I remember nothing but November
so crazy half-awake
as lukewarm blood prepares to wake up
unusual blood flowing
moving in light attacks
eventually a fairy-tale bird
at the end of the Nordic Twilight
in the end, remember and remind others
when they are polluted by human lowness
when they are angry with humanity
finally, the silver slide on the waves distorted in balance
you become a symbol that shines with disgust
my eyes are hard
in the flash voltage
under the pressure of reverse gaze
theatre with empty chairs
increasingly unrestrained performances
between sweat and draft
when they start to stall
basins against the walls
infuriated in the pulmonary bush
gag reflex rainwater down a rusty steep gutter
with the first breath
hellspawn without race and address
the smell of rotten mouldings plunges into empty vision
humanity needs a sense of smell
and tickle the restlessness, the fire, and the torment
it is time to make the sauce among the cramped rooms
in the midst of the sweeps and receipts
they ripped the star from the power meter
they get dead, they die alive
in sleep and on alertness, like never
let the bassoon come back from the basement and the horns of plastic drums
let the restored bassoon sing
into trenches, tanks and cannons
to iron around our own bones
so we can forget about them later
the sun and moon will be close to our eyes
in the day
in a spider’s
forgotten sizes
all rights deserved by ©Leila Samarrai, 2019

It is ALL in there, only that it remains hidden

on display in… pavilions!

in the book of the moment,

at the given moment in the humble meekness


where’s the window’s  skin is far too thin for the wicked weather


quivering with fury… stammering and iced


(Add a thousand and so more)

Who sits near you,

hearing you

touching you, a slow trembling, Fingers.

Bring on lots more honeyed mead.

For caged music(s), the voice of longing

wock-woch notes


Blessed art thou, a little bird, blessed among the blessed

sitting next to our piano and sharing a sweet whisper

my  soul is fleeting, like the airplane circling over my old room

the black keys, the white keys

forged in silence

I laugh

I play the piano, people…

It was bombs and cannons and soldiers shooting

I am everything

becoming a mass of flames at the touch of…

(Fingers! I either got blind,  can’t see a thing. Fingers!)




Am I  nothing?

But the blank face of the bloodbath bathed in mutiny

Of the March pale grass, eristic cherries scattered by the wind

And what was left… was music and me


I gaze into my  front yard

you know, living outdoors is very beautiful

I’ve seen the old mine battlefield

and that day, I mean to  play minefields, there

with a hammer!

bumping against the keys

stripped of a core melodies

An understanding words with a remarkable depth of insight worlds

saying such things as my heart is defiled

as agate as.. hematite gemstone

It seems a mythical beast itself is glowing from under my skin

red – light picture


Just… ash, just this…

I laugh.




I am watching the sea that I will never see
In this accursed hamlet,
I describe the sluggish steps of Kings
sneaking by palaces at Samarra
Which will never whisper
I recognize the images of distant landscapes
in the verse that does not unveil itself to me
There is no nature in poetry
she is sick of the three pens and mangled alphabet.
Her belly is swollen
There is no promised land to continue towards
on one’s pilgrimage
I am dust, bloated and greedy

With this departure from the country of poetry, with a smile of a crying child
answer me, chimera that glides between my rows and my trenches
Be honest, the deep illusion with elephant diphtheria and malignant disease
three lines before the end of.. this, before your affluence rots
and your garments are devoured by moths, INTER NOS,
is it possible for anything to be minisculeto dust?


Veni at me… sed wicked… Climax non est!