dramma, horror, proza, roman, samarrai

BERNARD’S HOURS, The story of a schismatic misanthrope, Leila Samarrai, Part Two, Skin – Walker (excerpt from the novel)

PART ONE https://leilasamarrai.wordpress.com/2015/03/06/bernards-hours-the-story-of-a-schismatic-misanthrope-leila-samarrai/

‘A smuggler, and yet so knowledgeable of Mozart?’, she giggled.

I took one good look at her again… She took one of me as well, giggling, but confused now. Behind the deep confusion I detected that along her face, like a bugger in the night or a snake dragging her belly across the red-hot rocks, slithered and crept a shadow of disgust.

Am I so vile, so unbearable to everyone?

True, I hold nothing against whores. If I did, it would mean that I maintain a rage against civilization as a whole within me. Ever since culture existed, whores existed. And every single society has its whores. If it did not, it lacked culture. Does the word “cultus” nor remind one of coitus? Who am I to moralize or change anything? Who cares for the virgin Ishtar under the fertile crescent moon of Mesopotamia who goluptiously sucked Marduk’s dick in the hot Arabian nights? And thus it went by in history… an endless vastness of whoring – and the Japanese kind is somewhat dearest to me – I was unaware that I was saying all of this out loud.

And everything else, reduced to the point of being invisible. A fount of artistic fire, a poetic flame, a superspiritual beauty, no!

‘For you, madam, I have a book… A whore through the centuries. It might be of interest to you.’


excerpt from the novel



literarni dnevnici, proza


Uskoro će sve biti gotovo. Prokletnici, obrtna optika ludila u mojoj glavi ubrzava. Više nisam žena, nego sam makroskopska čestica. Čigra. Zovite me Čigra. učiniću to tako naglo, tako grozničavo, a opet mirno, ruka mi se neće zatresti. Blago ću se saviti napred, noge u širini ramena, da.. Smiri telo. Naciljaj pažljivo. Povuci obarač. Udahni duboko. Naciljaj, povuci, smiri… Smiri…

mathilde, prose, proza



From the quill of Mathilde von Regenstein

I, Mathilde von Regenstein, learned how to paint the cloud beyond the wild, distant mountain when I was fairly young, which brought upon me the wrath of my mother Johanna in my early years.

When I was seven, the Regenstein castle was the diamond of Denmark, much like an ornament on my mother’s dress. The ceilings were opulently adorned with paintings and stone arches. Walls were gilded with golden animal hides.

Johanna’s chamber was on the first floor of the northern wing. There was a blossoming fireplace in the corner of the solar, where an untamed fire shone bright white day and night.

My solar had a narrow window, located above the castle gates, where I kept my eye on the guests who would come to the castle balls in Regenstein in processions… At night they would dance on the floor of the proud hall, feet barely touching the Grand hall’s floor adorned with Swedish marble. The Grand doors were leading to Johanna’s private quarters.

I would secretly observe in admiration the airborne dance of the guests. Men and women would dance, holding hands, forming a ring. As more people joined the ring, it would start to bend forming a circle within a circle, and so forth, until the ring would evolve into a chain. Men would then do the Pauper’s game, and the ladies would do the Happy dance. ”My ladies, hold hands”, my queen-mother would say. The nereids would dance, and the men, gods of evening stars would look at them amazed.

“Apollo, Apollo and Daphne!” I would let out a childish squeal. Undone blonde locks would slice through the air as I would, cumbersomely, in my nightgown, run to my mother with my arms outstretched. Those glamorous evenings, the royal evening stars would give themselves up to the music and the joy, but looking at me, the musicians would stop playing. The hall would overflowed with silence with cries of admiration sprinkled here and there.

“She’s so beautiful…” someone would say.

“Spitting image of you…twenty years younger, of course”, mother’s red-haired, blue-haired or black-haired god would laugh. When she looked at me, a shadow would hover over my mother’s face. She would go stiff on the spot. Her eyes would be brimming with rage. The gaze of limber dancers, stopped in their tracks, would rest upon her.

I would look at her face made ugly with hate. The nymphs would surround me, touch my curls, bathed in warmness, gentleness. Their arms would caress me, as my mother looked at me with clenched teeth and eyes wide agape.

She would then grab my hair, to which I would howl in pain, followed by a murmur of disapproval coming from the spectators, and she would drag me back in the solar. In its furthermost corner was the chair I despised most in the whole castle: the torture chair. Square-like, looking a bit like a throne, it had arms adorned with spheres and gothic arches, similar to those towering over the cathedral columns, above the armrest.

Straddling me, she would shove my head under the seat and slowly started choking me. With filthy, vile words, directed at the male sex, she would whip me senseless, and when she was especially in the mood, she would beat me with a fire poker decorated with a snake tail, over and over until I would lose consciousness.

