horror, mathilde, proza

The poems I wrote for the book “Sleeping Mathilde”, under the pen name Lothair The Dark

These are poems I wrote for the book “Sleeping Mathilde”, under the pen name Lothair The Dark, with a wish to conjure up a medieval mood and to create the dark atmosphere in the book. 

  1. A short poem written for the medieval feast scene:

“Upon the end of the meal the musicians played a painful minstrel romance:

In the water I shall leave my bones
In the ground the leaves my mirrors be
It seems they’ve already buried me.
As I lay, I wait to be found and saved
Should I rebel or leave it all to fate
For if I stay with You, the heart’s silence
Will be my tomb and my eternal life.

2. – and continued to listen to the flickering squeal of the lute. It was the famed song of Fjalar, from the quill of the cursed poet Lothair the Dark:

Atop Fjalar sat a warlock, an envoy of dark desires
Resist him not, o Traveler, but pray to him
For your horses are affrighted before the abyss.
Pitiful man, that are the blood vessel within eternity
Pitiful man, your fear walks in front of you
Pray like this to the warlock:
When the sun comes out from the East, my blood will burn
When the sun sets in the West, my body yours will be
I will gaze upon you blind, o dreaded Fjalar
Let me cross my path this one time more.


A poem written for the Morning scene:
Thinking of last night, from memory, came the verses of a poet who lived out the last of his days in the gallows. I think he was a Moor… I proudly raised my chin and with a dry, thin voice I sang, treading clad in a muddy tunic and festive boots all over the cotton tapestries:

Fair maiden
You are the sun of my morn
From you the wretched I hides
I call the woeful night my home
Fair maiden
I will paint your thighs
Akin to the silk of a bright morn
You sneak away into a shifty dream

I remembered Lothair the Dark, who wrote the prophecy of Hässe under the threat of the sword. 

O Colossus, the Heavens tell me: Beware!
A carrion to you alike will clip my wings
Those of heavy heart will feast in the Heavens
Justice will freshen them like wine
And doom will come to all!

236b4e9373a8c635769497c452e6075a--gothic-vampire-gothic-art (1)

interview, proza

Leila Samarrai: Literature in Serbia only exists at the level of gossip

My interview for the online magazine Afirmator (in Serbian)

Leila Samarrai, a Coffee Interview for the online magazine KULT (in Serbian)

In times like these, where we have in Serbia a whole line of parastatal humbugs where everyone aims to attain the role of the Father of the nation, outside of this politicization, the poetic world is thus divided on various sects who don’t recognize the quality and poetic approach of one another. Whenever I think of this I think of Nestor Kukolnik, a court author from the Pushkin era, who remained famous merely for being a blusterer who kept jamming sticks in the wheels of the aforementioned Alexander Sergeyevich, but who was far more reputable in his time; where the two of them stand now is not even worth talking about.

What can I say? These feral times are not all too friendly to poets. But neither are we to it hence I hope that, when it passes (and transience is ever present), there will be enough poetic testimonials about who we were and what times we lived in.

Leila Samarrai, Republic Of Serbia, Belgrade, July 25th, AD 2017


Leila Samarrai: Literature in Serbia only exists at the level of gossip

Interviewed by Tamara Lujak


Leila Samarrai is a new author who, one could say, is only now gaining traction in the Serbian literary scene, even though she has already published both a poetry and a short story collection. How she finds her way into the aforementioned literary scene, how she stands out, whether the literary scene even exists or not, all of this and more will be what the budding author will talk about, so – get ready…


How do you see poetry?

LS: As a type of shamanistic chant capable of chasing away the darkness within us.


‘Poetry is meant to save the world, to reassemble all fragmented things.’ Do you agree with this claim by Hamvas and why?

LS: One can’t help but agree with Hamvas that the new history took many a sacred thing away from man or mankind, thus instead of kings and dignitaries and whathaveyou we have various surrogates in their place, ‘suspicious persons’… The poet remains, and under the shapes and forms of the suspicious persons, by himself, he lives his life under the mask of the (no longer court) jester… So if words are what separates animals from man, from this animalization of the barbaric modern age, who will bring words back into harmony and redeem man if not the poet? But the question is: are there among the poets people that are strong enough, whose magical voice is thunderous enough to resonate in the all-encompassing cacophony reigning over us?


How does poetry fit into the world (yours and everyone else’s)? Or how does, perhaps, world fit in (your) poetry?

LS: Man is in his own microcosm akin to a personal box, with poetry as its lid which it can defend itself from the world; which can be opened in desire to meet something wider than your own personal reach.


How do you deal with the decision of many publishers not to publish poetry collections?

LS: Realistically speaking, this is suicide.


What does poetry teach us?

LS: It teaches us how to think, how to express ourselves. Teaches us compassion. There is a quote there from Heine: ‘What does this solitary tear mean? It so blurs my gaze.’ Poetry gives deeper insight to that which we might have missed in the daily rush of things: I believe in man, which is why I say Maybe where there surely must be a Yes.


Can we live without poetry?

LS: If we can live without tears and laughter, day and night, zombified under neon lights, in front of our television set, or amid smoke and noise, we can live without poetry, learning and thinking, let someone else do the thinking for us.


What is poetry to you?

LS: An opportunity to be alone with my thoughts… An opportunity to create something that I could, once called out, show as my own contribution to the world.


How would you define poetry?

LS: As an old wise serpent which only occasionally comes out to catch the sun (and scare people).


How useful are literary festivals and workshops, can they survive today, in these times of utter poverty, and can you learn something from them?

LS: Learning is a matter of an individual, their desire actually…


What did the internet give the authors, and what did it take away from them?

LS: Most certainly a bigger audience, in wider circles…who can nonetheless distill the crux of it all. The Internet is a Babylon where any author can both add and take away a brick laid, depending on one’s affinities.


You’re aware that in your line of work (namely writing) there is little ‘coin’ to be had (or rather there is less and less of it), and yet you persist. Why?

LS: You need to be a ‘nerd’ to be a poet, that is without a doubt, and without regard for any monetary compensation; living off of poetry is not all that doable, and success is, evidently, a category always in flux. As far as I’m concerned, I find it natural to express myself in verse, and whether I am far from any kind of recognition, well yes, I am… On the other hand, being recognized in Serbia means picking up all of the provinciality around you and publishing it.Hence why I want to be recognized outside of my country’s borders, because that is indeed recognition – proper recognition.


According to you, what kind of generations of authors are coming?

LS: The world of prose and poetry is split into various sects which do not recognize the quality and poetic approach of their peers. What will come in the next hundred years from all of this, I shudder to think.


How does the contemporary literary scene look like to you?

LS: When you take one look at all of the things being published today, with zero criteria, then it’s clear that our literary scene exists merely due to money. We did not move one step out of communism. Where we were literarily is where we still are, except the market is far smaller, and poverty of intellectual and any other kind far greater. There isn’t even a Serbian literary scene, nor is it allowed to exist. Critics are at their positions, established authors at their own, primarily political, then literary, or artistic. In short, literature in Serbia only exists at the level of gossip

It is a complete systematic collapse here, and with zero respect for the author and copyright, nothing will get better and Serbia will remain a literary black hole, irrespective of the vast number of people willing and capable of writing something.

Nobody publishes poetry collections, because there is no profit there. It is well known: the author has to pay someone to publish their book, this is the alpha and omega of it all. The publisher does not care a bit beyond that. If by any chance the author ‘gains prominence’, then he will be endlessly reprinted, copyright will be broken and the publisher will claim to be doing a favor to the author by these reprints. Printing itself is cheap. For instance, someone’s book of aphorisms or short stories can be sold online, it is also in bookstores, and the author is not at all notified of this, nor has any insight into the matter.

