Oneiros /the poem based on one’s sleep-cycle

1 (prelude, hypnogogic)
you know in truth present
about things subsumed among wings
lifted in light-fade among the bottles
and bottles shelved in moir’s service
as I (ah – eh! such age!)
from marrows-out
with genii-ed arm
reach out to rub or fondle
the wares with the dares and dos I have
as you, in prognostic silence,
observe me a feathered minnow
mind-by-hand stirring among ghouls and sharks
as if I’d power over death
and a forgetfulness daring enough
to Hyde among dishonored lives
cursed but seeing all as mystery
faux-ing in a warp of mirrors

2 (REM sleep i)

the mirrors open
I enter the wards of what if
rise among the boney fats of traume
so modulate Promethian fires
that fenneled coal’s enough
to cast such a net over history
that no Cleopatra comes
no Anthony no asp to dis-
place its feathered kin

3 (REM sleep ii)

I rise
poem becomes the poem in creation’s womb
become the hand of every Brutus
bound to the feral collapse of bloodshed
become – O fennel’s charry-smoke –
the ecstasy of St. Joan
giving birth
to churches all around the jagged-rim
of Shogun’s isle

(a clock
  flows from the tables of my mind
    I dally
      what ifs
        become the ids of self –

4 (soliloquy)

I’d lift the more
chase in circle myth by physics
Sundogs above Alaskan pipelines
of cold-blooded sway

pour gold
from Odin’s finger

build in hungry places
a working plateaupian shrine
that of no horn anywhere
would children starve

in loopholes’ well
dangle (for Loki’s head) a coin

resign Arabs
and Christians
so raise Irbil from its field of gentile dust
that Iraq’s rivers might calm anew

so bind Kafka
with Guthlac’s belt
tighter and tighter
until a demon flew from his mouth
  never took-off the means
      his madness never returned –

(might have
, as Rome burned, fiddled –

have escaped Muslim captors
during the first crusade by swimming
swum to France

have a bad weekend
for all our sins

the hing-ed Tower of Babel

become a pungent silence
for the holy son
whose blood chimes incurably

5 (epilogue, to reader and self…

here’s offered
of my own making
an (un) promised philosophy
unintelligible words
verses on a silver tray
fit for an image of water-walker
shrouded in zeit geist

clock resumes

The Screams of the butterfly


In terrible airy alofts, flying high,
Adrift in anima amnesia’s,
Floating in fernweh forgottens,
A low birth in abyss’s,
Radiance in replete radials from rages
…In furious vortices.

You chase enchantment phantoms in Elysian fields,
Drips and drops tell tales to pebbling
And sea’s shimmering sparkling spray,
Soliloquy’s shadowy opaque on gloaming coasts.

Butterflies, lonesome lighthouse sewn
The cannibalistic roses sanguine swell in opening horrors,
The star language songs sing and
Tower of Babel nations are euphoric in linguistic relates,
Your Jupiter cult divine drowned in
sacrificial wine.
The great oceans with brumal iced crest glistens luminesce,
Turning their faces in adorations to
eloquent suns.

Fires birthed from hollow
clouds eruption,
Butterflied veins in vain combust without refrain,
Butterflying flits in solar circles, dying in flaming cycles,
Swayed wings desperate, flutter flails
waves weave.
The sea shudders wide and the earth
gasps despondency,
It’s ceasing deceasing pleasing, powers
Deserving of death, deserving of life…
Let him live…let him die…
Despised executioner, I…
But let departures be without
The triumphant arrogant live…
…but if only…for one more moment.

It floats through sullen azure arches,
Delicates warbles sinking on failing ash
Strained in chained,
Fallen empires cycle timidly,
The swath mutes bitterly.
The screams of the butterfly.
In this witchly silence, the birds have no

Howled realizations of impending
Roars in restless logos, linguistic
anguishing reviles.
The icy knife lunges, twisting in chests,
The dogs went wild from the scent,
Snake holes sent, trails for sour spent.

Icarus unspeakable without wings,
Eternal falling resonance in eternity
The unsettling crackling of film off it’s
Whooshing winds of terror revealed,
A thousand knives trembled eyes,
Broken winged horses and broken sighs.
Winged intimacy with deceasing,
Can you hear this breaking mercy?