The dance would then proceed, but the Apollos would never have returned after that. This is why, one day, mother had forever closed the gates of the home of Regenstein, avoiding guests, using as an excuse either a storm, icy roads or whatever unknown disease would assail her at that moment. Time went by slowly and painfully after that. Some said that Johanna Regenstein had gone insane, after which her lovers left her. I cannot be sure of this, but I did know that I was – in some fashion – the cause of my queen-mother’s suffering.


Regenstein Castle Wikipedia

Since then, her beauty was bathed in naught but darkness. She was metamorphosing. Rotting from within. And I welcomed my father, Otto, every night in painful expectancy. After a flurry of angry voices and par for the course arguing in the chilling home, after the insults like “Whore!” or mother’s “Cur!” the spine-chilling Satyr-like silhouette of my father would hover over my bed.

“Do you love daddy, Mathilde?”, his gaze would move with lust along my body. He would put his hands on my breasts and mumble incoherently. He would reek of mead.

“Which one?”, I asked only once and got slapped.

“Calm down, damn it, I’ll get you some wine!”, he would disrobe and, sliding into my bed, pinned me down with his body, ramming his claws into my upper lip. His other hand would clench my throat. Then he would say in a touchingly pitiful manner:

“You are so beautiful…, beautiful, beautiful Mathilde…beautiful…”, he would repeat this, dully, confusedly. His body would bulge out, his eyesight cloud… I would feel savage pain and pass out.

He would not leave my chamber until morning. Upon dawn, he would pull the curtains down, poured more wine from the goblet and calmly observe me. Then my face would twist to show careless, fatherless desire.

“Now lie on your belly”, he would say.

I would lie a few days in my room after that, beaten and hungry, in a pool of blood, as a vulture flew over my body. But it wasn’t alone in this. Mother would be with him, like a surreal nightmare from which, I thought then, I would never awaken.

Between a creepy dream and a far more terrifying reality, the doors would open and shut with a loud bang. Thick snowflakes would shiver behind the stained glass window.

“Did she learn her lesson? Did you beat her?”

“It’s going slowly…She’s a wildling. But she’ll learn…”

“All she needs is the firm hand of the father”, in the dreaded silence I could make out my mother saying.

He would have me on both days and nights after that, hypocritically, silently. The furies were being born within me during that period, coming to life parallel to my famished, child body which could not defend itself. The father would intrude into me, he would be the intruder inside of my body.

After he were done with me, I would open my eyes in the darkness. At dawn, I would carefully unhinge my swollen eyelids towards the light. I would then fall back to sleep anew…

After a few weeks, the advances would stop. Still, I would feel someone’s presence in the room. Like a hum… I would try to get up, but was held down by someone’s gentle hands. They were small, thin… The terror of putting up with it would pervade me with ice-cold sweat and I would start shivering under feminine fingers. I would lean against my wounded elbows. Otto Regenstein had been savagely beating and raping me… for how long? How long? Too long… And the mother? – I would feverishly ponder – was she pimping me out?

“Easy, mistress Mathilde”, a voice akin to mine would utter… “”Who is this?”, I would ask every time.

“I will be near”, she would say. “Now eat!” The girl’s presence was strong. The speck of her mercy would bring me back among the living. She would tend to my wounds, but not only that. She would heal my sense of loss. Reality of her presence and friendship was mesmerizing, like  a dream. She would gently assist me with going through the first, worst day of the Metamorphosis…

She was not a day older than ten.

And as soon as I would think of Johanna, suppressing the memory of the glow of my home for the sake of remembering the terror I went through, I would smile at the little girl, forever fusing with the mask – consciously yearning that she never left me.

“What is your name?”

“Agnes”, her gaze remained lowered. Her movements were soft, but focused.


Wicked shadows would hover over the door, conjoined in one – a grotesque one – Otto and Johanna. It was a dreadful sight, a grayness outside of a realm found anew…

Johanna, because I could no longer have brought myself to call her mother, would enter my room, sit on a chair, poured herself some mead and growled:

“I heard your shrieks and squeals. You’ve learned your lesson. All will be well now. I’ve even bought you a personal serf, missy ” – she would pause – “for real cheap.”

But I could think of nothing else, other than Agnes.

As I grew, my desires were parted by contradictions, making any attempt of deeper deliberation pointless. They’d stand for a talkative audience for a premature intellectual maturity, they would pound into me and disappear in my spirit.

The prohibitions and permissions I despised with a passion. I’d grown into a young woman of exceptional beauty, the Danish Daughters of magic would say, and the news would spread far away across and over the distant mountains. My thoughts were always…scattered. I possessed the virtues of a true, yet inexperienced noblewoman, who can keep her secret for the sake of cuteness. My wit was fiery, demanding, one of those wits aflame which people tend to abuse.

The everyday rut was akin the polished glass I would use to look at myself, being bored and daydreaming of the blinding sun, of the announcements of future delights ,of the wonderful night which would shine over me under the stars. I would daydream, nude, for hours with my elbows leaned on the windowsill of the solar window, as my golden hair lay on my back, covering my milky white sides.