And the publishing itself is reduced to moneymaking. You got the green, you publish the paper. If by chance you become a household name, you will be published, but the ‘sweet sweet cream’ will largely be theirs, the publishers’, and yet they will also tell you how fortunate you are to be published. So, the copyright of your works is completely vulnerable, or nonexistent. The publisher does not give a damn about quality, they don’t even read what you give them, or merely skim through it. Everything comes down to the money, cash that is, and sex. Which is, again, a good topic for a story or a novel, even journalism as a sociological phenomenon, at the end of the day. It is a mark of an era and a country.


Not to mention the misogyny, the treatment of a woman, a smart, beautiful, attractive woman who, by the way, is an excellent writer. In short, the treatment of meat in Serbian literature.Cheap trafficking and treating the female author as a piece of meat, a sex object with no right to think, but to bow her head. You can be as smart as you want, unless you do what the slime wants you to do, nothing gets published, no career, no living by doing what you love most and know best. Speaking of various chauvinisms, why keep quiet of this one. To me at least, these people are laden with complexes and cannot achieve sexual or amorous pleasure normally, or whatever else they need, and this is where the sickness begins, the blackmail. In everyday circumstances, they know that they cannot reach beautiful, smart and talented women, and they use their pseudo-power to prove themselves to their friends and their own selves. It is cheap trafficking, and I believe that women, in that sense, have it harder than men. Little is written of this, nobody speaks of this, and it is the cancer of life in this here country, in this here system-less system and criminalized society. I still believe that it doesn’t necessarily have to be so, but now I point to the literary world not being a bright-colored gentle butterfly which contains all the beauty of this world. Talented people are leaving, we are losing the intellectuals, we are losing people who could raise this country out of the muck. And then we wonder how Mrkonjić and Ilić become ministers. It is clear: violence and sex, the basis of reality shows, completely transferred into the literary sphere, which should, at least, be a bastion against the flood of pap and primitivism.

interview, proza

Leila Samarrai: A good author is he who isn’t afraid to speak his mind

Leila Samarrai: A good author is he who isn’t afraid to speak his mind

Interviewed by Tamara Lujak for the online magazine Afirmator.

My interview for the online magazine Afirmator (in Serbian)

A master of the short story form, Leila Samarrai is a published award-winning author. She loves writing, stating that literature is her life, she dreams of having her own manager, like American authors do. Inspired by the Pythons, Charlie Chaplin, as well as everyday events in Serbia, she writes brief, jocular, satirical short stories, filled with anger and bitterness of relief. Delve for a moment into this world of hers.


What is the author’s mission?

LS: His mission is to be a good writer and that’s about it. I think this was the main thesis of Joseph Brodsky.


Why do you write?

LS: I write out of pleasure, and because I think I have something to say.


Where do you get your ideas from?

LS: It’s simple, I bang my hand against the table, a genie appears from the magic lamp, bows and says “What’ll ya have, oh Magistra Ludi?!” I then make a wish that gets instantly fulfilled.


What makes good poetry or art and how would you define the craft of the poets?

LS: Art is a game. Poetry as well. At the end of the day, you either know how to play it or not…


What, according to you, is a good author?

LS: A good author is he who isn’t afraid to speak his mind; he who dictates the art of the verse. A scribbler who merely keeps quiet and enjoys being lauded is nothing but a reader with nothing of importance to do. He whose written word trickles from his wounds into the world and onto paper is not afraid to both praise and criticize, this is what he strives towards.


What is literature and the purpose of art to you?

LS: Survival of the human species.


How did you come to the idea of publishing Boris K. (Everest Media, Belgrade, 2013)?

LS: In the age of absurd events in Serbia, which clash common sense, it wasn’t all that difficult to be inspired, to write an absurd satire in the manner of Monty Python, or even Chaplin or a science fiction space-time traveler, which would reflect reality in the mirror of old woman Valentine. Pythonesque burlesques interspersed with a Kafkaesque atmosphere reflected in the name of the titular hero are merely some of the references that build up the overall feel of the novel. Why Kafkaesque? Because Boris K. is, even with all of his Johnny Bravo capabilities, merely a regular, tiny man in a sophisticated cog of the system which makes mincemeat of the sophisticated, but grinds it well. The Johnny Bravo effect, the muscles of the superhero are but a part of this comedy of the absurd, because the hyperboles I like utilizing, sometimes to their upper limits in order to strengthen the absurd and highlight it in the process, are but one piece of the comedy and that comedy, so to speak, gets more comical.


At International Belgrade Book Fair, with Zoran Stefanovic, the reviewer of my book “The Adventures Of Boris K”


How did Boris K. come about?

LS: First of all, if we don’t take into account the scientific theories of existence of parallel universes, in the present day Serbia as it is, unfortunately, we can notice that in order to merely survive the people need to live in some sort of personal universe, to be ‘deluded’, as the British would say. Those with more creativity can craft up to five-six roles… Don’t many of the Munchausens find refuge in their own lies? Still, Boris K. moves through worlds of alternative history and his fate is resolved in a satirical science fiction novel which is in the process of creation, and all of this close to the encounter with the aliens of civilization number 5. But more on this some other time…


Can we expect a sequel to Boris K.’s adventures?

LS: As someone who feels at home with long form writing, I admit that would be rather easy work were it not extremely difficult to someone whom struggles with rationality, mathematical focus and dramatic precision, but let’s say it takes time for the plot to come together, the answer is as follows: you can, the ideas are everywhere (I agree with Plato on this one), maybe not as soon as I would want them to. Boris K. is not just a short story, he is an omnipresent avatar and a portrait of an undisciplined, yet witty cosmopolitan man. And he demands only the best of plots, a beginning, plot points, my favorite peripety and a witty resolution with hints of bitter irony aimed at the society around us.


What are you working on at the moment?

LS: Like a sculptor I chisel away at a novel made of tangled tales waging wars for each individual sentence. This work does not demand precision in the sense of a well-rounded plot, it is fantasy in and of itself, a fantasy where the awoken sleepwalk. The novel fits my narrative sensibilities which focus both on the plot and the character nuances and has the attributes of magical realism, therefore I’m good at it and enjoy working on it. I hope to leave a footstep in the snow with it somewhere in the distant north, where the plot is happening…for the future storytellers of the same genre (magical fantasy).  Officially this genre does not exist, or rather is not named as such. There is magical realism, but this is a work of magical fantasy.


Any advice for upcoming authors?

LS: Don’t walk the same track as others. Break patterns and remember that Kafka was extremely insecure. He considered himself a bad author, which he masked with hysterical laughter (a sort of compensation for shame) whenever his friends were talking him into reading his works aloud. Also, he wrote them late at night. This is not the type of advice you should heed if you’re an early bird.


Happy Birthday, Eva Green!

Metaphorical, picturesque written saga about personal demons, through the prism of the monsters of British and Irish fantasy in the dark, dirty, mysterious, dangerous, exciting, poetic and exceptional way, with a phenomenal atmosphere… but, “Penny Dreadful” is much more than that.
Eva Green has completely nailed her role. Transformations through which she has gone through are completely incredible showing her exceptional acting talent.
On several occasions, her performance was completely astonishing and if there was an Oscar for the main female role in the series, she would be without competition.

excerpt, PRIPOVETKA, proza, roman

SLIKA NEBOGLEDOM ODGLEDANIH, roman pisan u online varijanti. Zahteva vaš konstantni update!