Dropped to knee’s from flight, in front of shining seas light,
Womb burst swallowing lightning, torn
harsh flesh darkness in vain,
A new beast is born from the stain.
The cry of the caterpillar.

Falling lightning, beast in nerve cell
Beast in miasmas with air on fire, breath a blazed!
Permeated atmosphere suffused
She hoods submerging stars and turns
off the sun,
She transcends death threshing and flies
in the whirlwind storm,
Lunacy grasps the winged with scorn.

Transfigurations to sinister,
The harmonies collapse in desolation,
The intestines scream dissolution.
Sinking stars feverishly shaking black,
Red retch blood glares,
The veins swell chthonic flares.
Unquenchable expires,
Unsatiated thirst…fires!

This dawn of tamed passion possessed,
Mantles tremble in lowering laments,
The black forests gloam obsidian under
black moons,
The earthquakes grumble morbidity too
Dying iris turns transient,
Swallows hushed in sallow hollows,
The Hearances reviled,
The howl of the butterfly.
On this heartbreak soil
Deathly modus’s susurrous’s shipwrecks.
The Reaper ravages us all…
…For loss of her.

BUTTERFLY: Death, I heard you while you were breathing…
I heard you while you were sleeping…
I heard you while you were weeping….
I heard you while you were screaming…
Centuries of noosed escape,
Eons of eluding fate.
Shrieked clarions called silent,
On immortal heights.
The laughter of the butterfly.

Hell 2


Yes. this will be my Hell now.And now we move to transcendence to Ubermensch (beware, Nietzsche beware!), we transcend the horizon – to impossible spheres where there’s something that’s there all the time, waiting all the time to be found, but it must be sought beyond the horizon at the worth of living. Cosmic insights. the great mystery of dark riddles whose resolution shines type of a diamond. A mysterious substance pulsates within the dark because it waits to be found.

Transcendence as deception

The breakthrough, in consciousness, of the earthly Quarantine-Hell-Prison, the self-liberation and overcoming of the forces that make and sustain them – must suffer from uncertainty, like most abstractions – the traveller behind the unfathomable deceptions reaches for the impossible. he or probably she is tired of living during a body that’s complex of minerals, she is chasing something more, and where she must be more aggressive than Achilles in his trip to the astral. we must not reveal what it’s … even the seeker isn’t sure. She just knows it’s something waiting to be found. maybe something… sinister, too… the seeker has neither god nor master.

Her master is blood. She lives happily in blood, ashes and dirt. On the due to the horizon, she may meet angry and horrible pirates, black, bloody galleys … and swords .. but she wants to urge there … behind .. for a lump of the sun, she’s going to kill and may probably die early.

Therefore on departure, she says that the soul for her means a degree higher and let the Iliad, Homer so on…

Let the devil carry all of them.

Let a temple be built white as a monastery for Ophelia!

Leila Samarrai.

Look Back In Laughter

I remained in the city too long;
Money launderers and ferals of fascism at the temple,
Psychopathy, landlords and gargoyles of Hades,
Ticked the time of my anxiety agonies.
Inconsequential, just look back in laughter.

Adrift from celestial home, cosmic child,
The world reviled, I am alien lost on sordid shores,
Differentiated, solemn soliloquysous to the core.
Evermore infinites, standing alone.
Look back forever in laughter.

Scrying mirror celled phones scream light at zombied fright,
Tribaled in unthinking amorphous greys,
All thoughts delayed, philosophy forbade,
And I am banished from sight.
Look back in cackling.

With knived convulsions, throwing (my) poetry ferociously,
Smelling blood on the wind, smelling the sweat of victim,
…Smelling competition.
Look back in laughter.

Look around…nobody…
Something, someone?…nothing…
Somebody?…nobody in crowns…
Nobody gone to ground…
Nobody is found…
Tomes of related wisdoms nauseate,
The numbers in cruelty mean fate.
Stare intently in tactical laughing.

