poetry

Grandfather’s coat

in me there is nothing out of the ordinary.
(maybe I was a writer by accident?)
the tiny veins of my mind in my head made a Gordi’s knot.
all of it is delirium.
all of it is to be buried in the depth, silence and darkness,
into the dreamy eternity of death.

In the evening, around eight o’clock,
I rushed towards the trench shotgun with the desire to end my misery.
I ate two slices of pizza from the local bakery
and like a condemned woman, I prepared for my queer – death.

I wore my grandfathers war vest,
my great-grandfather’s dandy coat and my great-grandfather’s father’s shoes laced with camel hair.

Without any discomfort (except nausea)
in a suitcase I packed the cut out mask.
underneath it indulgences, with instructions to be read at daybreak:
„I do not fear death, until the mortician.
They scheme around
the coffin. Stopple the tragedy like a sea-shell.”

Beside absurd begins the strategy.
the wheels of the little machine drill,
she! Grinds the finger rolled in gunpowder with the trigger
like in the dough,
illuminates the brain with destructive noise.
may they fire, the clerk murderer should fire and all those others
who will after the shot carry me out in pieces.

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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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proza

The Love That Never Dies, Leila Samarrai

Breath in
Breath out
Breath in
A corpse never dies

A wassail around the grave
Of the Russian mystic
Lunacy crucified in his eye

He walks around in a black robe
On a graveyard
That did not cry
On which I listened to yelling and screamed
Sensitively gentle and superior

My blindness,
Merciful death
Put me away into wilted flowers
So I repose there
Already my corpse reeks strongly
The one that never dies
Whose wounds were played in the darkness

Sensual death,
The downfall which with a watchful eye
I saw never again
I am repulsed by the rot that sleazes through my senses
Amid the room given to me like a grave, and the glass
To watch my reflection in it
Or end my life with the smithereens!

I knit a wreath for the vixen
Who was suffocating next to the shaft,
Tearing the grid with her teeth,
Who was breaking the joists,
Eating sonnets,
She rode the Lions gate
In a dress with a décolletage
Cut with her sword and enflamed with her pyre
The heads of the five Mycenaean bulls
Drank the blood of the horse from the silver chalice,
Tasseled in rosettes, with a light sword
I dug two pits
For two rings, of gold and of bronze.

For the beast that leaves the cup of wormwood
At the tip of the hands
For the beast
With a merciful heart of the venomous fungus

Like you (who are a) corpse
Like you, scorpion, who are
While unease ripens in the fog
Lulled inside the years
A bloodied sun comes out in the west

Throw me to the pigs!

Verily
In the circle of graves?
Verily
In the tomb of Atreus?
Verily
In the sea bed of Aegean full of blood.

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poezija

RIDER, Leila Samarrai

(I) Not a man, merely a warning to others.

Rider in eternity
In holy day of the paunch
The trample of the horse on trail leads the reprobate to the gates of the black Castle
In the entourage of the greedy, debauchee, gamblers
(steeped are all of his pockets)
the lock clicks and closes like a roomette of the sarcophagus

I am not a man, merely a warning to others.
Blood of the rider on the sorrel horse decants down the eyes of the sword.
Draw your courage.
Skeleton leaks from the paunch
Down valves of thirsty purple, cold sun

For madman who surfeit gnawed naked trees.
„Provision of wheat for a groat, three provisions of barley for a groat, and oil and wine there won’t be.”

I am not a man, merely a warning to others,
Swollen from anger and cry,
With eyes the color of swamp
Wizened body…

Inflamed are the furies
(Heracles , here is fire!)
minds are fed with hunger
(death with no hurry)

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