In the filth of boredom and mother’s hatred, I would sketch complex objects, with an inkpot and a gelded enameled quill. There were also the canvas, the parchment, the brush and some linen oil in a dish. The lonely days seemed like a vortex sucking up the excitement… Unless Agnes was around.

In one of those days one would call fateful, I noticed that Otto was again looking lustfully at me and that his face was changing. I had turned fourteen.

Having caught his stare and sensing horrid intent, I would closed myself up in the solar for days, where I put scrolls together, surrounding myself in books I loved: among others there were Terrence’s Eunuchus, Sappho’s Hymn to Aphrodite, an Egyptian artefact, the Tyrin Erotic Papyrus dubbed “a magazine for men” of its time, painted in the period of pharaoh Rameses, Euripides’ Medea, De Nuptiis or De Septem Disciplinis of Martianus Capella, the Pythagorean scrolls of knighthood…

I have during the years covered the walls with murals of goddesses Nephthys and Isis in alluring poses, as well as murals of scenes of celebrated antic warrior women such as Boadicea, the queen of the Iceni tribe in battle armor, the lethal heroine Atalanta who denied suitors and the unavoidable twin-sister of Apollo, Artemis.

All nude.

That dark morning, Otto broke into my room, paying no attention to the nude nymphs, for I was more than a suitable substitute for them. I stood before him, in the nude. Waiting for that moment… Too long.

He enjoyed the view so much. He was breathing heavily as he was licking his lips. Greed clouded his eyes.

“The guards are right to look upon your naked body with lust from their watchtowers. You tempt them. You are known for your nudity.”

Johanna chased the guards away ten years ago. Regenstein was deteriorating with her. The castle was her spitting image.

As he was approaching me, undoing the waistband of the pitched tent that were his trousers, he kept saying how pleased he was that I would be back in his embrace:

“Now you’ll be more ready than ever before. At this point you might even like it…” he yammered on. Drool slid down his face.

At that moment, the solar  door boomed open and Johanna, akin to an Erinys – puff-faced and decrepit, but powerful and clad in black,  speared towards Otto, holding a sizable, silver pot. She thwacked him on the head with all her might. She was drunk: “You are no Surtr! She is mine! I am Surtr!” she screamed, she pulled his hair and trod on him, as Otto tried helplessly to defend himself. “You raped her! I told you to only beat her! I cut my own brother’s mouth! Two I’ve killed after they’d merely touched me!”

Her hatred towards me was no less passionate.

“Whore! I know you enjoyed it!”, she stopped for a moment and took a good look at my body. “The fire poker! Where is my poker?!”

She ran out of the room with gigantic steps. The floorboards shook under these massive steps of hers.

Agnes ran into the room with lightning speed. I stood before her completely nude. She paid no heed.

“Mathilde…Johanna will kill you!”

I smiled and casually sat in my recliner, looking at the low light of the fire in the fireplace.

“Do you like my body?”, I calmly asked her.


She shook her head in disbelief:

“Do you want to lock the door?”, her gaze circled the room.

“Is it possible that a lamb is looking for a hefty object so as to defend the lioness?”, I smiled.

Johanna ran into the room with a terrifying shriek and the moment before she lunged herself at me with all of her tubby body’s weight, my gaze pierced her puffy eyes.

“Apollo, my real father wrote to me, dear mum”, I caressed the scroll lying on my desk next to the fireplace, trying to inject as much venom as I could into that “mum” I’ve uttered.

She paused, mouth agape, arms flying upward.

“Apollo? My Apollo?”

“Here – Apollo writes…”, I tried to overcome the deep feeling of contempt.

Dumbfounded, her countenance suddenly blissful, Johanna stroked her hair and said to Agnes:

“Take the poker away!”, she sat across to where I was, in a different recliner, lovingly looking at the letter…

“I knew he did not forget me!”

“He says: Johanna, you are my Leucothea!”, I became more grave, while tears sparkled in Johanna’s eyes.

“What Lack-a-thea? Who is she?”

“The wife of the Boeotian king!”

“Well of course I am!”

“Leucothea, before you the Great mother can bow her head and shiver in shame”, I’d read, no bitterness in my voice…

“And the ball? What did he say of the ball? And the starry night?!”, Johanna went for the flagon of mead, poured herself a cup-full and said: “I have to move on to tea. Your father loved Tibetan tea. He told me we could go there together and…read!”, she mumbled.

“Oh, he mentioned this as well”, I felt my words feed and calm her animalistic force. “He then says…Leucothea, forgive me for writing only after ten years, I had been held up with unusual circumstances, waggeries  of the soul and a sickly indecisiveness.”

“Waggeries of the soul?”, Johanna giggled as mead trickled down her chin. “The imp! He has not changed one bit!”

“When I saw Mathilde …”, this is where I paused, holding up a smile of sweet vengeance inside, “it was as if I had seen her once before or was it perhaps the sun in your eyes. She was the mirror image of you. I then recognized her as my daughter!”, and I added, reading off of the scroll which I had been drawing up the entire afternoon. “I know I’ve failed your heard when I rode off into the starry night, with the caravans via the Tea road, all the way to the Sichuan and Yunnan mountains in the southwest of China”, I glanced upward. “That is the southern Silk road.”