“Slika nebogledom odgledanih”, odlomak iz novelete, Leile Samarrai, roman pisan u online varijanti. Zahteva vas konstantni update! Novi pasusi ce pristizati…
Možda sam vas sve izmislila. Možda ste vi samo u mojoj glavi, vrtite se tu u ritmu valcera, krijete se u ogledalima, kezite mi se u lice i govorite:
– Mi smo samo hteli da te zatvorimo, u kuću. … eventualno iza resetaka…. Nismo predvideli halucinacije….
– Šta bulazniš?
– U pravu ste. Imala bih mnogo posla ako bih hodala starim putevima, utabanim putevima da bih sačinila nekakav dokument o sebi. Da preorem svaku brazdu svog detinjstva. Da oslobodim duhove prošlosti koji su me i doveli do vas kao robove oslobođene okova, samo da bi na sebe navukli teške, zlatne lance.
Ne znam kako ovo da počnem drugačije, stoga, uvodi, objašnjenja, dokumenta, nestanite.
Prihvatite ovaj uvod kao moj šturi poklon:
Zovem se Marija Mediči, imam 34 godine, po profesiji sam propala glumica i student istorije (još uvek apsolviram…) i već desetu godinu progoni me grupa propaliteta, varalica, psihopata i ludaka, zbog čega na ulicu ne izlazim, ni sa kim se ne družim i ne viđam pošten svet.
Tomislav Kalpeper, profesija pravnik. Nabijen i nizak, oči kao u Akira Kurosave, voli bičevanje do krvi i smrti, klanja se Dodoni Rasel, profesija engleski, svačija Muza i bič Božji, udata za kepeca do struka joj, gospođa malograđanka i kućevlasnica bordela upečatljivog naslova „Akademija bola“.
Nostradina Babel, nosi slavne retro kovrdže a la Merilin Monro i kao ona, seks simbol je kruga beogradske dvojke. Uzor joj je Eva Braun. Prolupani, samoljubivi stvor, čija je mama oligarh bankarstva sa transferom novca kad joj zatreba.. U maminoj dresuri, Nostradina, inače član Mense, je, jedna od onih, koji su, preko noći, od prosečnog konzumenta radže i bensedina, zajedno s drugim nitkovima i brbljavcima, postali generalni direktori, sa naci – arijevskim pogledom na svet. Oči – kao Leonardo Di Kaprio. (i boja i oblik)
Miss M, zli invalid mastermajnd, veselog duha kao i omiljeni joj slikar Tuluz de Lotrek. Da je u njegovom društvu, zajedno bi slistili bure apsinta. Ovako, Miss M bi dala bubreg za dve stvari: levi bubreg za Nostradinu, (na rate, ako može i po povoljnoj ceni), a desni, kad joj po svoj prilici Nostradina odbije levi, za bure hajnekena. Zlovoljna je jer je ponižena. Okružuje se priglupim slaboumnicima. Dodoni Rasel joj je bliska rođaka.
Krilatica: „Ja sam kao pijavica. Kad zgrabim, ja ne puštam“
Džezebel Hasanaginica, 35 godina, građe teretnog automobila, zvana Maratonski bik, zlih i agresivnih namera koje otkriva tek kad se uvede zakon o zabranji točenja alkohola. Dotle joj osmeh leprša na licu, hladnokrvna i metodična dok ne zagrmi u basu i ne polupa sve kafane kroz koje redovno šeta. Kada je u kondiciji u stanju je da preskoči sto. Od bosanskog pakla do mističnog pustolova, od poslednjeg nokauta u kafani Druga Mi Kuća i Šuj Baje Bluza do Divovskih trka. Specijalizacija: planinski maratoni. Staje na svakom 50 – om kilometru dok kroti mamutsku trasu pred kojom su mnogi poklekli da se, uz pljoskicu, priseti starih dobrih dana“
„I tako sve do Kuromajera“, zagrmela bi u basu, zadivljenog pogleda na Monte Rosu..
. Redovno ažurira horoskop. I svoj i tuđi.
Bludna kći koja je krenula u crkvu.
***futurus persevero / this thing must be continued!

I još par statista….

Aaaa gde ste se vi upoznaliiii?

 Prokleta sam večnošću. Kidala sam lešine pod Trojom, opipavala skamenjene praegipćane, Nabta Playe, jela sam crnoglave sveže sumerićanske glave. Moje vreme je duboko. Moja nebesa su obojena u tamu, bez sunca. Bez zvezda.

Uz podli osmeh penjem se uz piramidalni Materhorn. Gazim neosvojive vrhove, doletela sam iz kantona Vallais, sa sve crnim jezerom koje je potopilo Gimenvald.


Upoznali smo se na Kalabrijskim plažama, zapravo. Podelili smo divno letovanje.  Osvajala sam Kalabreške planine, a Kalabrija mi je oduvek bila kao dom.

Ako ikad budem želela da se ubijem, sigurno ću se baciti sa kantakarskog mosta.

A vi me pitate gde upoznajem Južne Slovene i Bosanku?

Stoga, zar je bitno gde smo se svi upoznali?

Na Materhornu ili u kafani “Kod dva brata”?

Šta oni tebi konkretno rade?

Njima ne mogu parirati carski špijuni za istorijskih apsolutizama. Naravno, upitanost zahteva odgovor: motiv. Zašto ja?

Zapletena priča i mnogo dramatičnih dana, da bih pružila odgovor znatiželjnim ušima. Nisam poznavala hohštapleraj dok se nisam preselila u Beograd. Opipavala sam ih (sva ova lica koja su našla svog pisca)i napipala kroz pomrčinu i pakao noćnih klubova. Stare frajle, polni organi izmešani, postavljeni na pogrešno mesto, na jednom telu, sunčani točak na nasmešenom licu Džezebel koja me zaljubljeno posmatra, energija, svetlost, život, Džezebel, maratonski bik, sunčano tele, večno dobro, međuigra očiju i poziv.

Moja usamljenost je bazdila na prosutu svinjsku utrobu.

Ti, živuća kobilo, praroditeljko života, siluj me!

Ti, o Ištar, paganko, što nadvisuješ sve, obljubi me!, tako bi stihovao Aton u sapfo varijanti. I zaljubih se u ovu Dafne ili Erosa, kako je ko shvati (a Dionis ona biva kada cugne neku)

Preskočiću naporne detalje razbuđivanja Erosa među nama dvema. Dosadne su pojedinosti o beleškama što ih čini želja u očima. Ili pupljenje cveća, čiju je nevinost probio trn prve odsvirane note žestoke, raspaljene strasti. Ukoliko želite takve pojedinosti, obratite se literaturi markiza de Sada ili metafizičkom doživljaju seksa Julijusa Evole.

Bila je to igrav pogleda i po neki dah u stakatu, dve rasplesane nimfe, pregorele želje usled zabranjenog dodira. Kadgod bismo poželele da smrvimo ćutnju među nama, i da poljupcem zapečatimo nameru, pojavila bi se ONA. Ime: Brona Lisa, 38 godina, ukočenih linija tela, arhajskoj osmeha, nalik na wondjina slike Aboridžina koja ukrašavaju šuplje grobnice i prikazuju glave bez usta.

Tablični integral kao pojam bi bio najpribližnija odrednica njenom postojanju. Kao i pozamašni muški kožni novčanik Emporio valentini made in Banja Luka, iz koga su izvirivale novčanice nalik na mnoštvo raškuštranog perja kongoanskog pauna.

Kako bi se mašila za koju, tako bi Džezebel nesvesno zabacila glavu unazad u ekstazi, prevrnuvši očima, zakolutavši ih čini se do potiljka, uz jedno: “Ah! Moram da odem do pošte da uplatim novac za prijavu ispita!”, iliti “lepe sise su seksi, ali pare nemaju cenu, sorry darlin’.”

“To je lijepo”, rekla bi Brona lisa – ali zaboravila si na štafelaj.  Trebalo bi i njega kupit’. Ti si i umjetnica. Moraš vežbat’ crtat’”

Tada bi mi Brona Lisa uputila pogled a la Lisi Borden, u trenu kad je čuvena serijska ubica zamahnula sekirom obrubivši glavu rođenom ocu…


Pisac! Waky! Waky! Sarkazam u dupe, pa u napad na novi dan.

Stojim sa nebogledom ispred prozora I zumiram staze I bogaze zelenih beogradskih površina.

Moja soba liči na radničku spavaonicu.

  • Ja sam svakako morala da znam kako će to da se završi – spuštam nebogled.
  • Mislite da je postojao neki plan, blagoslovljen Bogovima?
  • Popišan, misliš? – sedam ispred računara sa izrazom lica čoveka koji nema ništa, apsolutno ništa više da saopšti.

