The Clock


We stand on the brink of abysses of the deeps.
merely feel the frightening, introverted search
we have displaced ourselves in fantasy
and multiply ourselves as we please

We peer through our silence
observing through eyes unseen,
that silence tears through,
at times shrugs and as if shaking of a stone,

that particular motion, then like exhaling in pain,
went over our years with a filthy rag
to stop lasting, breasts of bile and blood,
room full of blood, venom and suffering.

 
A real-life zombie land – wrinkled faces, pale,
as if robbed by a fever,
hardened backs bent,
scared and careful of the impending knife strike,
like lab rats, yet bloodthirsty.

We dug our venomous teeth into it,
the skin, used our flesh, skin,
as a sacrifice for we had long decided
to set the clock, let it tick, until the end.

all rights deserved by ©Leila Samarrai, 2019

Where does love go when it is forgotten


fb3dQuotes23There is nothing left, a broken piece of shape and colour
the time took some time or several hours
in which I do not feel geographical inequality
eternally lost from pleasure and flutes fell

And now I’m a queen in my own lodge, listening to music myself
innocent and beautiful and framed as a god
breathing in the dream of life
which lasts only in music
melted by myth, but part of the myth
About the rebellious purity of one who wonders as he crawls
in front of the memory of stone dug in nettles
like a bald snail on the skin of a young leaf
like a kid on the doorstep of a dark room
Where does love go when it is forgotten
when mounds of ivory and cedar were forgotten with the crowd
our bodies are like flowers
our bodies are like knives
our eyes are from a man in love
who can redeem old pain
That man, that angel, that demon
and the eyes of him who watches them are blinding
as God’s forehead as he imagines the world
like a sea of blood and gold
like a thirsty sandy shore
It absorbed the legends of the people who flooded the ocean
across the sea, the whole world I used to decorate my gloomy royal hands

Get up, look, though you have no hope, dream of the dawn
dawn dawn

 

all rights deserved by ©Leila Samarrai, 2019

The pain of vibrant flowers scraped out Pandora


Poem for my 43rd birthday – Authors note: This means nothing

1
Everything, the October announcement,
a hand of god nebulae form three dirty yellow patches of fog,
and five days of compassion dipped in the pupil,
arose mododktil, rags…to see eternity, friability
opposites as growing cold rivers always appear
Heavenly heroes of soiled masks
they get in and out far from both of them celebrants
these two should be washed well under the delta
in dark sun, waltz between them.
“I’m toxic to rabbits” – “one”
“I burn deep credentials,”” two”
toxic to 43 minefields,
“both” in the home of deceased ornaments
“I celebrated it!”
2
In the harmonious belly of the Tiber
at the home of the late son’s brother’s son
(whispering, wryly amused):
He was a Spartacus but he did not have a house
he killed the Romans killed the Romans
in lapis lazuli Stygian river…
(demented innkeepers with hairy ties waiting tables)
My late geographical years – what did real biology give me,
but capsule in genetics, a blend of two good motives
with the drop of wars here and there,
playing the bulls that yield the mythical image of red light
under the blue bridge*
towering faces, held by Gordie’s knot,
cut by a stiffened Jon Snow sword,
a sense of scale.
3
For the character to be rounded—
how sick beasts bow before pigeons,
how they instead tread the shoes of the dead homeless,
bread crumb and the ice cube,
how they, in turn, leave the climax
how sick is that?
It dilutes the palate budding
with the sweetness of sweet howling,
when the poison slowly…
wrings out stone fruit prussic acid branches,
comfy being…being half-open mistletoe
in a bed of amaryllis’ healed, clouded mind;
a well runs and disappears when lifting the curtain
the bells will sound like…
The pain of vibrant flowers scraped out Pandora,
logical and – hardened berries,
celebration knows no celebration,
muddy half of the evening between the grey substances,
less and less becomes more,
time is oh, the power of secrecy barefoot gift,
a day feels like a night and morning reeks like noon.
October on the wall!
What is in the box? Sisyphus and with ribbons on!
*****
*The Blue Bridge, place in Belgrade for prostitution (lowest prices) Part of Belgrade actually bears the name “Bridge of Whores”: Behind it lies the suffering of women under the Turks, a river of blood flowed towards the Danube

all rights deserved by ©Leila Samarrai, 2019

edited by: Obinna Eruchie

www.allpoetry.com/Obinnex

https://www.poemhunter.com/obinna-kenechukwu-eruchie/

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.