“Forget the silk…What does he say…did he fail his heart?”

“He says…I have done a dreadful thing which I regret. Is that not the only thing that’s certain at the end of the road? Regret?”

“Okay…okay…Now I feel better”, Johanna drunk another chalice-full, and then gave me a suspicious look. “Are you not making up fancies, child? Give me the parchment…” I decisively extended my hand, but she moved hers away. “Okay…okay…I can’t read the handwriting anyway. What else does he say?”

The story went on deep into the night.

literarni dnevnici, proza

Mali nestašluci ili Autor je Bog u svojem delu, literarni dnevnici Leile Samarrai, autor Zenobia Okazaman

Sudnica je podsećala na crkvu. Bakropis, kao u pećini, oslikavao je zidove. Tavanica je, bogzna zašto, bila načičkana bokalima, a pod sudnice je bio presvučen mozaikom sačinjenim od lavirinta nesagledivih znakova. Bio je to, kako će Sudija ponosno reći, Novi Kafkijanski zakonik, model 2100 po kome će se izrecivati i pravda i krivda. „Simbole sam svojeručno urezivao hititskim mačem“, reče sudija Kafla odeven u kostim anatolijskog ratnika. Nosio je šlem ispod koga su izvirivale dve veštačke pletenice. „ Gđa Zapisničar mi je pomogla oko.. kako se kaže na engleskom…“
„Der Perücke heil“, dobaci Pripravnica šetajući se po Sali, noseći hiruršku masku. Išla je od porotnika do porotnika, postavljajući isto pitanje: „Jesam li lepa?“, škljocajući makazama.
„Kuchisake – onna, nemoj sad!“, začu se glatki ženski glas, obojen u mračne tonove, odišući ekskluzivnošću. Kao stvoren za oponašanje kiselog humora i kvirki karaktera., „Tek što sam došla od frizera. Ovde vlada haos. Stari porotnici su otišli, a ja, drugookrivljena, miss Nee, moram da sedim ovde, obučena u merino. Teraju me da se predstavljam kao boginja ovaca Duturi, zaštitnica stada u Sumera, dok Narandžuša ne završi sa svedočenjem, nakon čega će biti osuđena prema kafkijanskom zakoniku. Dadoše mi da čuvam i ovu dugodlaku angorsku kozu.“
„Zašto to meni govoriš? Pa ja sam te smestila ovde da sediš..“, zbuni se Kučisake – Pripravnica.
„Uh, jel tebi nešto čudno? Meni se sasvim dopadao moj prethodni autfit.“
„Čudno mi je.. , preznojavala se miss Nee… „Imam neke vizije.. imam…“
Kuchisake pada na pod. Koza crkava. Kafka shvata kako se obukao i od stida pobeže u ćoše sudnice uz urlik: „Ne, oče, ne!“
I podigoše se ostalih 12, što porotnika, što osuđeni, što okrivljeni (jedino je Džezebel sedela, raskrečenih nogu i mrko fiksirala Fuselijevu sliku „Noćna mora“, koja je prikazivala usnulu debelu ženu s inkubusom koji joj čuči na grudima.)
Sudnica se ispuni jarkobelim svetlom.
„Što mene ovaj gleda?“, upita Džezebel koja se treznila, već treći sat. U njoj nešto eksplodira, nakon branjenja tišinom, zaurla, baci se na uljano platno i raskida ga zubima. Potom metodično izreza inkubusa nožem skakavcem koji je držala u čizmi kaubojki.
„Nećeš ti više mene gledati“, to reče i vrati se na svoje mesto. Lice joj obli rumenilo dok je gunđala: „Zaslepljenost, opsena, erotska želja, opsesija“
12. porotnik Inkubus joj priđe i opali joj šamar. Potom se vrati do Kapije zakona, male letve ispred samih vrata Sudnice koja ja podsećala na otirač i na kojoj beše uklesam broj 7. „Gospodine, Rabisu, ne možete napuštati Sudnicu!“, Pripravnica se odvoji od Miss Nee koja je u transu mrmljala, bačena u halucinatornu epizodu:
„O zamislite, zamislite samo da vam autorka Leila preti revolverom, da opali.. Zamislite da ste pogođeni u glavu, pravo u oči, ni manje ni više, i ne samo da preživeli ste, već ste nastavili sa životom, noseći ožiljak u duši za naredne tri decenije. Dali su mi pogrešan kostim. Dajte mi onaj koji moju stvarnost oslikava. Jenki pantalone boje olujnog neba sa limenom dugmadi, dajte! Pruge niz nogu, ja sam boginja zebri, ne ovaca, dajte! Vlajko, moj frizer mi stilizuje i seče kosu godinama unazad. On je super super super i samo on.. on zna šta će na meni izgledati dobro. Kad on mene ozebri, učiroki ili omeriniše, komplimenti šljašte. Sad sam ponovo Zebra.. Gde je Koničiva Onna! Šta je sa ovim čudnim ljudima?“, zagleda se Miss Nee u porotnike, okrivljene i svedoke.
Miss Nee najpre čoveka u crnom koji se raspravlja sa zapisničarkom. „Rabisu!“, prepoznade ga i Miss Nee. Raširi ruke, a mantil mu zaleprša. Miss Nee spazi kandže. Tad i on spazi nju i uputi joj podsmešljiv pogled dok je klizio kroz zid, praćen vriskom Zapisničarke koja pade na kolena zabadajući snažno makazama u pod urlajući: „Nisam mu lepa, nisam nisam, a nisam ga napola razrezala, ko je on ko je ko je!“
Svakoga je u Sudnici skolio problem. Izuzev 11.porotnika Barnuma, Kralja Cirkusa. Bio je okružen neobičnom svitom dobro dresiranih jednonogih svinja. On pogleda u Miss Nee. Usta mu je krasio ožiljak od uveta do uveta, sa koga je kapala krv i kvasila mu leptir mašnu bele boje. Očigledno je udelio kompliment Pripravnici.
„Ne shvatite me pogrešno. Ja nisam čudovište. Moje srce je sa svinjama. Vidi kako se trude“