I šta se dalje dogodilo? Mislilo bi se da devojka od 26 godina koja se seli u veći grad, sa toliko talenta i mudrosti može da shvati da u vezi ne mogu da postoje troje.

  • Nije mi padalo na um da se zadržim u Beogradu. – okrećem nebogled prema sebi – Nekad nesebično doniramo sive ćelije iskrenosti ljubavi koja nas je zadesila… Ko to povraća u uglu? Ah, to je moje JA današnjice. Koliko toga mogu reći o svojemu JA današnjice.
  • Briga me za čoveka JUČERAŠNJICE. Briga i vas i nebogled.. No, ko može da ispriča ovu priču do čovek koji je nije preživeo? Sad samo korača novi čovek I džara rane, potkopava mesto groba čoveka koji je umirao svih deset godina. Gde mi je lopata? Vidi kako grob odjekuje! To se leš diže I budi.
  • Ja više nikad neću voleti jer sve čime sam mogla voleti je oduzeto kao oduzeta ruka ili noga ili isečena, raščetvorena.

Ne bih propustila niti jednu reč, samo da oživim mrtvaca. Neka jaukne, pa ću mu grlo ponovo iščupati, da se zauvek utiša.

  • Izvolite nastaviti posao. Nebogledom odgledajte!

Kako pisac ili dete, ili devojka podložna ili ponižavana čitavog života, poput Justine, sa svim njenim nevoljama nevinosti, može ODMAH prepoznati otrov zmije koja gmiže među kamenjem, među lišćem..  Potom ODMAH ublažiti žuč.

  • Govoriš o posebnoj vrsti senzibiliteta?
  • Razmišljam o tome da promenim ime u Justina!

Da, Justina beše ona što je vikala u suzama, čija je obzirnost i afekcija bila usmerena nerazborito, ka razvratnicima koji kušaju sočno,  čija okrutnost vezuje u lance,  oholnicima i podrugljivcima.  No, zlo je uvek zakopano u suprotnostima, zlo je uvek ukopano u obično.  Tu se ono krije, pod vatrenom korom afekcije, izmršavele istine koja teče iz isuviše vernoga srca. Gmiže zlo licem kojem bejah privržena, ja Marija Mediči, ostaviću Justinu markizu, da se vratim sebi i svojim ranojutarnjim mukama umočenim u pero. Kako je morala da boli glava oživljenog čudovišta, stvorenog od delova raznih leševa, eto,  na to liči i moje Čudovište. Oživljeno baterijama i cinkovim pločama prikačenim na bolne delove tela, eteričnom vatrom, kalorijom i elektricitetom, udarom munje,

I takva je moja priča.

U mojoj priči, svi su mrtvi, do Čudovišta koja danas, proživljavajući svoj elektro – život,  evoluiraše do klonova bez emocija, oni koji konzumiraju.

Zahvaljujući nekom čudesnom promislu,  reših da se prihvatim iskopavanja, ja, čiji grobarski posao obavljam hladnom usredsređenošću najodrešitijeg mislioca.

Koristim čuveno pero Eversharp, upadljivo lepo u jednostavnosti dizajna, posvećeno i u službi vladavine pravde i zakona koji pravdu sprovodi. Optočeno zlatom,  njegovo telo odiše naglašenom elegancijom. I direktno je svrsi…

Uzimam smisao iz vaše, za mene tad besmislene rečenice (ili za Justinu besmislene): zar ne znadoste… Kako ono rekoste? Gotovo s gordim prebacivanjem! Kakva je to poliamorična aluzija u ponovljenoj tvrdnji! Zar je Džezebel kakva Afrodita koja spava sa Aresom iza Hefestovih leđa, ili mora da ga pita? Jesam li ja nežna boginja koja se pretvara u Kali razaračicu, a Brona bi bila raktabija iskidanih žila i popijene krvi?

Da se vratim na Afroditu, mrežom ulovljenu, skupa sa Aresom. Dogovoreni brak sa ružnim i slabim Hefestom kako ga vidim, nalik na neumoljivu Heru, Afroditi se nije svideo.

Džezebel je, sračunatom prepredenošću,  prigrlila ovaj dogovor, skupa sa svojom totemskom maskom prerušene zveri u očajnom pokušaju da se reši bolne osamljenosti o kojoj su mi govorili kad sam pristigla u Beograd. Punila je ta tračarska zverad lažima kao pirat džepove nakitom ubijenih, mislila sam i nisam ih slušala. Ali, kad se trač zaseje, izniknu sadnice, reči se iznova vraćaju u život, makar ih pamtim da bih kasnije mogla da opovrgnem njihovu neistinitost.

Govorilo se da je kurva, a la za sto lira u sto vira. Behu vrliji u pljuvanju i nabrajanju njenih nedostataka od Seneke koji je pisao moralna pisma Gaju Liciniju. A većina gadne krvožuči koja je belasala niz bradu tračera kao kod besnih džukela, odnosila se, upravo, na koristoljublje i promiskuitet, u kojem joj je duša iščezla, kako san shvatila, skupa sa sve hladnim srcem koje ne poznaje čari erotske ljubavi, osim ako nije rutinizirana i smišljena, sklona finansijskim transakcijama pomešanim sa orgijastičkim rešenjima.

  • Čemu bolna osamljenost?
  • Da, bolna osamljenost, to je naša Justina. Rođena u krilu razvrata, dotle, uvek na dnu planinskih vrhova koje Džezebel ovih dana neumorno osvaja…

Za nju je novčanik Brone Lise izazivao osmeh koji je reflektovao grč Brone Lise, fenomen koji ću imenovati “bronalisin” osmeh. Kriva usta, izlivena u još krivlju liniju nepomičnog kipa arhajskog perioda, ušuškana u sigurnost i kako bi Grci rekli, kalokaghatos.

“E da je meni taj kalokagatos!”, lupila bi me po ramenu Džezebel kad bi me pitala: “A što se tebi ne dopada Brona?”

“Naprosto volim.. sumersku umetnost”, odgovorila sam uz pivo kojim me je Džezebel, uz šmekerski osmeh, nedolično nalivala. A ja sam pila, žudno, taj otrov, onako kako bih tad žudno popila sve njene poljupce.  Ko spozna da mu svirepost sedi s druge strane stola u zagrljaju očima, a one šalju pogled žestok kao prasak munje, uz bestidnim šapatom izgovorene reči podmuklih namera, uvijene u lažni humor. Ipak, ličio je na lakrdiju u scenskoj igri budale zveketanera koji se glupo šali samo da još veću budalu zabavi.

“Znaš… –  tvorkinja varke nežno položi svoju ruku na moju, ali tako da okrenu dlan prema gore. On zasija u ružičastoj jasnoći. “Mnogo ljudi se pored mene propilo”

Tad podiže usne ka meni, osveživši trenutak bliskosti. To me uzruja, ali potpali i nekakvu mračnu bojazan u meni. Dodirnula me je jednom slična slatkoća sna i zamalo me je uništila.  Spoznala san ambis boli. Posrnula san davno. Ne bejah kao Justina, već mnogo gora, bejah Justina bez mnogo pameti, a od tog trena i bez integriteta…


iz Nostradinine čet arhive- POČETAK:

Njeno “delo”, darlin’ sve je to plod mašte. Naravno da će nas predstaviti kao beskrupulozne i prljave šminkere kada je ogorčena jer ju je Džezebel otkačila. Prvo napada, šalje poruke gde te hvali do neba, a onda se primiri. Potom te naprska pljuvačinom kad joj ne odgovoriš…

– Omča oko vrata, za tebe. Poput uskog užeta.. verujem da si zato morala da je prijaviš. Pretnja revolverom je ozbiljna stvar…
Of kors. Nego bre.. da promenimo temu.
– Naravno. Ona nije moja tema. Ne želim je.
– Hani… nju niko ne želi. Menjamo temu. Samo da iskažem generalnu misao pre toga koju ćeš ti da saslušaš: ljudi koji pročitaju dve knjige u životu, a onda ih stalno citiraju, pa ispada da su ne znam koliko pismeni… Ljuta sam na takve likove!
– Da, mašu svojom navodnom elokventnošću!
– E to! Tako i ona.. Mislim, edukacija, to je futur, tu nema dileme. Razumi me, meni ne smeta ako su nekome cipele prljave ili ako ima samo jedan par. Ona tvrdi da sam ja snob. Pa da sam snob, ja bih joj počistila čizme, ali stvarno se ne bih spuštala toliko nisko. KRAJ CITATA


Oduvek sam maštala da, u samoći doma, ovde u dnevnom kod mojih, masturbiram kraj florentinskog stola od ebanovine kupljenog na aukciji kod Kristija, sanjarila je Nostradina. Akcija sa skupocenom stolicom iz spavaće sobe moje mame. Oba komada u Luj LXIX pozi. Komadima tepam: Kegni i Lejsi. Kad mama i tata nisu kod kuće. Ima li išta popaljivije od toga?