Strings bind to me in unbreakable unremorseful,
The past hunts behind me.
Medusa drinks me in marbled glass,
In the cruel poison of her irony.
Visages transfixed, trapped in ivory.
Inconsequential…just look back…in laughter.

Out in the transcendence and exiled,
Child of cycling stars wild and purified,
I stand apart, fiery eyed, beautified at surging shores,.
I am hurdling haughty towards the door.
And always now…and forever…
Looking back in laughter.

©® Leila Samarrai


The Existence Of Reality


The guillotine would have fallen,

But for rusting cloying chains, 

Another patron complained,

That his head still remained,

Atop shoulders of existential dread.

Others amongst the rabble more fortuitous; 

“The lucky reduction of torment.”

(from an unknown author, exasperated, vexed, perplexed).

The crowd cries for her crucifixion,

“Disappear” they jeer!

A woman who’s not here,

(head falls into the basket, the audience cheers).

I am huddled in my bed,

Covered toe-to-head,

In emerald ash borer beetles of psyche keeps me company.

Pollution profanation, omnipresent,

Aqua sodden douse, bedraggled universal,

Psychotic scorpion flies erupting ubiquitously,

The material reduction deluge inescapable.

Divinity, hear me (says another poet):

I surrender essence to amaurotic amore ecstasy,

To abet fiendish fell experiments on sapiens,

To be your fourth Anti-Christ!

“What do you want?” sighs the daemon.

Hail sweet malice!

These foul malignant mortals need eternal silencing in pyre!

There are flickering color-storms remote from my tormented sights,

The head rises once more,

The skull also ascends.

For now in the gloaming unlight,

I am going mad, by blessing of the cataclysmic midnight. …Bollocks.

Unsought objectionable, 

Undesired detestable, 

Unwelcome unworthy, 

Rejected dejected, 

Shun spurned, bitch-slapped and friendless.

With heart alone and solus, I cared not.

Now has begun my transition!

You’ll find pleasure through tribulations,

In shudder burning water rat-a-tat, stately in flames.

We are the womb, we are the abyss,

 We are the tomb, we are exhumed,

We are the vault, torch lit,

We are the crematorium, pyre pit,

We are the womb, we are the abyss,

We are the mausoleum, crypt kissed.

I submit my ethereal dream divine;

Of a destitute penury district,

I tender the beggar’s beautiful equipment;

Ragged white tights with black polka dots,

One solitary garbage bag, and a lonesome money can.

I offer you the saint who lived as a beggar,

Vagabonds solemnise humanity spitting on mankind,

Commodity and chattels, filthy rags of vagrants maligned.

O Nature, made of mercury,

Eternal enigmatic, aloof abstruse, arcane unfathomable.

You are clement, you are brumal, you are arid, you are sultry…

Whose end…is God.

Vomiting, retched out slimy bodies from my voice box,

Grim re-echoes in the dark,

Holding failed wigs in despondent hands,

And the humored rats whose presence is forgotten.

For the corpses do not die,

For the damned do not die,

For they do not die, from The Iliad to Civid19…


Am I not also corpsed stillness for your eternal mortuary arts?!

I am huddled in my sarcophagus soliloquy,

Sheets stand upright,

Suffused with semen, pullulate and sprout,

Spread to muscles devout,

Tissue, blush, luxurious cheek,

Oculi’s a glow in the din!

Hands traverse the glacial keening gale,

Bellend, I, wandered worlds and clapped my hands.

Only whispers, then wheezing, then wailing, then sobbing, then shrieking…

Then the dogs begin to howl…

This fell monstrosity everlasting,

This abhorrence is undying,

This vulgarity villain is eternal!

Carry me.

Carry me whither to, the existence of reality.

(grave bursting)

Schizophrenic brother in need

Never again alone we bleed.

Photo Credit:


Dark, deep and challenging spaces cut in white,
sharp flat does not only show random links
to the dark circles of Dante’s hell.
It is a hell of beings and languages,
a devastated wreckage,
death bypassing speech,
the newly born meaning that stops
the contest of the resistance and challenge,
a helpless page filled with dead bodies.
But I am not a corpse that never dies.