„Odsećiću ti brk, ja Šulinkate! Mačem i bodežom nađenim u grobu!“, Miss Nee nije prepoznala debelu brkatu ženu po imenu Meri En Koton, ozloglašenu viktorijansku trovačicu dece koja je u jednoj ruci držala srebrni mač, a u drugoj glave 10, 9tog i osmog porotnika…
„Trujem, a ne želim to!- baci pogled na jednu od glava – Ja jesam bila čedomorka, ali istorije mi, makar sam to činila sa stilom. Zengua je žvakala sinovljevo rame u nastupu kanibalizma dok.. „Zadobio sam teške modrice i krvarenja“, progovori ženina glava, imitirajući sinovljev glas.
Miss Nee vrisnu i pokuša da se izvuče iz porotničke lože, sa sve crknutom kozom, kad shvati da neko odnekud ili nešto baca ka njoj kožne kaiševe izrađene po najnovijoj, fensi modi (baš one koje je volela da kupi nakon frizeraja i njima se diči) i da joj se jedan po jedan obmotavaju oko nogu, ruku, vrata, neki od njiih su se smanjili u toj meri da su joj obmotali prste, stezali ih, preteći da ih slome.
Bio joj je potreban samo tren da shvati da joj je Zapisničarka, baš kao u filmu Ichy The Killer, odsekla deo jezika i ponudila.. NJOJ! Kao pokoru.
„Izvol’te autorka. Jesam li lepa?“
Mis Nee nije vrištala uhvaćena u Rabisuovoj verziji natrprirodnog. Krv joj je šikljala iz usta, ali ona je mislila samo na Džef Dejvis šešir. I na još nešto.. Ah – ha!
„Pa ovo.. sve ONA radi… Bogca mu. K’o Keri… Vatra u slovima! I nešto se neobično dešava s mojim mozgom. Ja.. razmišljam! Koristim i simboliku! “
Dok je Miss Nee razmišljala, nekoliko moždanih oblasti udružiše svoje kapacitete, a ne samo četvrtina kao do sada i ona shvati da je postala pametna. Kafkijanska slova uklesana u mozaiku su bubrela, a njene oči se zamutiše od suza, dok joj se istovremeno podizala kosa na glavi. To je autorka, sasvim mirno, opipavajući pogledom groteskne predmete oko sebe, nešto dopisavala, pa brisala, te bi joj oko uhvatilo kakav neučtiv predmet, a onda bi ona nešto dopisala i predmet bi se našao na nečijoj glavi i to je verovatno radila satima, neumorno, brižljivo dopisujući, potom se zagledavši u misterije natprirodnog koje je verovatno sanjala jer su joj kapci bili sve vreme spušteni.
Najednom se autorka okrete ka Miss Nee i pogleda je. Sjaj u njenom oku vratio je sve neurone tamo gde (i koliko) im je bilo mesto na rođenju Miss Nee i Miss Nee opet oglupavi sasvim. Tad začu neko komešanje i prigušeni smeh. Poslednje što je shvatila jeste da je autorka promenila dizajn prostorije, porotnike dovela u red, restaurirala je sliku na zidu dok ju je Dzezebel s mržnjom posmatrala i mnogo toga još. Zamisli se malo, gricnu olovku, a onda naglas reče: „Da se Miss Nee vrati mogućnost vrištanja“
I još nešto dopisa. Miss Nee shvati da joj je autorka podarila revolver i to baš magnum koji je toliko volela, s porukom u kutijici, svezanoj mašnicom. Miss Nee pažljivo otpakova demonski poklon i izvadi ceduljče na kojem je pisalo: „Na sebi ga možeš upotrebiti bilo kad.“ I za kraj, uz đavolski osmejak, zapiše još nešto, a kako bi joj olovka krenula ka hartiji, tako bi miss Nee podišli srsi. Tad Autorka udesi da bokal vode sruči s plafona na glavu Miss Nee Od Alpake…
Kafka je gladio čas belu kragnu od najfinije čipke, čas nauljenu crnu kosu. Uši su mu strčale, a licem mu se razlivao bolni grč.
Porotnici su nosili svečana i ceremonijalna odela. Čista odeća sve čini čistim. Muškarci su nosili crne mantile sa svilenim reverima i leptir mašnom. Žene su pratile viktorijansku modu. Tu i tamo autorka bi nekom odsekla nos ili usta, ali na kraju beše zadovoljna ozbiljnošću dizajna kako sudnice, tako i prisutnih i odloži zlokobnu svesku, još jednom pogledavši miss Nee ispod oka.
Jedino je Džezebel nosila turske pantalone, ispunjene konjskom dlakom, čvrsti dublet i pletene čarape, kao i visoke čizme od teleže kože.
„Vidim ja sve šta ti radiš ovim jadnicima. Ali, ne mogu tvoje karakondžule biti strašnije od Killers klubova, centralnih booze destinacija, u srcu Harlema što kao svici svetle u opasnim njujorškim noćima“, rečit beše njen prezriv pogled, jer se branila ćutnjom.
„Khm.. – nakašlja se Kafka – Slučaj Narandžuša… gde je ona?
„Kasni, Sudija, ali mi je javila, evo sad će, samo što nije“, dobaci portir iz ćoška.
„Vama? – ukoči se Kafka – imate neke veze sa optuženom?“
„Nisam samo ja, gosn’ Sudija. Ja joj samo uplaćujem post net, jer ima fizički problem. Neki put joj vaše bivše kolege uplaćivale, a i čistačica. Ima i novinara, ako želite, kaže, poslovaćemo, Sudija, poslovaćemo..“
Kafka prezrivo odmahnu rukom:
„Sudiće joj se po vertikalnoj logici Kafkijanskog zakonika, što znači da.. Vi znate da čitate slova uspravno i povezujete, rekli ste..“, nesigurno će Kafka upućujući preplašene poglede Pripravnici.
Ali, nije bilo potrebe za logikom jer na Kapiji zakona je stajala Narandžuša, poduprta čvrstom, nabildovanom rukom Borisa K. koji joj je nešto šaputao u uho i osmehivao joj se. Tad Narandžuša kobno reče:
„Ma mani me. Daj pivo. Priznajem sve!“

