Who let the Eve in?


EVE (sighs):  Millenniums have passed and certainly not to start the fun
Hail Lord, it’s so mind-numbing to be lonely in paradise …
Pure rivers of Eden, let’s play innocent games!
Give it mouth!
Speak of my dewy skin!
Speak but do not place it in ruins with lipful delusions,
speak to this outcast,
in the light as fits the occasion
proving thus my dewy skin
speak without melodiousness.
I am only one hereby.
Shall I be Astraea or Justitia,
should I keep the white lilies in my hand?
They are a lot in the garden.
Eden Rivers:
Oh, dame Blanche, Mother Of Innocence
your belly is bloated
with the new maternity
mother of the lambs.
(Eve is fanning herself with akakia leaf)
…and Acacia wove its branches into your divine hair…
the ivory gull is tucked on your shoulder and…
Eve:
Oh stop, stop, STOP with such eyesore, flatterers
even I must be filthier than
I thought I was
I, of a pure heart?
(Eve bursts into laughter)
I’m just a rotten bird in the night wind,
my face is not serene in the early sunlight
get it, toads?
And what about the Innocent from the time immemorial,
that has only been narcotized with tranquility?
The whore of Aventine Hill
is far more useful than her divinely dust
sprinkled per treacherous tenderness.
My eyes have seen many transgressions
and my ears heard many homicidal world proverbs,
but your lascivious narrative
coming from your fancy mouths
reek more than six poisonous flowers of the green hell,
and if I am of a pure heart, and perhaps
disgusted with your game choice
let’s pretend better then.
Bear my chastity, the Wicked, you serve me best.
I govern this, the wicked world
by mythological nods for scoundrels
and the greatest rascal there is in me, always
I am making him feel nostalgic.
(Eve screaming and grabbing her gray hair tearing branches of acacia)
Scoundrels!
All gone!
They left me here to guard the trees and grown – up slaughtered babies!
I thought I had died several millennia earlier (deliriously)
Eden Rivers (Stirring up): Who let the Eve in?!
Eve: Hush…
You wonder why I came back.
To atone for maternal sins,
to douse the thirsty ground,
who will look after poor Abel instead of me?
Master maybe? (Shrugging) He has not been in my sight for eons.
(Idiotic sobbing in the distance)
you all know how shiftless and sensitive he is
after all he went mad after that…occasion.
I am the mother of the Earth
If I’m away,
cruel rivers of Eden will not supply my thirsty land
therefore, the rivers of Eden, next time tell me
how pretty my face is when mastered with fear.
(Rivers withdrew into darkness and fell silent. Eve fell asleep, muttering)
I, the Fear… Great Shame… My poor lamb, my angel
your sacred and pure virginity is gone.
(Evil smile)
***

all rights deserved by ©Leila Samarrai, 2019

edited by: Obinna Eruchie

www.allpoetry.com/Obinnex

https://www.poemhunter.com/obinna-kenechukwu-eruchie/

Where They Disappear, Hungry Cannibals


The gods ate their children,
from the underworld to the height of the sky
Chronos, like a griffon, giant in blue steel
quiet as a childhood dream and cold as the whisper of death
(putting the devil-turned-coin in thy pocket near the cross),
and while the Greek papyri scarcely go beyond Salome’s laughter.

O this beautiful male born of demon king Ravana,
raise thyself, dimensions, visions…
silver through strange patterns of the deeper argent,
carne vale (Eng. here’s meat).

Samhain is here, the life of Sylla while dying they cut their hair,
the paperwork of death her presence seen;
eternally lost children for the monsters that greeted them,
a world that has flown backwards,
the illusoriness of what it requires,
ephemeral ways to get closer to ambiguities,
all the fires extinguished in the hearths,
all the dead who believe they are coming into this world lives equally,
all Irish legends and darkened blacksmiths,
toys are in the palm of the Chronos,
where witches go riding into which holes they go,
from the bales of fear my private lunatic changes me.
Where they disappear, hungry cannibals,
banished in defeat by the hands of their children including Zeus
to Tartarus in the underworld.

Return of a serpent all the moon’s agitated fingers


Even as it returns who goeth down
Sometimes to clear a drop of rain, which has envenomed
a flood, or aught else that in the mouth weep for terror is hidden
the sun is hiding its freshly drained liquid seeds
It’s freckles
and of a serpent all the moon’s agitated
fingers
and the instinct of the eternal harlot
Came up and felt stripped of water recedes before
lust

 

Descendeth dreary, hereat I, trembling;
whence in the heads of the elect Project,
we lightly peeled off our laurel leaves for us
hide the shame of heresy or the halls of true paradise

 

Thorough a hundred plasticine toys, with metal weapons
Far from his smiling dwarves, drugged demons
Far from this master, released from the chain
the world will be a trail in the crystal ball
instead of words
was a cry that
no one could hear.

embrace the moment. (in technicolour)


embrace the moment. (in technicolour)

At midbrain,
shorthand words word more words
a tongue-tied rope of words strangler
from tongue’s taste bud saliva through the throat

But there’s an arched jewelled pendant to catch the last mouth rinse
and Technicolor to x-ray the red-handed tongue

Me the old Judge of eternal hatred,
as Cernuda, once wrote in a verse.
but a little tired,
from a decade of merging and melting of eternal
two-faceness.
circular cycles, giving up the ghost, forlonness,

eternal questions, terrifying riddles,
paradoxes…and another idiot with a folding gun.
hard workin’

Hammer,
after which I inherit sadness
earn’d Scorpio killer and dreams

One penned page,
one bullet fired,
one rebellion squashed,

Look around.
look at the world.
embrace the moment.

Editor: Obinna Eruchie

Homeless Sun


 

inspired by pampered materialists pushing books on how to get nirvana forever while arriving from end-of-the-wealth orders whose only concern is wandering between special feasts and diets and signing petitions to protect endangered species, fashioned and on the other hand,  after talking to a homeless person

between toilet and scaffolding
climax
seasonal socka under sandals’
scavengers flushed out bustards,
in the middle of the pigwash
in the spider’s heart

axis smuggling honey
in the lungs of the forgotten dragon

they feed on the    wash of light
they feed on the headache of solitude
the hypocritical tenants of the silence feed
non-adherents
in anti-Images, et symphoniæ

Give me the  torn yours, thrown yours                                                            from the basement tapes  restored cymbal
according to the designs of its predecessors
exiles
out of suitable doors
who drank the moon’s blood
dusted with streaks of powder
infections, poison, parasites
coal notes and
bewildered Kafka

I raise the torch for the sun they shut off last night
from the current meter

Merry get-togethers from Alcatraz (Zina)


Who can kill the one who looks
a lot like the other one
at don Quixote armour
loneliness is how it is

Praised be otherness of others!

Test the final stroke
especially if effective
observe the infinite weakness of the rest
rundown old barrels

They look just like the other ones.
I used to live in
the gun of a gaggle of snakes
in the heart of the tulips

Do not obsess over the minute details
up until that point as strong as a megalith
and the crown mockery of time
is my witness to this,

brackish bamboo and poor slave woman Zina*,
raving, rabid, she – the black spaz
merry get-togethers,
oh, how we drank at those gatherings…

To each breath of a justified EW!
the invisible mirror kept filling up
with a full reflection of an enraged tiger.
I contain myself.

Fears flew
through space the bestiary
a pipe player did a ditty
in the background.

The music cried out, sad.
no place for a walk
with endless noise of possibility
a little more impossibilities and

Morbid, the liquid tulips
scream laughing as they drop
and crabs come out of their throats.
One madminge less
Gone! Poof! The Alcatraz document!

Author’s note: