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.

House of Freaks

I went towards the timeless ocean of temporality,
to the very beginning, on the shores
of cursed waters where dead faces grinned

Speak will I not of the terror I saw upon the rough-hewn coast
may evil see you, black tooth bite you
and fume its pungent breath into your soul –
they pull my sleeve, pull me with them,
as I scream and fling stones at them,
and whichever I reach out for, they kick it hard,
and this lasted for a while, until they fled.


As is the circle that gone around this heat
I walk like a sleepwalker, through memories.
who may they be, they whose violence can’t be undone, like filth
which nature makes all roundabout in this sick land?

Whose land is this?
The witch smacked her hands together,
demons came out of her evil eye,
and I woke up, seeing it as round and round as the sun.
A dark glow was white in the newly-born day.


Here she is. Cathedral front porch.
The Gilded Angel, the entrance hidden
the hour’s missing
under the golden light
and with the body of cherubim


I do not want to enter damn thing,
but facing the cruel world in the beast,
fear came over me, it swore at me insanely
and gave me a smack on the cheek.


While I quivered terrified on the accusing wind,
and at one moment stopped,
lost in the light
of the merciless machine which kept chugging,
non-stop, looking at me vengefully, demanding more…
my skin is sensitive, it will not endure this.


Perchance evokes from its lofty perches
aflame in anger in House of Freaks
time is ticking. Space dying,
on display for carnival patrons
step warriors clad in leather armour, their axes bloodied
with a wicked howl of the wind
More and more near approaching
human chicken tarred and feathered
“We accept you, we accept you”

It took my hand and got me in.

Look. The sign is crookedly placed!
in front of the church!
all of this clowning around,
this house
this wire
this fleur-de-lis
all of this is wrong,
instances inscribes threatening riddles
forcing a finger into the joke
above the shield
a royal crown, with church gates shut!

Where, where are you taking me…
what misfortune is this?!

C’est la Guerre, It’s the Sun and his name is Hellion.

Belgrade, in the fierce heat of the sun.

image: https://fineartamerica.com/featured/heat-transfer-andrew-kubica.html


Start dying, my dear!
start dying
you’ re not going to cry, are you?
weep and stand back
be good, my dear
What can you do?
C’est la Guerre, It’s the Sun and his name is Hellion.

You’re trapped, got frozen, grow rusty, as iron.
surrounded by other little corpses
so gentle
gentle angels
your life became about extinguished eyes,
light of death in devouring mouth
always sink down evil and heavy
a cursed figment.
And now… now mirrors have become very sensitive.


All my life I’ve been brutalized
most victim of domestic violence if you must know
my injurious torment stretch out to fullest pitch
All that is left is ashes, a trembling hand, a creature
lightning a candle, it’s artificial light, it’ s like a skin replacement

at the point of breaking.
I snap myself out of the dream
the creepy wake-up feeling
as is known to all Sleeping Beauties
It is reality, illusory, dark, terrible thing
though.. nothing but a distraction.

The sun is bringing one more misleading day
through and through venerable Saint
spewing hopes and epics for significance of living

This is deceit produced by daylight
we’ve given up dying
in the arms of the slow death of life, again,
no more than
a striking caress of maladjusted mind, a dead apostles
a drama fragment, the driving force, strings, melodies…
We are devils of our own blood
Holy kunt. You were the Bringer of Sun!
There are thousands of deities that can ensure respectable name for
a brute.
but only one hellion that bringeth good tidings,

too much for a man

who is rising in my verses

built into eye, buried fingers and many feet underground


What was that eerie sound I hear, is it the rattle and hum of innocent wind, kind and insane?
What else could it be?




No, it won’ t take long
be good, my dear
What can you do?
C’est la Guerre
C’est la Guerre
C’est la…  Guerre


Weather forecast: The coldest days are expected

Non Believer

My poem Non Believer has no independent identity. It is tied with myself based on my sinister intentions of composing that poem. i.e per the intentions behind writing it.
It meant to be tied with the audience too but due to the word-for-word translation ii e due to rendering of text from one language to another one word as Latin would have said: “verbum pro verbo”) with or without conveying the sense of the original whole, I cannot judge whether I was able to write exactly my indescribable painful experience. Sorry about it!

Who would want this
who wanted this?

If there’ s a God
who did this
if there’ s one
if there’ s one
if only you knew how much I hated you
You made out you’re merciful
But what about those like me
giving in to temptations
totally outclassed us in the first half
The ducklings
she wanted to be free

You don’t think I’d ignore the whole thing
You think I’d make a fool of myself like you?
Don’t you think I know who you are?
Didn’t you think I forgot about you?
Don’ t you think that I know that?
you think this lousy toilette chain is gonna keep me out?
do you think I wanted THIS?
somebody wanted to make sure
you didn’t get it
Who would want to…
if there’s momentum
if there’s…

At this hour
to live that horror again
always afraidit’ s for the first time
during this month decades of incarceration…
And bars on the windows.
driven through my heart
Bedridden, I know how to pray
I will honour the words but
I was never a believer
I don’ t…I don’ t… I don’ t
do you?


Recasting happens all the time on soaps.
It’s way past bedtime, a lifetime ago
I summon thee, songbirds, humans
and some nonhuman primates
Me, I call it looking for friendly foes.
Me, I carried them in a dead child body.
another sin
another immaculate conception
between the pillars of Babilon
I go off about
pygmy marmoset babbling language
I am PhD in even more than one million
I speak in rhythmic patterns just as hearing infants do
mumble, grumble
nag nag nag
Unlike me,
The bloody heathens
The wicked
are unable to phonate

Now turn around a little, round and round
get on the ground
pick a grass, stones, lichen
There are crops to harvest
Pour it into their green wings
make fun of some poor bastard

If you’ re there
But if you’ re there
No, no, don’ t worry, don’ t worry
I’ll be here.
I’ll be right there
I understand that I understand that.
all these things were said

if you do exist
keep in mind to give me hope
a torture by hope
as if there’ s something or someone
waiting for me
a comfortable life, the sound of a faraway star
gig’s on pastoral Saturdays
playing the guqin lute
such beautiful music
Nice inscription on my footsteps chain
once plentiful, was once, a long time ago

when there were no other worries
I know I want to believe that
I will walk along free,
even with a good deal of leisure,
rather than between grey, tired bars
under arrest, in cuffs, doing time, for a long time

Now, give me a kiss on my imprint
even though it had been raised
by contusions and shrapnel
a belt, a child has been jailed and flogged
was once, I was eight
and now…
The cage must be tired I am
The Colour Sick Pearl
do it
before I fall asleep into a soporific roar of the waves

They’ll be right in
above my head
They, the very same.
to take me away

Rooted in the last morning of a bullet

Leila Samarrai