with a wax masque of a Summer rain


with a wax masque of a Summer rain,
inconstant scatterbrain
the love of fathers is hell
on a st(ake)rand!
You, with your limb more stiff
than the dogmas of Lucifer.
Who have you forgot to permeate:

The Woman: who is a river
(for she flowed to you)
The Daughter: who is volcanine
( for she burned for you)
The Earth – which swallows you
(ultimate mistress)?
You, who are present but not present,


Hate has a heart!

The green heart of shot Lorca
and wrath of God!
He, alike you:

Does not love!
Does not forgive!
Does not kiss!
To gift the legal age
he rapes the Vestales


You growl too loud,
desert fa(ng)ther.

I know you encircle girls before the door.
I know you flow down their thighs sweaty.
Like unborn milk flows from me to you.
Like chrome sand flows from my eyes instead of tears.
Like thorns grow within my body and not children.
You, who are a corpse in formalin,
the mute vocalist of the torn wire,
the chalice of poison before sleep.


My shadow takes you off the wall,
a wingless bird in the darkness of the room,
will skin the marble face and his smile of a victor!


Even hope at times answers to the mute.
The dug away umbra from the extinguished lantern.

Oh, Burn! Burn!
Flame Pompeii, die in anguish!
May the abandoned children clap their hands!
May the thrilled audience scream of laughter!abandoning

Like I . . .

Like I who screamed
When Creator waded over me with words:
Maasalam*, my Child!

*ma’a salama good-bye in Arabic

prose, proza

SLEEPING MATHILDE, an excerpt from the fantasy novel, Leila Samarrai, The First Chapter



The storm which will crush the fort of sven Orian will crush an existence, a world filled with fear, antagonism, selfishness. It will crush that which is not constant, all for that which is permanent and long-lasting.

Let us tear down castles! Let us stay with nothing to us, akin to Buddha or Jesus! Let us bravely trudge forth, with love for the self and the others, regardless of all the risks and perils that pop out at us, akin to Heracles or Odysseus!


„And God took а hаndful of south wind

 And from it formed а horse,

 Sаying, ‘I creаte thee, Oh Arаbiаn.

 To thy forelock I bind victory in bаttle.

 On thy bаck I set а rich spoil,

 аnd а treаsure in thy loins.

 I estаblish thee аs one of the glories of the eаrth.

 I give thee flight without wings’.

 For а time the Arаbiаn rаn wild in the desert.

