poetry

Glory Of Babel, I walk thy streets, bare and free


NAHUA

It’s a place of seven caves

Someone calls me by the name.

Hueyapan vicar it was:

“Diego”, – he told me thus – down there in aztatltlan(tli), savages of Nahua

Cut people up

In pieces.

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A sacrifice

Diego, a sacrifice.

Chicomostoc the holy…

Rabbi Isa, Rabbi Isa…

 

RICHARD THE CANNIBAL KING

 

He took rothers and left the stead, that is the King!

The Cannibal King

For the King is the great power

that overpowers the great power that overpowers

the powers the great power

that overpowers the great power that overpowers the powers

Unis,Unis, Unis

Mother, mother, Mother who is Father, awaken me!

Fear not the nightmare, my child, but sing praises to her

 

SUDD MA’RIB

 

Selena is reading the spells from the Book of the Moon

Blood, my heart, my bill, me in a pool of blood

Ruinous, violently, I bounced my moist body

Towards the tambourine stars

usuddMa’rib, la ciudad perdida

my bane, in the pit, an engine-maker, a prophet, my salvation

mydeca, are – pr – pour.. pour, pour..

my blood

my bane

my heart

my salvation

Abwûnd’bwaschmâja

Abwûnd’bwaschmâja

And to this the Rabbi told me:

Talitakumi.

l’ahlâmalmîn.

L’ahlâmalmîn.

 

EGYPT

 

Yet another dream…

 

I was born

The Goddess of Air and Invisibility

I was born and died a virgin of the Ogdoad

me, Amunet, the female hidden one

the androgynous goddess, the serpent, the lesbian

goddess of graves and coffins

and the moonlight cast by Iah made my dream illumined

I am the nightly vision written of in Anacreontea

Take me to your bedding, if you want your woman to love you

Your hands quiver, but they know how to caress

Kiss that bit of the body where my eyes divert

Of the tombstone

In the dark land, in a bloodied area, in the riverbed

You will be reborn

In the Ogdoad, you will be reborn

In the suddMa’rib, you will sing thy love and thy life.

 

TALITA KUMI!

 

Fear mourned me

Horror clawed at the cheeks

The spasm of fear is as hard as a quince

 

And glory be to the hellish tower of slaves!

glory! oh Babylon

I walk thy streets, bare and free

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poetry

The Birth Of Narcissus

when I submitted this poem to the magazine, I received the following reply:

Dear Leila,

Unfortunately we are going to pass on your work. We don’t feel that it is quite the right fit for our A Portrait in Blues anthology. Good luck placing it elsewhere.

Kind regards,

Platypus Press Editors


Rather, this poem contains all the blues’
features, only the message is not served on a plate. Pay attention to key words. It’s a poem about the separation of a (wo)man from the toxic environment and finding strength and meaning in their own being.

authors’ note: Rest assured my remark does not contain any hint of the petty conceit. Enjoy my poem.

Or not.

 

***

I  have found my face

It is beautiful…
to smile by the lake, to kneel before my image
I, Creator,
Beside my one true lover
Who gazes upon my improved facial features
I, Creator,
I touch them with my newborn newly lengthened arms
Recreating myself , but in my own image

Graceful mirror,
what a magnificent creature I am
the pure form, offended by piss-poor perfection
I have no need for this damned society
Of humanity’s cretinous castaways,
now that I have found
my mad reflection

One vanity
one nature
one jealousy
that gazes at what she cannot touch!
no more!
and one love
always reciprocated.

With this new love brought from Heaven to Earth
with this beautiful creation emerged from the freezing water
there will be no more Petrarchan Platonic patheticalness
no more dark clouds above my shoulders with the strong pungent smell of storm
there will be.. No!
no more waking life, no!
No more wounds in my back, no crying at night
no more…

Eventually
I understand that love is essential
I am taking the silvered mirror
I am kissing the lips of God
I am having my first date.
with Myself.

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poetry

Shopping Mall

Stack on a hanger next to each other

Skintight heads, throbbing with pain

In hangman’s loop are warmly tucked

A memorial plaque burst into tears

Madmen wailing over it

Soft is crystal glass from which

Reflexions are pouring down

Reflexions of the consumers

Aglow with a fervent rumour

The shop window turned its back

Its cheek cheeky and superior

For this vaguish market longing

And a couple of known guests

Head winked to the executioner

For today enough, let’s rest

But East from Eden, there’s a sign :

Clearance sale! Alas, roaring

Corridor

There’s no line

Street dogs hustling in the shrine

Crystal mechanisms drool

Dripping from them mirrors are

Is that loony or a fool

Narcissus that lost ideals

Pooches running to the shelving

That is, it seems, never ending…

Fields of boots and shirts lie there

Clock is ticking

One more second

Unsuspected revolutions

Until the final closing

Even pigs are crying now.

