically mumbling to myself – The stones, the damn stones…

 

 

To wear the wrong dress, to be fertile Unwoman,

 forcing slave to die in poisonous colonies to work  

 until I fall apart, piece by piece of my body

or be sent as concubine from home to home,

to men with  their tail a third part of the stars in heaven

and on my head a garland of twelve stars

to be raped in an obscene, profane ceremonial ritual

we, girls are raped at 14 while forcing us to pray to the Lord 

unreal, maddened eyes sow fear followed by a raging disease and death!

 

It hurts being clothe with a moon

As that woman about to give birth in front of the dragon

particular misshapen friend

deal a powerful blow,

with a knife in the chest,

and then to devote insane

and grotesque calls

which left me mute a

and in the most horrific of pain

 

The blade was laid in the carved bone

and the altar, an ancient image of divinity

will speak the tongue of bones tonight.

 

that.. Being.. Revelation woman..

Her head peeked beyond all countless spirals

painted much in the same manner,

that way putting herself in the center of microcosm

of all-encompassing universality of nature,

becoming a role model for humanity.

 

My look at the city was one of prison. I

am here – behind bars.

This is a city in the middle of a prison.

Unless I escape in time.

Into the wilderness as is a desolate place

And full of serpents and scorpions,

“travailing in birth, and pained to be delivered”

 

The forest unbathed by an ocean of blood
An unhealed wound beneath the hot navel
The unpierced rib in the deciding battle
A lonely nest devoid of it’s eagle.

 

My mortal body with immortal progeny!
I summon the Heavens to bow down to my tentacles
Folded into a clenched fist!

 

Homeless Sun


inspired by pampered materialists pushing books on how to get nirvana forever while arriving from end-of-the-wealth orders whose only concern is wandering between special feasts and diets and signing petitions to protect endangered species, fashioned and on the other hand, after talking to a homeless person

Between toilet and scaffolding climax
seasonal socks under sandals’ scavengers,
flushed out bustards
in the middle of the pigwash
in the spider’s heart.

Axis smuggling honey
in the lungs of the forgotten dragon,
they feed on the wash of light,
they feed on the headache of solitude.
The hypocritical tenants of the silence feed
non-adherents in anti-Images, et symphoniæ.

Give me the torn yours,
the thrown yours
from the basement tapes,
restored cymbal
according to the designs
of its predecessors.

Exiles out of suitable doors,
who drank the moon’s blood
dusted with streaks of powder,
infections, poison, parasites,
coal notes and
bewildered Kafka.

I raise the torch for the sun
they shut off last night
from the current meter.

written by Leila Samarrai, in the summer of 2019, in Belgrade’s district of Krnjača
Editor: Obinna Eruchie
www.allpoetry.com/Obinnex

Where They Disappear, Hungry Cannibals


The gods ate their children,
from the underworld to the height of the sky
Chronos, like a griffon, giant in blue steel
quiet as a childhood dream and cold as the whisper of death
(putting the devil-turned-coin in thy pocket near the cross),
and while the Greek papyri scarcely go beyond Salome’s laughter.

O this beautiful male born of demon king Ravana,
raise thyself, dimensions, visions…
silver through strange patterns of the deeper argent,
carne vale (Eng. here’s meat).

Samhain is here, the life of Sylla while dying they cut their hair,
the paperwork of death her presence seen;
eternally lost children for the monsters that greeted them,
a world that has flown backwards,
the illusoriness of what it requires,
ephemeral ways to get closer to ambiguities,
all the fires extinguished in the hearths,
all the dead who believe they are coming into this world lives equally,
all Irish legends and darkened blacksmiths,
toys are in the palm of the Chronos,
where witches go riding into which holes they go,
from the bales of fear my private lunatic changes me.
Where they disappear, hungry cannibals,
banished in defeat by the hands of their children including Zeus
to Tartarus in the underworld.

me solum relinquatis


me solum relinquatis, Leila Samarrai
On Christmas, 2019, Belgrade
#city #citizens #society #prisonment #harassment #traumas #artist #freedom #escape

The head of the orchestra
is the Kapellmeister
whose massive truncheon,
like thunder, hits the naked, pissed on concrete.

Sun,
don’t swallow the passerby
are you accusing me of transience, of tardiness
don’t stagger around like the poisoned sewer water.

Let me walk in pace

Towards the softness of the morning, whitened sun
like some clock, the sun measures the hours
with ancient precision
like on the clavier, my feet mingle the sidewalk
the asphalt is a hit in the middle.
cloven.
here and there, I hear a bat of footsteps behind me.

The world can be horrible, but not dirty.
In all that disgust, I kept my good taste
you are nobody and nothing,
and the yellow bug crawls over you,
and each of her prong points a finger to you

You, you – pathetical, obsessive, neurological, what else ..
yes .. soft
and
weak
I cried and was
rain
stream
light
the river
sea
the ocean
I laughed and was
am amid the cold, vacant garden,
wet laundry, dirty glasses and broken mirrors
of a vagrant fool
with the bumpy ears.

Let me scream

You expelled me into the living pasture
you expelled me out of the gates of hell
to serve as a faithful slave girl towards the ground

I don’t hear my verses, nor the sound of their loveliness
neither the sleepless sea
It just wonders my whole life through…
those people who persists in waiting to die
no escape from clutches of death
Judas kissing at Getsemani

Dare its ravel by the road tween the kingdoms
Gallop, my horse. Whence this voice, on seven waters of yours
standing flash dewdrops thirsty
In the entrails, a hell grows the chalk-white arrows
I’m buoyant. In bliss,
I tread, brazen-soled,
Gallop.

Be lost, be distant, between dream and life
all the fires extinguished in the hearths
all the dead who believe they are coming into this world
lives equally

As were all the other evils that I hugged
as were all the other evils that have surrounded me
of that low ascent, you fountain with bashful wounds
midway upon the journey gripped by cruelty’s serpents
as I had all along on my back

Let me kill you

Turn yourself back to re-behold my foreign blood
eternally lost children for the monsters that greeted them
since in ill-doing through strange patterns of my childhood’s Carne vale

Where witches go riding into which holes they go
from the bales of fear my private lunatic changes me
little Quasimodo
with Huckleberry Finn’s quiet voice

 

*me solum relinquatis, lat. Leave me alone

 

 

 

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

After the crime


The gun is not pointed at, my head.
‘Give me money!’
is not a pit of snakes slithering in and biting me,
crawling in my skin,
not the place where plants breathe in fear.
I enginely dug in my imagination,
looking for shelter with my fright-filled eye.

Every foot will assemble then.
Dancers in circles joining hands and
dancing with hands up high.
A dance of small, spotless steps,
slowly, in circles, while people join in
and swell it.

Forced, wicked foreign letters,
to create cloudy thoughts, mirage memories,
dumb definitions! Someone likens me to a monkey!
This is someone forcing a finger into the joke,
poking where he doesn’t belong,
mixing in ups-and-downs, pictures, prints
threatening riddles with mysteries.

They…they carry something within them…
in front of the church!
This is symbolism, all of this clowning around,
this dress, all of this is wrong,
where, where are you taking me…
what black cat is this?!

Leaning my rage on still air


Hardly a well-tuned song
for the party of social climbers;
dust, air and shadow by cone open
sea waves that nosedive to relate
the features of my flesh ticking to decay.
I’m filled with the soul to always call
for the past’s little morsel to restore
the present that has vaporised.
Another evil space
sends a little ash to face me,
to accuse me,
to stay on my skin wrinkled by aging,
leaning my rage on still air.
Editor: Obinna Eruchie