 Only the strongest аnd most intelligent,

 The swiftest аnd most disciplined survived.

 And then the story goes;

 To Ishmаel, son of Abrаhаm,

 God mаde а gift of the Arаbiаn Horse.

 And Ishmаel wаs the first to tаme аnd ride him.

 And from thаt time on the fаte of the Arаbiаn

 would be woven into the history of the Western



„Arabian Horse Legend”


“I was born in the old House of von Amerongen, as Orian Siegfried”, having committed this sentence on paper, Orian bit into the quill and, upset, shot a glance at the door. He had little time to spare.

“I was born in a wonderful castle on the slopes of the icy mountains of Norrbotten”, Orian sunk into the strange irritability of senses brought about by the sweet drowsiness of memory.

Leaning above the parchment, sensing that his time is running out under the increasingly faster swathes of distant steps, he gave himself up to the words of a cruel story while horror reigned over his body and senses. He wrote the following:

“I could not shake off the thought of Norrbotten’s conception. Dramatic imagery of clouds sucking up the rain, of blood dripping from the heavens, assailed my imagination.

“I would feel excitement observing the doleful side view of the land of Norrbotten out of whom I’ve strived to exclude my own castle, making it a creation of the most fantastic colors and images. With time, as the veil was falling over my eyes, I moved slower and slower, head hung low, until – and God knows what if anything I was thinking of – I had lost the boyish spirit and the gift of innocence, until I had lost the peace wherein any lord would enjoy himself selflessly. Until I’ve taken a bite of my mental wellbeing…

“’Let’s stop at the impossible’, I would say to father Larsen who piously ate his sausages in the chapel booth. Everything lasts in shades long buried. Enthusiasm does not easily let a poet go, quite the contrary, it anchors itself within him, galloping along the finest of nerves, inconsistently, vilely and hypocritically.

I felt that Norrbotten and the Hässe castle can in any other time period only induce revolt and anxiety, but also an unspeakable loneliness.

Then the Storm came and took it all. I, sven Orian, had been a guard, a cuirassier and many a thing more, upon whom this fiend descended upon, I am frightened. Memories come shrieking on this day of death when sven Olof rode to the castle and took Mathilde out of the shade.

From where did all the ailments of my life come? It is as if the Storm pounded them to the ground through the wind. You might be wondering whether a sober man thinks of his sins amid a storm. Oh, yes, exactly then, through the window, I observe the restless villagefolk and I take a listen of the revving of horses, for I am, if I must choose the object of my observation, a painter of nothingness.”

Orian stopped and gave the scar on his face a touch. Then he added:

“I touched myself on the crease in my face and felt it fork in tiny layers on my chin, out of which hardened, bloodied hairs stuck out. A wound from a duel. “

Orian swiftly turned to the door, but since he heard nothing, he continued, quill screeching, stating aloud what he wrote in order to ward off the ghoul.


“As a vampire I feasted upon lives of others. I never dug graves too deep. I piled corpses like firewood. I was building a human alley.

“I had increased my army thusly, reigning by fear.

“Gazing upon my own reflection in the gold enameled mirror, I saw (what I wished others had seen), a rove of shaded flesh, tight muscle and a smile of a noble whose dignity had essentially intertwined with a false modesty.

“But, that which had disturbed me in the darkest of forebodings were the decisions I had taken as a man used to get what he wanted and, empowered by his irreason, destroy that which was beyond his reach and his mind. Those were the initial signs of my curse.

“I had been an oppressor. I had been jealous, especially of the birds, the damned vermin, the vultures and eagles, knowing that they bear within them a germ of eternity. I had been but a grain of sand under the howling wind. And what is wind other than the coursing of time, against whose power of sudden destruction or slow consumption of substance, even the most stable of dwellings falls. “

proza, roman

УСПАВАНА МАТИЛДЕ – ПРИПОВЕСТ О МАТИЛДЕ (одломак из романа) Из пера Матилде вон Регенштајн

Након што би завршио са мном, отварала бих очи у тами. Кад би свануло, опрезно бих растворила надувене капке према светлу. Тада бих поново утонула у сан…

Након неколико недеља, насртаји би престали. Ипак, осећала бих нечије присуство у соби. Налик на шум… Покушавала бих да устанем, али би ме задржавале нечије нежне руке. Биле су мале, танке…. Терор трпљења прожео би ме леденим знојем и почела бих да дрхтим под женским прстима. Ослонила бих се на изранављене лактове. Ото Регенштајн је ме дивљачки силовао и пребијао… колико? Колико дуго? Сувише дуго.. А мајка? – грозничаво бих размишљала – да ли ме је подводила?