Nostradina nežno dodirnu pametni telefon. Soba bi bila u potpunom mraku da je nije osvetljavala plazma lampa, Teslina kugla. “Uspostavljam elektronski kontakt sa kaučem.. sa teslom.. a ti?”, otkuca nepoznatom sagovorniku koji joj uzvrati porukom na ekranu, na šta joj se obrazi zarumeneše. Oseti drhtavicu i nemir. Da ovo nije Marija Mediči?
“Gde živim? Tu, odmah, iza ćoška”
Zašto me pita gde živim? Kucam na nameštaj porno dot com sajtu i to iz čiste dosade, a sagovornik hoće da se intimizuje.
Šta pita sad? Kakvog ćoška? Pita me.. Šta ću sad? – stanka, da bi joj srce zaigralo – Ah, pa šta je meni! Uvek postoji laž kao opcija!
“Čuj, otkad sam doživela saobraćajku, ne sećam se ničega o svojoj adresi.. Imam amneziju.”
Kako to otipka, Nostradina panično isključi telefon. Preostalo joj je jedino što je mogla da uradi u ovakvim situacijama kad je osećala misteriozno, a opet sabrano prisustvo Marije Mediči, duha prošlosti koja joj diše za vratom i pohodi je u mučnim i teškim snovima. Porno sajt za ljubitelje stilizovanog nameštaja, uz obaveznu čet opciju.
Nekada je to bio kokain. “Vrhunski”, nostalgično je pomislila. Poznavala je lika u Njujorku koji je farmaceut, a pritom I diluje kad dođe za Beograd. Često dolazi za Beograd pošto mu tu žive roditelji. Umeo je da donese I trideset grama koke, pa I više. Smiruje telo. Tako dobar efekat.. To ju je popravljalo. Dobijala je za džabe jer je lik bio fakat zaljubljen u nju. Potom je ona društvu prodavala vrhunsku koku po ceni od pedeset evra I odlazila u skupe kafiće, čašćavajući već debelo naalkoholisano društvo od tih para.
Prodavala je po gram – dva, a ostalo je čuvala za sebe jer je stvarno bio u pitanju vrhunski kokain.
Sada bi ubila za trideset mitja koke iz NY. Ljudi dođu i prođu, on je uvek tu.
A ona se ne druži sa bilo kim, već isključivo sa likovima I likušama ekstra sređenim do koske. Ne sa nekim klošarima.
“Marija Mediči se gnušala bogatstva, kakva budala. Govorila je da novac ružne čini lepima, debele mršavima, glupe pametnima, a pametne odbačenima. Kasnije mi je rekla da je moja porodica problematična! Ha! Zar moja porodica? Rekla mi je da živim u ispraznom skloništu postojanja. Da san površna luda, ta Marija Mediči. Možda u meni nema ničega, a u njoj ima samo opake zavisti! Kako se usuđuje da me naziva praznoglavom prišipetljoj koja je dobila svet na tanjiru od svojih roditelja. Nazvala me je kancerom sveta i malograđanskim smradom. Šta ona zamišlja? Da nije krv i meso? Da ja nemam srca? Da ja nisam krv i meso? Kritikuje našu ekipu! Sanjin otac je mafijaš i njena majka je poginula u nekom obračunu na Ibarskoj magistrali, pa ceo život krivi oca za to. Na Tanju majka ne obraća pažnju, čak je i hvatala par puta da se drogira i govorila joj da previše troši? Katarina se zabavlja sa dilerima jer nije jedna od tih koja može da priušti sebi kokain. Droga se ne dovodi u pitanje niti moja standarna ekipa. Imam pare, Marija Mediči, može mi se. – zaključi i uzme ogledalo. “Moj prijatelj.. Kada san sa ogledalima nikad nisam sama”, reče i histerično se zakikota, spremna da se našminka. Ali, tek kad otkuca ponoć…
Najednom, oseti nečije prisustvo. To je utvara. Hoće da je namami u zamku.
“Nostradina, upali sijalično svetlo”, bila je to mama. U mraku su joj se caklile oči.
Nostradina poskoči sa stolice i poslušno upali svetlo osetila je tremor, stravu, srce joj preskoči, a disanje joj se ubrza. Poče da muca: “M.. ma.. ma, t..ti si…”
Dočekao ju je pakosni sjaj u majčinom oku.
“Opet si mi prčkala po tekućem računu. Od sad pa na dalje, nećeš zlostavljati moju visa karticu. Više nema dizanja para iz autómata”, reče hladno Nostradinina mama, sitna žena, s trajnom na glavi, obučena u haljinu za koktel parti. Kako to reče, uze Teslinu kuglu. “Lezi u krevet, da ne kasniš na posao. Krvarila sam da te ubacim na mesto generalne direktorke, a ti mi ovako vraćaš. Samo jednom zakasni na posao i zaposliću te u maksiju, jes čula!”
“D..da, mama”
“I ugasi svetlo kad legneš”
“Hoću.. mmm.. mama”
Majka je stajala ispred Nostradine i gledala je optuživački.
“Dva sam privatna detektiva morala da unajmim od tebe umesto da odem u Tunis, sama, u povoljnom terminu.”
“Ali, mama, mene ona stvarno progoni”
“Zar to nismo rešili?”
“Mama, ona hoće osvetu”, izlete joj. Nostradina pokri usta šakama.
“Nije me briga za rezultate kod šrinka u medicinskoj ordinaciji. Nije me čak ni briga da li je to.. to.. revolverašenje istina, lažljivice jedna! Našla san ti posao u internet marketing firmi sa renomeom. A šta ti radiš na poslu? Piješ bensedine u kupatilu I ne skidaš se sa tvitera. Misliš da ja nemam svoje ljude tamo koji prate svaki tvoj korak… Zabušavaš, kažu. Pa, naravno, kad sam sve ispite morala da ti kupim, jer nećeš da se udaš.
“Ali, mama ja pijem bezkofeinski čaj.. ja…”
“Sutra idemo opet kod psihijatra. Ili to, ili nema više sto evra na stolu da se ponese ili ti uzimam kola.. Kaži…”, mama se preteći približavala.
“Neću više nikad”, bezizražajno će Nostradina i obrazi joj se zarumeneše.
Odjednom shvati da je potpuno sama u sobi. Uključi mobilni telefon. 46 propuštenih poziva za grad od ekipe. Potom uključi tablet računar.
“To je Džezebel – a njen poziv se ne odbija”, zaključi Nostradina i pažljivo otipka brojeve na mobilnoj tastaturi tablet računara. Vratila se na sajt furnitureporn dot com.
Opet će reći da kasni.
Ponoć je otkucala.

prose, proza



In his tiny two-by-two hole in the wall, Boris K. sat with a dignified expression on his face and his legs out in a straddle. He wore two left slippers of diverse colour. As he casually turned to peer in the cracked mirror, he was greatly displeased by the sight of his slicked-back gray hair. He attempted to part it à la Sieg Heil, but could not really pull it off because – he wore a flower in his hair, you see.

