poetry

The existence of reality, in 4 cantos, Leila Samarrai, edited version

The existence of reality, in 4 cantos, Leila Samarrai

Spoiler warning: this poem contains a huge amount of high-quality madness

The guillotine would have fallen, but
The chain was rusty
Another client complained
That his head was still on his shoulders
Others had more luck
It’s called the lucky reduction of torment

(from an unknown author, probably pissed)

They wish she could disappear,
A Woman Who’s Not Here

(head falls into the basket. the audience cheers)

2
I am huddled in my bed,
covered toe-to-head,
the bugs of psyche keep me company
Pollution pollution everywhere
Water water everywhere
Psycho bugs everywhere

Money yet again

Divinity, hear me (says another poet):
If I surrender my being to you in blind ecstasy of love,
If I’m to assist you in your sadistic experiments over humans
if I am your fourth Antichrist….”

“What do you want?”

“Hail, sweet Malice
These mortals just need to shut their face-cunts.”

There are flickering colourstorn away from my tormented eyes
The head rises again.
The skull also rises.
For now in the dark I am going mad, by blessing of the night. Bollocks.

To be unwanted, uncaredfor, friendless, unvalued, rejected, unwelcome, shunned, spurned, bitch-slapped
With heart alone, I cared not.
Now has begun my transition!

You’ll find pleasure through tribulations
in shudder burning water rat – a – tat stately in flames
We are the womb, we are the abyss, we are the tomb we are exhumed
We are the womb, we are the abyss

I offer you my dream divine
Inside of which but a poor neighborhood
I offer you the beggar’s beauty equipment
ragged white tights with black polka dots
one garbage bag
and a money can

I offer you the saint who lived as a beggar
beggars celebrate humanity
spitting on Man
goods and chattels, filthy rags of beggars

3

O Nature, made of mercury
You are never visible
Yet you are warm, you are cold, you are dry
You are moist
Whose end is God

It took me ten years to vomit out slimy bodies from my voice box
The rest are grim reechoes in the dark, holding my failed wig
in made up hands
along with the humoured rats whose presence is forgotten

For the corpses do not die
For the damned do not die

Wait!
I am a corpse.
And you want me to put makeup on for the whole of eternity?

4

I am huddled in my bed,
Now my sheet stands upright,
I fill up with semen, pullulate and sprout, grow up to the muscles,
tissue, blush, luxury of cheeks, an eyeful glow.
My hands touch the icy cold air.
I, ever the bellend,wander around the world and clap my hands,

Then only a whisper is heard and wheezing, the crying, wailing.
The dog begins to howl.

The Bastard never dies

Carry me
Carry me there..to
the existence of reality.
(grave bursting)
My schizoid brother in need
Never again alone will we bleed.

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poetry, proza

Forgiveness Poem, Leila Samarrai

To feel blue–
what is it?
a faded fire
in the eyes?
a numb hand on my chest
as I lay dying, among the graves?

Being angry–
what is that?
a wide open mouth spitting
hundreds of poisonous flowers?
sometimes the most beautiful words
are spoken on the wrong side of the world

Forgive the bastards!
forgive them for…
“So you became a Christian?”
“No, I am not a Christian, I am a woman”

Being dead,
what is it like,
after all this?
there is no death except for one.
that hour is yet to come.
however, time and space do not exist.
and I remain a naked hungry ghost

Being a hungry–
what is it?
a knife impaled in the stomach,
made up of a thousand thunder bolts!
I’m purged through a holy fire of
bonfires and stars!
what a feeling!

Bloody ravines everywhere,
now and to come! Ego te absolvo!
bastards everywhere: I absolve you all!
malvados, screams, bloody ravine, villain
Vo vjeki vjekov! Ego te absolvo!
Schwein, Schwein, everywhere,
now and to come:
I absolve you all!
Amen! Amen! Amen!

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