„Полако, господарице Матилде“, рекао би глас сличан мом… „Ко је то?“, питала бих се сваки пут.


prose, proza, samarrai, Uncategorized

American Dream Team

PAPA’S LETTER: (written in Serbian) ja sam ti rekao pre da treba prvo raditi da bi sakupila pare za put , ja bih voleo da radis u Ttripoli a nije tesko naci posao u Tripoliju jer ti si intelektualac i brzo ces naci posao ako budes na licu mesta kao sto kaze Tanvir , a isto tako ti ces biti blizu mene da ti pazim iako iz Benghazi ide se u Tripoli avionom ( jedan sat avionom ) ali to nije tesko za mene . WRITTEN IN May 31, 2010, in Benghazi 
ME: Sad cu da zovem Surcin i da pitam koliko kosta put za Tripoli i Bengazi i da li mogu da putujem sa plavim pasosem, da pitram u Libijskoj ambasadi.
I da, sve dokumente moram da menjam u Kragujevcu, a to je procedura, jer svi sad menjaju pasose i 2 meseca kazu da se ceka!

But there she pops into father – daughter long – awaited reunion, after 30 years, right on the dot with this: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Libyan_Crisis_(2011%E2%80%93present)…


:stickeeeeeer!: bum. bum. BUM! Bang?


Hillary Clinton bears more responsibility for the ill-fated war on Libya than anyone else. Even Barack Obama has admitted it was a colossal mistake. The war has turned Libya into a prosperous state where terrorists were jailed into a failed state where competing groups of Islamic terrorists run the show. The war did not have authorisation by the United Nations


Not content with destroying Libya as a nation, Hillary Clinton’s woeful and questionably premeditated lack of security at the US diplomatic compound in Benghazi, one of the most violent cities not just in Libya but the world….


Do you have comment? I do. Oh, yes, and: how long can you endure watching directly in the eyes of the evil without even feeling uncomfortable but ready to fight? I put this picture od this “female” demon for the sake of practice…


Saddam Hussein (I’ve never met my father because of the Iraq – Iran war (1980 – 1988) I was only 2 years old when he went to war) DEAD. Slobodan Miloševic (I think the explanation is not necessary…) DEAD, and the bombing of Serbia by the United States in 1999, the then American President Bill Clinton). The Lost opportunity to work with my uncle, a plastic surgeon at the hospital in Dubai, in 2002, due to the Gulf War, when the Ground and Air battles were fought in Kuwait, Iraq and the border areas of Saudi Arabia.
President of America was George W. Bush back then.) Hillary Clinton – – the aforementioned “project Benghazi,” for which I have not met my father after 30 years, when we got in touch, accidentally, via internet, in 2010. Maybe he is dead now…) Here’s the”dream – team”.


Still alive.


Still alive.

Now I am stucked here in Serbia and I am watching this. Prime minister of Serbia, Aleksandar Vučić. Very sad. Tragic, indeed. Those that don’t understand Serbian, just turn off the sound and watch his facial expressions…

A little digression: In March 2016, I was an important part of the poetical project POETRY AGAINST TERROR, I wrote reviews and a poem – A tribute to the victims of terrorism in France. Kindle Edition: 64 Poets from 43 different countries.

I emphatise with French victims. In fact, I adore France. She is a part of my cultural european heritage and holds a special place in my heart. But, are some human lives more valuable than others?

I state that its hypocritism. Where are the poetical tributers for the children in Aleppo?, in Iraq, Lybia, Yemen, Bahrain, Egypt, Tunisia…





boris k, prose, proza, samarrai, satire, short story

Boris K. and the Smooth Criminal, “The Adventures Of Boris K.”


Boris K. and the Smooth Criminal

Boris K., exhausted and worn-out due to mental exertions, bent the knee in the decisive battle with his landlady about the unpaid rent. Evicted from the comfort that was the neo-Nazi apartment of Frau  Suzie, he found solace in all that existed in the endlessness of cosmos.

He shot a glance at the North star which was shining in the sky, round as a saucer, and he was listening to the cries belonging to victims of brigand gangs in the night who were pillaging the moment the clock struck midnight. But Boris K. was used to violence and took it with a spiritual calmness and peace which would have been the stuff of envy for the Tibetan monks and a llama or two.

Boris K. was squatting for a while, staring at the asphalt where, out of the dim cracks, many a strange underground creature emerged, who then mercilessly tore down everything in their path, burning shops and wrecking the property of the Phenomenonpublic.

Hidden amid the thick treetops, Boris K. had just embraced his own knees when he felt a presence of someone. He felt unease; cold sweat flooded him. Boris K. stepped out onto the barely lit asphalt and walked in uneven step towards the source of the light about a hundred or so meters away.

He stopped, noting a distorted shadow of his follower. He had a huge head and a disproportionally small body. Boris K. hot-footed onward. The shadow was catching up to him, one moment on his right and another on his left, occasionally disappearing ‘mong the surrounding buildings. The moon sailed across the sky somewhat faster than usual.


“Who is this person following me? And what does he want from me?”, Boris wondered, and realized that a leap into the sewer was his only means of salvation.

As heavy fear lay weighty on his soul, and cold sweat bathed his chest, Boris K. jumped in the manhole happier than an Olympic gymnast.

Famished hands welcomed him in full eagerness.