On the trail of superhero

Untitled.jpgOn the trail of superhero

Life fuck you up and you become
the superhero
with a thousand names
and in the advanced madness stadium,
to keep from going mad you become
this incurable, violent madwoman.
tightened with strong belts, straight-jackets

you’ll know why scarecrows cross bridges
deep is the beauty of the sea, pressed by a flaming egg
who doesn’t believe this, let them dance with sea shells
you will know why the poet died quietly in the dictionary,
mourned by a prostitute
with the lunar nature of the infant
you’ll know why you’re drawn to the idea
to find the elixir of youth
it smells like faded, charcoal streaks of powder

when you meet your obsession
the wind whistles in ecstasy
and they all consider you crazy

This is your penchant for introspection,
your clumsy perfection,
as the body, so as the mind,
raciness, sharp mindedness

You will know why you were tortured by
that ghastly ventriloquist,
maddened you to death,
acting slowly like a poison
that got her hands on your mind.

As I was seeing a trace
of a female foot walking the room.
as I was hearing the roared hammers
of revenge.

It’s in the bathroom!
your intimacy with the book,
your belly and your thumbs
a character full of the future and a lovely mist
from a photographic angle, through stray worship

There is a huge difference
between being averse, not conquered,
shaded by the riddle
and uninvited mortals,
they sit at the bottom of the brainstem
they sit at a table set, they do not need the gifts of immortality

Elbowed on the round table they spun their swords, turning their heads sideways,
as to look at her better from all sides.
then upon the river shore, heavy cavalry and three hundred peasants with Excalibur stormed, and with the fangs…

…you licked your immortality
to inflammation of the tongue
you clutched the book, then gasp and gasp
you heard the audience dissatisfaction

There were all the booklets in memory
drafts of search in the freezing rain of transience
the trail ends in anti-painting
and it’s time to indulge in yourself
leaving the lone riders of the apocalypse


just written around midnight, inspired by Lara Croft
copyright by Leila Samarai, ©Belgrade, Serbia, 2019


To my emotive Seshat [1], the goddess of cosmic intuition and writing

You were born in the wrong time.
You should have been born in the age of
Emperor Trajan
Or the age of Scorpion kings in Egypt
In the age before pharaohs which went to mystery
Sometime before mythology.
If you were in Troy when the Mycenae waged war,
Perhaps you would be the one
You and I are Thoth and Seshat,
We follow each other through centuries and times,
Realism forces „formality of the movement”;
Formality of human movement…
Unscrewing of the universe… scene in a drama.
We are not made for short-term dramas;
Immortal tribute
Gives us longer era.
You are the lady from Poe’s stories;
Ligeia – the alchemist
Reincarnation of Isis, goddess of mysterious knowledge
Of the teacher and male student in that story.

And the ancient Greek dramaturgy…
There is, my lady… true depth.
Aesculus, Sophocles, и Euripides…
„Oedipus Rex” by Sophocles,
the syndrome which destroyed even the lineage of Obrenovic
Dear* „proxy” mama
She too was Seshat, but nobody knows it
For the astronomer
Nut, the bed spreader of the universe
Is Seshat who searches for her Thoth.
Dream that I send you
Metaphysics of one century into another
And we shall find each other, does not matter
In which time.
What matters is
That we were inside the same moment and the same time,
In the garden of splitting ways.

Seshat, under various spellings, was the ancient Egyptian goddess of wisdom, knowledge, and writing. She was seen as a scribe and record keeper, and her name means she who scrivens (i.e. she who is the scribe), and is credited with inventing writing.

Draga (meaning Dear or Precious in English also known as Queen Draga, was the queen and wife of King Aleksandar Obrenović of the Kingdom of Serbia.


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.