Miss Good Willa and Her Miss Hyde


Author’s Note:
In its core it is a poem about identity, struggling between good and evil in itself – inspired by a famous novel…
Once, and it wasn’t that long ago,
in a year by a fire-spewing dragon.
with a wofully harried cough of a certain Good Willa
ambassador- ess from the Balkans.
Indeed, it was not Goodwilla just anyone.
This being who is, who has been, will be.
I’m not sure what of ” dis ” Is,
but she did not care who it ” das. ”
or who she is
The being who is, who has been, will be.and how she found herself in the Balkans was a secret,
as well as much rest in her short but strange life.
but then one day she heard a voice:”And the truth is that ultimately it’s less important
who she is than who am – I”My eager companions mock all the races of forevers
under the patronage of the Sumerian goddess Nisaba.
a papyrus plant, at an early age in the é-dubba
wrote my history at  shore the holm-currents house.
I – Jormungand!
I wade onto the devils’ blasphemy
Chiselled inside
The womb of the Sphinx
Where dead Oedipus
Murders father-Chronos
Tied to the flute of Pan
from which the
(un)maker Logos
does not reach. 

I – Draconis!
Mock the cross
And the Chosen Ones
Beaten ribs
His saint-peter-esque
Descendents of the new
Tower of Babylon that quarters
Unborn children.
I – Malice striker!
I urinate into Lethe
Scattered in the heads
Of Pandora’s bastards
I kiss the wound of Caesar
As predicted by Genesis.
Good Willa, had not ravaged my tablet’s house so long
This malignant house for the malignant soul

 

And who the hell’s that daft minded creature, weakling
God Willa drawing neurotics into corresponding intersecting patterns go over here and there and making her trappings, donations!
a curriculum to call herself dubsar and poor feeder
with good-work embellished.
because this is a night the world will be watching.

 

Burned and borned be the offspring of thoroughbred Balkan
The laden-with-glory  seen an afar poor charger
Chased even by Turks on the field of battle,
Over war-steeds galloped over the field of battle
after the Battle of the Horns of Hattin I pondered in this manner:
well-meaning but weak, and exposed by her peers, Good Willa
She was not able ’neath her own perishment to hold!

 

Never again, foul creature, the damn thing will hear you
I, Good Willa now shall this my choice be!
In tones taunting pamphlets,
to frighten extremes into capitulation
A phantasy which bore retreat without intermission
Go away, fox terrier, for had you not been a devilish beast you think you were
Though reaved of your nastiness
of the Princess of the hoary screams
Shall I choose to have a nameless creature
whispers in my ear about the ugliness of man,
Shall I choose to mock them all
with mine unquestionably brittle mind

 

Is this all uttered by a beast in me,
suppressed by evil, and good fame may suffer words:
carrying long lists of Leonidas howling wounds
sword-fury seized in his own glory

as rampart blazed volcano in devil swoop thinking
as free thinker should be in  95 theses
in a deep lyrical outburst that clearly speaks
of the original thought
praises and glorifies the dreamer, saviour and torchbearer

 

On behalf of the Victorians,
I pulled out in the theses gloom
and swore to worship both the sunset and the dawn

The column ordered on worshipping
of the sun, of praising the love,
to the true portrait of passion,
for thousands of spells in dispatch
as  thousand sacrifices that bring about
my perfect victory.

Goodbye soldier, farewell sword


Horses no longer want to ride you
nor to spur your flame.
Goodbye… never again…
from your blood, bird calls.
Goodbye soldier, farewell sword!
A beaten, spontaneous spectre,
my old robber devoured with time,
I’ve devoured time,
deeper, each tick of time I look
at the earth’s height
and her endlessly round flight path.

Nascency, Leila Samarrai


I sheep-lead and I rod-strike,
I do not fire-scorch, I suppress
between the nightshade and the daylight,
through hearts and stones, to Thanatos and Hymen.
About a law of merged vessels,
the invention of Prometheus is so tempting.
The position can be inverted
and the Earth were
and the sky were
and stone by stone were,
I’m a sculptor
in Aphrodite’s hands.
I beg,
I curse,
I hug time
to run backwards.

 

Editor: Obinna Eruchie

http://www.allpoetry.com/Obinnex