At springtime, as the locks of his raven hair started blooming, he left all the women breathless (left-wing ones in particular, as they were especially partial to flowers).
“There is a certain symbolism to them,” they claimed.
Boris K. was a seasoned communist, a ruin left behind by the transition, a redundant loser. Like many others, he looked back on the times when he subscribed to the Labourer newspaper with nostalgia. It used to be a matter of prestige.

Due to his former high-ranking positions as the coffee brewer and sentry for the Trade Union sessions, he retained the habit of sitting, sleeping and eating dressed in a gray business suit. On that cold evening he was waiting for the arrival of his landlady while reading “The Trial”. Remembering the times past and the chanting of the famous “Comrade Fidel, if you so said/we’d go live in a car shed,” Boris K. mused how, everything said and done, he was actually still living according to his beliefs. The very thought was heartwarming. Boris’ “car shed” belonged to none other than the very harpy, the very shrew who announced her intent to arrive at 6 AM on the dot. At that time, with the first rays of sun, she was to materialize in the flat. Boris felt hungry and mildly nauseous. Maybe it was the fear of the landlady, or perhaps an omen of the apocalypse. He felt confused. By the powers of the left wing, Boris K. was no coward!
He approached the old refrigerator, opened the handless door, and saw a drunken lady squeezed into a small glass cage. It was a bottle of vodka, the Russian standard with 40 percent of alcohol. The poster on the wall offered him support and encouragement, or at least so it appeared to Boris K. It seemed to be saying “Bottoms up, Boris! Long live the counterrevolution!”
“Alas… if only I could squeeze myself inside just like you,” Boris thought wistfully. He envisioned his landlady, the morning sun illuminating her like a halo, menacingly brandishing the electricity bill. He huddled against the wall, crying like a baby, his cheek resting against a poster. A thought pierced his aching head, which throbbed as if clenched within a hoop.  “But I don’t drink.”
“Now or never,” he spoke out loud. After the first sip, it occurred to him that he should attempt to seduce his aging landlady. He was determined to fight to the bitter end.
“This is how Alexander the Great charged against the Persians with his sword!” he thought, detaching his tear-stained cheek from the poster. “Is the casino Alexander still open?” he asked the wall hopefully, his face beaming.
Feverishly, he contemplated the way to get out of debts.  Even without a penny to his name, Boris K. decided to try his luck at the adjacent casino. He took a big gulp of vodka and stumbled. Toppling the chair, he knocked down the suit and the grey socks and grabbed for the closet. He let the bottle drop out of his hand after the second swig. Somewhere in the pile of jumbled clothing Boris spotted a formal suit à la Vienna. He looked at it from all sides. He looked both ways furtively, as if he were not alone in the room, so surprised he was at the appearance of a beautiful, shining suit in such a gloomy environment. He stroked the buttons gently with his fingertips. It was exactly what he needed. Boris K. looked up at the ceiling and muttered “Thanks!”
Delighted, he cast another glance toward the closet and noticed the secret barrier dividing it into two parts. He grabbed the handle and shook it tentatively, but it appeared to be locked. Boris K. stepped back and stood in the middle of the room. The bottle of vodka back in his hand, he raged at the locked compartment.
“You’re hiding some great treasure, I know it!” “
He heard something rattle in one of the suit pockets. His hands shook as he rifled through the pockets, but all he found there was some brass buttons.
“Pure gold,” he soothed himself.
Donning the suit, he decided to use the buttons as gambling tokens. Thrilled with his incredible discovery, Boris K. danced a few bars of the Viennese waltz in front of the cracked mirror, arranging his hair. Out of breath, he fell onto the sofa. He was transported back to the harsh reality by the picture of Fidel Castro winking – or so it seemed to Boris K – straight at him.
“Too much to drink,” Boris concluded. Pulling himself together he threw the cheap buttons into the corner of the room, took one glance at the electricity bill and burst into tears.
The old lady entered just as she promised – illuminated by the first rays of sun. On her dress, tailored back in the forties, she wore an embroidered swastika.
“The Brazilian tarantula. Such an elegant little animal,” she explained to the curious butcher’s wife in passing. She wore lace gloves, dirty fingernails showing through. Smoothing down her oily hair, she swiped a dainty finger over one of her eyebrows, tattooed according to the latest fashion. Following the unfortunately drawn arch, she cast an Ilse-Koch-like look to Boris K. A cynical smile spilled across her elderly, clenched lips.
“Cash on the table,” she pulled out a stopwatch from her undershirt, “in 60… 59… 58…” As she counted down, it appeared, the last seconds of Boris K’s short life, the age spots on her cheeks broke through the layers of golden foundation and bright lipstick on her cheekbones.
“Do sit down, old Fräulein,” stammered Boris K, pointing to the sofa as full of holes as a Swiss cheese and stinking of cigarettes. The old woman threw him a contemptuous look. Boris K. realized his mistake. “Meine Frau,.. I… I… Frau, bitte,” he stammered, hypnotized by the embroidered swastika flanked by a flashy heart-shaped medallion. Finally, he murmured “Just let me run to the casino. I forgot my wallet next to the roulette here.”
“The casino, you say?” The old woman swiped the corners of her widely open mouth using a forefinger and a thumb.
“I swear by… this poster on the wall, Fräulein Suzy!”
She studied him like one would an insect and, with a sudden twist, cast a look filled with loathing at the poster of Fidel Castro. Stalin was her true love, but it was a fact she carefully concealed.
“Too bad he is an infidel,” she said as the light pushed its way through the dirty windows, illuminating her head like a halo. Her voice rang with the austerity typical of elderly women of reckless youth, who remembered their days of decadence just a touch too wistfully. Once easy, now a puritan, she had changed the dirty skin of her body and threw it on the altar of martyrdom, akin to a snake.
Boris K. repented his actions. He felt like taking off his nonexistent à la Vienna hat.
The old woman turned, eyes bulging, and approached him at a menacing pace. With the stance of an SS officer, her long nose touching the chest Boris K, Frau sniffed him, noticed the empty a bottle of vodka and contemptuously waved her hand. Settling into the sofa, she closed her eyes in the manner of a yogi. It lasted a whole of fifteen minutes, with Boris K. perspiring, dabbing the sweat from his brow and occasionally massaging her feet, until she cried
“Genug! Stop!” Her wide open eyes startled Boris K and he immediately stood to attention. “At ease!” Boris K. threw the left shoe off his right foot, hips swaying. “I forgive you, just as my Fritz would have done,” she murmured wistfully, remembering her old love – a high ranking SS officer, carried off by the maelstrom of war. Boris K. burst into tears of happiness. “But, under ein condition! ,” she roared in a thunderous voice. Boris K. was all ears. “I will write off your debt if you can squeeze yourself into this bottle.” The Frau pointed at the vodka bottle. “Verständlich? Understand?” the implacable Frau screeched.
Boris K. glanced at the bottle, then at his soft, pink hand (he was an artist, and it is well known that they do absolutely nothing under the sun). He wanted to protest, to say that one could not treat the oppressed classes so. Squeezing people into bottles like that? Not even Mengele would have thought of that, he thought – but said nothing. Somehow he managed to bend his back; he crumpled, growing smaller, lowering his proud fists, his skillful fingers curled and his head hung low. Thus his entire body distorted.
Boris K. kept diminishing before the terrible powers of the frau, finally growing small enough to squeeze his tiny hand into the vodka bottle, followed by his shoulder, chest and spine – the latter proved easy enough to squeeze into the bottle – and finally his feet, which by that point had completely refused to obey him. Thus Boris K. successfully completed his task under the Frau’s contended smile. Only Boris’ two large, terrified eyes remained visible.
The giant frau stood up, took the vodka bottle and headed for the locked compartment – the strictly guarded secret of all secrets. For years she was suspected of hiding, if not jewelry, then at least Fritz’s letters there. She reached into her pocket for the gilded key and opened the plywood compartment. Frau looked with pride upon the arranged bottles of numerous manufacturers – English and French, but mostly German. One bottle contained Sir Gawain, her former tenant, the second Herr Hans, and the third, Jean-Paul. From the fourth, the Obergruppenführer Fritz (the former supreme commander of the Waffen-SS) smiled at his lover, the Frau, who blew him a tender kiss. Each of the bottles contained a tenant hopefully peering through the stained glass of his prison, every one of them grateful to his landlady for being so very generous as to write off his debt.


