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.

Night and an open door


Night and an open door

Spook takes over my head
I see your eyes
Judgment hour – accurately measured moment burns away
I see your eyes
They do not belong to me alone

I threw my soul
Those are the irises of the breeze – yell the dark mirrors
Used up voices grow from blood
They knock over trees by crawling

You return
Roughly wetting the sanctity of my lips
I
Mute and stiff on the threshold
Bitten by the first pain
I spew snake venom

Those are perhaps the silence of your hate and my oblivion
In truth
Neither you, neither me, neither communion

Neither sailors
Left on the lost spectral shores
Neither the cry of ships in the night
Or is it a song of violent love

She is never left voiceless
Even when unheard

Night and an open door, Leila Samarrai


Night and an open door
Spook takes over my head
I see your eyes
Judgment hour – accurately measured moment burns away
I see your eyes
They do not belong to me alone

I threw my soul
Those are the irises of the breeze – yell the dark mirrors
Used up voices grow from blood
They knock over trees by crawling

You return
Roughly wetting the sanctity of my lips
I
Mute and stiff on the threshold
Bitten by the first pain
I spew snake venom

Those are perhaps the silence of your hate and my oblivion
In truth
Neither you, neither me, neither communion

Neither sailors
Left on the lost spectral shores
Neither the cry of ships in the night
Or is it a song of violent love

She is never left voiceless
Even when unheard