Category Archives: poetry

poetry

When The Geese Go Marching In

An explanation for all fortunate one’s who do not live in Serbia, this poem – act play – a historical action is a parody on the arrogant, rude and aggressive behavior of the controller in the Serbian buses. 

I leafed through the pages of my sacred book
Servian bus controller runs
between the lines

there is something inexplicable
Nazi and ghostly
in connection with the bus plus controllers in Belgrade
there is something so völkisch
The ‘body’ of the ‘new’ German Volk

They are flowing on the go as the crimson streams
in their purple T-shirts with the SS logo
while pushing smelly mob around them
similar to the chapel of the crematorium

When they are goose stepping beside me
with fylfot tattoos on their forehead
and a swastika on their butts
I am astonished at how nice it is
When The Geese Go Marching In
grinning, knobby and roly poly
in the heat of the sluggish afternoon
in haunted Belgrade busutitution, somewhere near Dachau morgue

blankly tree tapping in their heads is heard
tap tap tap

I, immortal Empress Wu Zetian
I ruled China over four millennia
cling cling cling
and now they’re threatening me to undo this funny ticket
Qigong has awakened my true nature
on the nameless throne for the uncrowned queen
some rulers may not live forever

“Prepare 6 Bus Plus EInsatzgruppen
for the invasion to the following bus, my Lady Buchenwald ”
(Bald reptilian Goose hugs Ilse Koch with a walkie talkie in her hand. They are laughing together, while thousands frightened eyes are staring at me
“What will now happen to her, to us?”)

tap tap tap
cling cling cling

PUBLIC ORDER!
PUBLIC ORDER!
CANCEL YOUR TICKET!
YOU… ALIEN!

(Mob is creaming in unison. Many of them are in tatters. Some will go mad with hunger for the day, still unwaveringly holding the Card with the tip of the middle finger. Daring Servians)

I replaced the rich Serb twice
for the controller,
I’ve canceled my ticket on his big smartphone
I thought it was repressive apparatus.

Forgive me, Confucius,
I do not find it hard in dire straits.

I, immortal Empress Wu Zetian
I am canceling my bus ticket!

You.. little… Punk!
Give me my wig back!
Falling down.
Punk!
I stood again!
He didn’t fall.
Now he did.
Click!
pop pop pop
advancing!
Swing. Swing. Swing.
A WINNER!

seething with anger, unlocking my Chinese boutique
I’m already late for work.

Ilse Koch Of Surdulica
Kreisleitung Of Little Krishna
and Spitzenreiter Of Laika – pueblo

are my new A – shop assistants.

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poetry

In memory of Douglas R. Stewart, Mourning, Marchons

It was an honour to read his poetry.

 

 

Arms they hid beneath their cloaks,
Intent beneath facades of peace, And fixed their paths toward Montrouge,
A concert, and 130 dead Parisians, a City
Mourning, Marchons.

The City of Light knew then its friends, they
Rallied from the clovered corners of the
planet, The tears of auld allies and former colonies
glisten,
Late enemies stood next to Marianne,
hands clasped in
Mourning, Marchons.

Current adversaries promise support, old
friends
Pledge support and, as 70 years ago, is
Paris Burning?
NO! The City of Light lifts her torch,
Marianne sings, Her standards of law and justice remain
the same. Even in
Mourning, Marchons!

Douglas R. Stewart, U.S.A

 

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poetry

I stand accused, Leila Samarrai

Building of Justice is the square-shaped tray
decorated with figures of lions
biting clumsily,
they look, they know.
Finally, the lions are like candied almonds,
They open their stone mouth
to spit an almond, then another, until the rain of sugar almonds
fell to the pillars and bloody benches

dotted with visitors with seminal faces
like a white canvas They stare at lions and sing to trees
doodling the poetic Justice
to  lickerish carcasses winners.

Everywhere is written Justice, she breathes
she drums, she shocks violently with syllables,
annulling the bitterness from the surrounding
harvested greenery.

Court watchdogs, cattle and lions
tantalize nicks, scoundrels, maybe an occasional innocence,
(don’t bend the truth now, you barefaced liar)
whether innocence could ever be caught rushing
with pack of mangy mutts at the wrong place?

So, I stand accused.

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poetry

Poet Killer

Through the phrases and sentence structures
interspersed with subtle assaults
I kill the naughty people
they are falling as wooden blocks
after reading my letters

My sentences are marching!
STAND AT ATTENTION!
DO NOT SPEAK OR MOVE UNTIL I TOLD YOU TO DO SO!
MARK TIME, MAAAARCH!
they are whipping my victims in dramaturgical strokes and pathos.
My sentences hit unexpectedly.

Let’s face the truth – I am a poet killer.
But, still, I say something.

NOW, STAND AT EASE!

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poetry, proza

Thus spoke my mother, Leila Samarrai

Thus spoke my mother.

Seek no longer the soil
Forgotten among the trees
Under which you were born

In the chosen night
When the grasshoppers flew away from the terraces
Into the heap of voices filled with hatred
Directed towards me

Silent mother
Not even a sound to flicker within me
How could I have known
About the other side of maps

Are they coming yet to take me
Rooted in the last morning of a bullet

I arise barefoot
The sea is frightened
Like ground from thunder

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poetry

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

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horror, poetry, proza

Master and Servant, Leila Samarrai

“For whosoever hath, to him shall be given, and he shall have more abundance: but whosoever hath not, from him shall be taken away even that he hath.”, Matthew 13:13

Strange and for me, shameful, hypocritical, let’s say, paradoxical  Bible quote, but what else to be expected from the tax collector. This should be a motto of every bank in the world… written in bold letters, to bath the counter desk with the sacred meaning.. 

SERVANT
Matthew,You, Master, with prostitute blessing,
look at ME!
If I pay Caesar what belongs to him and to God his due,
What is left for me?
How do I pay next time?
You place your head on holy ground…look up!
Are you the One who blesses only the rich?
Are we not blown in the same winds?

MASTER
No! No.
Go to church brave Esther
To esteemed pillars of Jerusalem
Plunge your sword in alchemy of truth and lies
Are you hungry enough to think you’ve fallen?
Did they make you believe you are so low?
Your deeds glorify thy righteousness
How ridiculous to be well read and hungry!
Let their empty hearts speak, spill gold
Believe in me, when empty hearts speak
When your eyes are gouged out, believe in me
Forgive those who do not have–
And reconcile the human injustice.

Oh Matthew, still, you hide.

.

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