Imaginarium, Igor Morski 1960

dnevnik, proza

OGRLICA RAZDORA Ili kako sam dobila svoj prvi i jedini pijanino u životu (Dnevnici…)

Ili kako sam dobila svoj prvi i jedini pijanino u životu

Ruka i prsti formiraju kupolu. Neko vreme, pre toga, držala sam ruke na površini klavirskih dirki..
Opasnost vreba. Živim u pustoj dolini straha. Nema zagrljenih, okrvavljenih telesa, grad nije razoren, ljudi nisu preplašeni, naprotiv, dok se neka majka porađa tokom pada krstareće rakete na zgradu MUP – a u Beogradu, ovde postoji univezalni sklad, poput univerzalnog rama za prapočelo. Sve čestice na licima u skladu, razlivena u osmeh, ljudi ponovo međusobno razgovaraju. Bombardovanje je događaj decenije! Big party u malogradu! Svi su na ulicama, a ja sam zabila glavu u dirke i pitam te muziko: Zašto ne mogu, ja Salijeri, ispratiti tvoj milozvučni glas. Ti tečeš u meni u plavim valovima… Nanosim ti besmrtnu uvredu svojim pokušajem da te odsviram. Ja.. nedostojna..
„Ti možeš da poboljšaš tehniku, Leila.- Sve je stvar vežbe. Tek će biti svirke!“, tako je govorila profesorka klavira.
Začuo se zvuk nalik na zvižduk.
Bomba opremljena zviždaljkama. Ne pomeram se sa stolice ispred pijanina i nastavljam da sviram jer je već kasno. Bombe padaju brzo. Zvižduci su namerno priključeni na bombu, zarad oslabljivanja morala neprijatelja i poboljšanja strategije ronilačkog bombardovanja. Koju drugu svrhu mogu sirene imati?
Ako i nemaju pištaljke, uvek prave buku, makar zato što se vazduh pomera – prsti mi preleću po tastaturi. Bomba pogađa metu. Čuo se vrisak. Ili je to samo prsnulo staklo. Krv pada sa prstiju na dirke. Ne prekidam da sviram. Da.. bombe padaju brzo.
**** nastaviće se ****

dnevnik, proza

Leila Samarrai, Dnevnici 2004 – 2017, Uskršnja priča na horor način


Kažu čak i mudriji od Imhotepa da postoje oni u kojima prebivaju izvorni svodovi i drugi elementi, od prve samoće, kroz zlokobje vekova,  do mene sada, u snu, dok besnim, a velik je bes moj, zapečaćen u grlu. Lome me slogovi strave ispod valova pljuvačke dok povraćam u slomljenu wc šolju svoju mržnju kao besno pseto.

Još jedna noćna mora, odvratan čin koji me pustoši kroz vožnju noći. U njima sam rob, a utvare i projekcije, kreacije podsvesti upiru u mene zlokobno oko i čine bezakonja.

Okolo mene, noćas, bejaše  praznina. Ispred mene put koji je vodio tragom smrti.  Ispod kapaka se smrt komeša u snu, besciljno me vodeći do kraja puta gde je klanica, tuku se robovi, taj bezvremeni esnaf, svedoci bezakonja, večna publika, oni tapšu dvojici gospodara  I pevaju:

Kad ono tvoja oba sina uđoše

U nevestine odaje… 

Jedan od njih beše levijatan.

Drugi – Abraksas.

I obojica stadoše ispred mene,  ali ne stajaše na zemlji, no lebdeše. I oko njih beše beskrajan krajolik. I obojica mi ponudiše ruku, da im budem nevesta i da im služim.  I govoraše mi da moj odgovor čekaju sa velikim nestrpljenjem.

Tad iskeziše očnjake i lica im posiveše. Abraksas me ošinu bičem, a Levijatan sevnu k njemu očima i zgrabi me za ruku da me vodi.

„Kuda idemo“

„ Svetovima nedostupnim“

Na to shvatih da mi zubi drhte, a kosa mi je seda. A Levijatan mi reče: „Ja ne marim za to. Utrimo, draga, zajedno, putevima tame”

I vodio me drevnim gradovima i letesmo zajedno, a ja hvalih njegovu mladost, zaboravivši ko je, jer mi je učinio počast. I svratismo u vrt u drevni grad Herakleon, na dnu mora gde on poprimi svoje obličje kita.  Ali, ne beše mu telo izduženo, niti je imao peraja, niti čeljusti, no beše otečeno, nalik na leteći, toplovazdušni balon.

„Bezbedna sam na dnu mora. On ima očnjake stvorene za ubadanje. I imaše silnu vojsku. Oko njega su marširale do zuba kopljima i štitovima naoružane žabe, a morski pas mu je lizao ruku u znak poštovanja, ljuspičav i jednook.  Tad Levijatanu naraste nos, usta mu se raširiše, a očnjaci probiše zenice. On isplazi jezik, po kojem su plesale pirane, krv šiknu dok je jezik nestajao, a nokti su mu rasli, post mortem, jer moj suprug beše umro na zlatnome tronu, u zlatnoj palati, na dnu mora.

„Mi smo ga ubile“ – ščepaše me nečije ruke. Osetih snažan bol. Bejah probodena oštrim, dugim bodljama morskih zvezda, kruna od trnja.

Tad kroz vodu zapliva Abraksas bičujući nevinog čoveka kome se na glavu sjatiše sve morske zvezde potopljenog Herakleona,  načinivši mu krunu od trnja. Ukočih se, spopadoše me grčevi, osetih sev i palež i celo telo mi prekriše pečati.

I iz svakog pečata zašiklja krv kao gejzir dok se Bičevani smešio, a morska čudovišta mu glodala glavu.

„Hristos se rodi, ‘ćero“, zaurla Čovek koga je Abraksas bičevao, dok su mu iz tela izrastala krila, na leđima i na rukama i krila behu prepuna očiju, nalik na Arga. Tad mu se i lice raščetvori ion mirno reče: „Ubij se. Pucaj sebi u glavu ili preseci vene. Nemaš zašta da živiš. Kasno je“, a ja odleteh iz dubina ka još nedostupnijim svetovima grozne crne beskonačnosti, prešavši okeane, pustinje, drevne gradove, zvezde, staru Zemlju, Veliku Pustinju po kojoj behu razbacana i raskomadana tela nomadskih plemena. Vodila sam drevne ratove,  na azijskim i afričkim granicama, sve do Kine, kao ratnik za dinastiju Tang i spoznah kako je biti muškarac. Nije mi se svidelo. U Indiji svedočih padu Gupta carstva, a dođoh i do Japana gde sam neko vreme u periodu Kamakura živeo  i radio (opet) u miru,  kao proslavljeni briljantni student keramičke tehnike, a zvao sam se Kato Shirozaemon Kagemasa (takođe poznat kao Toshiro)

Plutala sam haosom ne duže, činilo se od jedne sekunde, kad sam se, napokon, obrela, kao devetogodišnja devojčica u svojoj staroj porodičnoj kući, u Dragoljuba Milovanovića Bene – 58, u Kragujevcu, gde me je, blaženog osmeha, čekala mila baka.

„Kurvo mala! – iz usta joj je bazdilo na džibru, brutalnog sastava. Rakijčina od koje svaka ispičutura koja drži do sebe načisto pobrljavi.