I’m dying a Roman! *character assassination 2

The highlight’s bright bare heels
is underneath
the pigskin.
Is pride rolling like wheels
in your brain’s sheath?
Will you spin
on the table on screens
of the safeguard,
confinement plum with means
to place wings barred
from air’s ring!?Judgement has to encounter those
whose feet have been walking astray;
to have drama ram them, dispose
their whole being on the same day.

Coal and smoke, tar sills quivering in rage
so big to us from the peasant suburbs;
a delay in morale, in a scarce age
the fury’s fist against the wall perturbs.

Like rats playing wheels with their snouts wide-jawed,
ragged railroader skin-tanned by the sun’s flames,
list to my voice that’s both flawless and flawed
and somewhere behind it a lot of names..

I live as a woman,
I’m dying a Roman!

POETIC PHOENIX,  Susan Joyner-Stumpf, dedicated this poem to – me.

(For Leila Mehdi)

Serbian Sage
Balkan Bia
Rise from the Tower of Babel
Where Shinar will again shine
Corner wings of words
To draw your sky-maps
Structures strong will crumble
Around you
But so your Goddess-breath
Shall hold the fortitudes
From crushing such effervescence
Be your own storm
That reeks the sadness
From your heart of all
Those dirty fingers lifted
Out of boneless minds.

In the Sun’s wavering array
Discover new arrows
To pierce virgin Dawns
Not allowing subterranean suits
To steal such humble attire.

You have made your mark
Upon the shifting sand dunes
Of hypocrisy and odium
Cleansed evil eyes of
Their predatory, loathing lure.

Madness is a gift you favor
In intangible realms of
Poetic dovetails ~ ~

We choose our blades wisely,
Those of us who write to
Sustain our ever blood flow.

Poetic Phoenix ~

Do you not already scrape the sky, the stars,
With Soul’s misty flavor?

Taste of Life’s emptiness but, so too,
Drink from the cup of all you have
Given, thus!!!!


Bia IN GREEK MYTHOLOGY; Bia was a minor goddess of the Greek pantheon; Bia being the personification of might and compulsion.

Copyright ©Susan Joyner-Stumpf 2019®

* No part of this poem may be used or reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any way or form or by any means electronic, mechanical, recording, or otherwise without the written permission of the author.*

Graphic designed/created by sonnetwolf designz© Copyright © Susan Joyner-Stumpf ®

No part of this Graphic Artist Image created by me below may be used or reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any way or form or by any means electronic, mechanical, recording, or otherwise without the written permission of the Artist.

(¸¸.•*¨)¸.•´¸.•*¨) ¸.•*¨)


This is an amazing gift from the incredible, magical poetess, Susan Joyner-Stumpf who dedicated a poem – to me – POETIC PHOENIX
I am so honoured – Phoenix is an extraordinary symbol of resurrection and immortality.
The word Phoenix derives from Greek, it means- red blood.
seeing me as a Phoenix, forever rising from the ashes, a melodious voice that gets sad as it approaches death., but is not it easy for everyone to get over this sad voice when the bird fall dead if the bird fells in beauty and sadness?

Always rising again.
And again.

…a bird of flame, living a lonely life in a distant land, coming to a region inhabited by people only when ready to die, having the ability to heal and rise, impossible to be destroyed.
You, Egypt, lying on the altar of the sun, in Heliopolis, wait for my old ashes for this poem is so good to revive a dead man, Thank you so much, Susan Joyner-Stumpf! I am deeply touched.
and I shall always rise again.
And again.


Dark Eros

You are here again,
observing, waiting within me…
brutal eye

„Turn around“

You arrive
In nudeness
Of a black seam

„Begone, pensiveness ! Leave the red lace
and a ducat to the mourner for the last blues.”

But, behold!

You and I challenge each other
For thirty six years
With pride we welcome the morning
In fornication.

If I would to eat you, sharp ear!
And devoured the hood
If I would… sharpen your dagger
And your spade, Lady, kiss in the darkness
I could with you –with a bullet to the forehead!
Into the creak of the sky

For There and Here
For Now and Never
With a clap and colors
In cold hue

In the womb of a casket, laid and pale
To shine with you in moonlight.