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poetry

Breaking news

I wrote a terrible poem. Always is like that when I want to write something optimistic .. I’d better get my attention on my bloody diaries about midgets

PUBLIC REACTION:
“yeah.. we ALL read it. I read it last night.. nah… very bad. ugly!”, Eva Green
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“hahahaha, bitch.”, Angelique Bouchard
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“Sans commentaires”, Isabelle Adjani
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“I can do that”, Angelina Jolie
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poetry

My calm (at long last) mine.

 

 My calm (at long last) mine.

Fearing, I embraced the feet of an ignis fatuus
terrified, I butterflew an apparition’s bosom
engulfed by stone knivery

Lo, rascaldom
lurking lightly, gazing scoundrelaxedly
multiplied deception is built out of perspiration

Lo, a countenance of tears
bear witness at length of the weep
behold a tattered redeeming herz

I am the Aeolian echo in the wind
I am the Logos tucked away under the tongue
I am the first things that had joined the choir invisible

I am yelling in rags aflame
A wiggly wiggler wiggles onward
Circuitous, I am hoppingeniously hopping
from one scream to another
Sleep hasleep ASLEEP!
O holy night of offense.

The boogeymanly boogeymentals are-a-comin’
and momma ain’t here.
in a dream, a butterfly–winged woman,
flickering in a hitherculean manner
hitherto hither, saying:
Fair winds, o daughterror…
O, what a phenomenonsense!

(the poet is moving across the field of vision…)

I, the Nymphet in the bud,
the Goddess of the dreadful Hymen
an unloved goat-nymph
the envy of all Hellenic islets
lulling betwixt the crests
of the couple of mad waves
inhabited by the covetous
sweat driblets of my restlessness
pouring from my voluptuous thighs
I was caressed by butterfly shadows
entangled in the lux
fleeting as an emotion
my breasts smashed among the covetous crags
my womb became a satchel of acrimony

I was raised a wild one among the lunatics,
a tabula rasa with madness scribbled on it.
Howls of animus heard when the seminal
river breaks beneath the gibbous moon
below the navel where milky pearls
drip into deluges of steamy rivulets
below the eyebrow where the fears
woundingly drip into the eyes of undulant sadness
Très tremendous!
(SOUND OF PAPER BEING TORN
)
My calm (at long last) mine.

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poetry, proza

Mary Of Bethany, an unmercifully wicked sinner

LEGEND OF “THE LEGEND OF THE CURSED MOTHER, MARY OF BETHANY, A HEARTLESS SINNER”

Author’s note: The function of the religious references in my poetry is solely archetypal. I’m not otherwise particularly interested in religion, aside for its educational purposes, nor am I at all religious.

Cursed Mother, Mary Of Bethany

A sinner she, stoned to death for whoring, for the Lord made her unable to conceive; caught in the act of fornication with other women, for witchcraft, for an attempt to murder her husband with the soup of slain swans; her sins are many, and she is but one of many sinners

 And what can she say, Mary, the spat-in-her-face mother?
she – heiress of the firstborn whore in the city?
the Bible’s bad girl
Barren?
A prostitute?
A heartless sinner?
give her beauty and truth, to ruin them
cut off her Rumina’s breasts, to soak her wounds with tears
let thorns grow within her belly instead of children, she will bleed…

This is poetry of the rebellious blood
in insurgency

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MARY:
My ghostly eye was pointed at a thick
thorn that burst out of my body and continued growing…
a thin beam of sunlight turned it into a vampire limb for raping of human souls

O, you vampiric slingers!

Do the Prophet’s words not haunt thee?

Dear husband, do the devil’s sneers not haunt you?

Cast not your stones at my eyes!

 l, an infertile woman with
slit chest
I, Mary Of Bethany, an unmercifully wicked sinner
I hug my children under the tongue of the sky
in the celestial womb where
all my unborn children lie hidden
and the resurrected body of this world and all other worlds
and drops of milk running down my swollen breasts
blessed,
I nourish my castaway children under the star–spangled sky and refresh them with bloody bile and wine

I am a feminist drag King Of Heaven
Praise Jesus.

Thwack thwack thwack

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poetry, proza

Dee Dee Dee Daa Daa Daa

THE STREAM OF CONSCIOUSNESS OF A SUICIDAL WOMAN DURING HER MENSTRUAL CYCLE

Dee Dee Dee
Daa Daa Daa
an intoxicating tune
of a light touch
an even rhyme
cracking from the bone rhythm

The relish of walls is palpable
honey leaking through the cracks
I stick my hand in the intimate…

Blood through driblets of ink
have been poured in the negus to the top
negus is the drink of goddesses.

I’ll stick my head in the oven like Sylvia Plath
a smart woman did it when the time was right and now I have thirty
load it up with gas
don’t stick the nuzzle on while you choke
the red eye absorbs the mystical state of love

And you have miniature bridges for jumping off of
atop the morn where an injured bird peacefully flies
out in the icy air
voices twist around among the bridges
they dove into the mud looking for you

A suicidal person observes from atop the fence
while they’re looking for you in the water

Dee Dee Dee
Daa Daa Daa
an intoxicating tune
of a light touch
an even rhyme
cracking from the bone rhythm
twist the damn tap!

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