„Hristos se rodi, bako!“

„Hristos! – preteći se približavala u slow motion maniru, gotovo dosadno usporenih pokreta, ne kršeči Njutnov zakon, jer kao i Godzila, moja baka beše pozamašna…

Ugledah vlastitu smrt, dok su me oko grla stezale  ogromne, mesnate ruke i ja ne mogoh da se oduprem njenoj strašnoj moći dok je vrištala:
„Gde je bio Hristos kad se šaputalo o izdaji i zloći! Muškarci, muškarci! Kolju ženu i čereče! I stoka se bolje tretira pre klanja! Mnnnnnmmnn…  Uzgajaju ženu da pere sudove i raširi noge za seks! Kurci im k’o noževi, zabada dok se ne istroši! Prljave prljave… Svinja je to! A i on, Milisav, bio je svinja, jedna svinja na ženu (mene!) još prošlog proleća, kad me je pokupio na dogovorenom mestu tamo ispod prodavnice.. mnnnnnmmmnn….  Gadilo mi se! Jeste, jeste! Ali, šta sam mogla, kada moram moram! Teraju ženu na to! Na gadni seks! Odkada se rodi!“

Sledeći kadar bio je statičan. San se opredelio za tehniku produženog kadra da bi moja baka mogla da recituje kao Pindar, dok su joj zubi strugali moje ručne zglobove još uvek natopljene krvlju od prethodne stigmate.  Umrtvljena scena. Umirem u teskobi, dok me pluća peku. Utapam se u ponoru smrti koja ne prestaje.

„Ubij me više“

„Ne mogu, ne mogu, nemam kad, moram da slikam! A ne mogu da slikam! Čeka me gomila sudova da ih operem!“

„Da ih opere! – nasmeja se neko – baba pusti malu, zvaću KONTRAPOLICIJU!“

„Gde je Zeleni venac?“

Ulice udaraju o ulice, o zidove koji traže nove zidove. Vijugam lavirintom. Nalazim se u Beogradu i polako idem ulicom, sudarajući se sa bolničarima koji istrčavaju iz zapaljene bolničke zgrade:

„Ameri“ – nakezio se prolaznik.

„Ma kakvi Ameri, reci mi kako da nađem Zeleni Venac!“

„Ne deri se na mene – oči su krvavo blistaju na nejasnom liku – rekao sam ti, zvaću KONTRAPOLICIJU!“

U tom trenu, Beograd i Kragujevac su se stopili u jedno.

Dah više ne stiže do pluća.

„Mislila sam da me je voleo..  Za čerečenje, da!“, stisak biva jači.


Osetih drhtaj ispod grudnog koša dok sam se borila da udahnem vazduh. Usne poseduju hitnost dok izgovaraju poslednje reči…

„Ne ne ne ne! Niko mene neće silovati!“

Budim se.

„Ne zanosi se. Nisi mrdnula iz Kragujevca. Još uvek ležiš tu.. sa nama… „, ispred sebe vidim raskomadano lice Kontrapolicajca stradalog na poslu, moje bake u strastvenom zagrljaju sa Milisavom, i silan narod iđaše iza njih, i Pikti, i saraceni, Sirijci, Babilonci i Lidijci i svako od njih nosaše na ramenima svog kralja, a najjači od svih beše zlatni Levijatan, u originalnom obličju kita, mašući sretno perajama kad me vide, dok njegove reči: „Vaistinu se rodih, draga“, nije ispratio moj vatreni urlik…


Don’t miss my poem published by The Woman Inc. magazine!



A compelling rape poem from Serbia.


So I mature like a corpse flower
My pulchritudinous petals reach up for light
And they come to me like flies to rotting meat.

This is the world of lies
Of thirsty angels who die
While still appearing angelic
They’ve lost their shine

Have you ever been raped?
You should join me like a vampire
You’ll be bitten for a limitless life
For a never ending night of screeching sodomy…


Read more: https://thewomaninc.com/2017/03/31/rape-poem/



dramma, horror, mathilde, matilde, prose, proza

From the Quill of Chaplain Larsen, Sleeping Mathilde, excerpt from the novel by Leila Samarrai

From the Quill of Chaplain Larsen, Sleeping Mathilde, excerpt from the novel by Leila Samarrai


Mathilde confided in me often (which I hid from Amerongen like a Jew hides his gold) while alone or while we walked together along the garden tile path

‘Why are you so unhappy, mistress Mathilde? The master is trying…’, I coughed, ‘He seems to indulge you in everything, and yet…’
‘And yet…’
‘Confide in me, oh Mistress.’
‘There is no need for formalities, Larsen.’
‘Okay’, I nodded. ‘Do you suffer too much?’
‘It upsets me, it gets on my nerves.’
‘Break the silence and open your heart to me’, I said, fatherly.
‘This morning I recollected the life in Denmark… And my mother. Make a note, Larsen, and let the world see it! If the prison door ever open up for me and Hässe burns to the ground, I swear that…for something like that, I will rise from my grave!’
‘I will make a note, but I do not know what happened… Tell me the tale> is it the truth that Johana the Monster, as the locals called your mother…’
‘And the noblemen,’ the Mathilde declared fiercely.
‘…Yes…patience for the old man, young lady.’
Mathilde shot a smile back to him.
‘…she lived, as they say, in utter poverty?’
‘No,’ she stated simply.
‘Amerongen…’, I turned around and saw him fumbling around the stables – he was etching something into the ground with his knife and chanted… The guards were lazing around in front of the castle. A portion of the army, being bored on the roof of the castle and leaning onto the towers, under the Hässe sun, was taking a nap.
‘You could run away right now. I am reading your mind.’
‘And where would I go?’ I felt rage engulf her, a cold, suppressed rage, thus I fell silent in discomfort and decided to return to the topic at hand.
‘You know I always treated you like you were my own daughter.’
‘You are my solace in this home of the mad’, she responded gently, moving to caress me on the cheek but stopping midway through.
We entered the great Hall and sat on a bench one next to the other, tracked by the vile gaze of Orian von Amerongen.
‘Dearest Mathilde, the introduction is the most problematic to me. I can never seem to pin it down…Your words are sung with a lion’s strength, but I cannot discern whether you’ve written a novel of your mother and your real father,’ I started while looking at the scroll, ‘a made up story, or are these facts?’
She smiled somewhat tensely.
‘Tell me how you married Amerongen’, I prepped my quill and a parchment under my cassock.
Mathilde tensed up her body. Her countenance became brutally firm.
‘It was in Denmark. On that day, and what a dim day it was, Father, the Regenstein door opened with a bang. Seeing Amerongen, I thought the entire castle shivered and squealed, as if dying from a horrible disease.
‘The castle was founded in the second half of the ninth century on a steep cliff, from which I felt like ending my life in the endless abyss numerous times. It was a dark, aristocratic dwelling. Since I was a tyke I likened it to a monster. Toothy towers reminiscent of fangs, and dark windowpanes reminding of the eyes of Erebus.[1] Regenstein had spread venom around itself since those days.
‘Amerongen got his eye on me, tall and threatening. I stood in the middle of the hallway frozen by his gaze. I pressed the parchments I was carrying to the library against my chest. He looked at me like a bloodthirsty animal. He looked like a rustler.
‘ ‘Is this ever a beauty!’, he shouted and touched Johanna’s heart to tears, while joy glistened in Otto’s wrinkly eyes.
He suddenly averted his eyes, and his face calmed, as if the monstrous strength waned in him.
‘ ‘In the name of Yambe-Akka’, he yelled. ‘Did someone die in here? Give ale to horses first, then the serfs!’
‘ ‘Mathilde, you should be honored that this charming nobleman chose you for his bride’, the moment she said this the parchments dropped from my hands, and Amerongen looked at me curiously. I replied with a smile which surprised him and he told me: ‘Do you perchance like me? Truly it cannot be so!’, he pouted like a child and winked at me, which made me feel sick to my stomach. I assume he just wanted to make me feel better.’
[1] Greek god of eternal darkness.