poetry, proza

The Merciless Atheistic Love – Recital, Leila Samarrai, edited version

RECITAL: Are you not too slow and pious to
persecute me, and nail me to the cross
in the eyes of theThief
two canine teeth are ruptured by nails and his funereal tell
(for I and the Almighty bovine get along like Jesus and his cross)
caught a sense of all the Gospels

GOD: Not again! I already did it 2000 years ago!

RECITAL CONTINUES:
God abandoned Jesus on the cross.
their sadomasochistic relationship is predicted.

(Footnote “Silence, habits of killer..”, half of 777 verses… from the book “Romans kill the killers, right?” by Atheistus Crucifixianus Genius )

God is silent without a pause, she – God – is black and she listens without a pause, with virtuoso aversion

God is obsessed with Silence.

(Goddess, do you copy these barmy blasphemers?)
(Hysterical screaming in the background)

Pathological silence disorder, morbid,
pathological,
medical
Blessed Sacrament of anguish

God is a godless cuckoo!
I am screaming calm, no flesh ..
no … no … my voice can never be heard.
Voice? Nothing but a tuned idiotic grin, it is said that this is just one mental woman, skinned leather… and she does not know …

GOD: Who the hell is she? I don’t know her!

WHISPERING:
A merciful angel.

SAINT PETER’S REPORT:
Her name is Georgina.
She hates YOU because of what your horrid self had taken from her:

Her childhood
Her youth
Her Reviews, her publishers
Her editors and editing skills
The social life in Serbia
the right to vote (her ID card has been expired for a decade or two, and by no means is she going to renew it or take out a new one)
vaginal orgasm (If it’s any consolation, you had not taken the clitoral O. from her)
her lover
her mistress
Fear
Pain.
Church marriage, though she is baptized
(one of the follies which she sought from you, after the first onset of her holy madness)
You even killed her poor little cat!

Poor Job – (l)ess…

GOD: And how did she end her life?

2
THE CHOIR OF ANGELS:

She didn’t .
She wrote the following before she injected insulin into herself previously admitting her death was not God’s fault nor the State’s but her own; Her hereditary psychophysical deformity
denying this claim five minutes later, blaming unreasonably expensive market prices for her demise
– now it’s just powders down there .. and a few pieces of bones, no sign of the human form inside.
She is not prevented from having some kind of consciousness, a thin pale skin, or a sharp, mathematical and metaphysical mind
She claims that there is no paradise but that we are already deployed in fixed groups in the afterlife.
in the coffin tarnished and polished
planning for the rerun of suicide,
She still recites.

RECITAL:

My Sugar Coffin, Immortal Tootsie Roll, with all due respect to the good deceased tulips
One madminge less, but the new survives, more complex, prone to scrutiny and truths. The seeker.

GOD: Dear God!

RECITAL CONTINUES:

I was putting powder on my cheeks for three nights
on a liar or
the deceived dead
subsided temperamental Countess
of rosy cheeks without a dental crown

GOD: (strikes his fist on the cloud)
Is there any verse where she doesn’t act! Nothing I do for her is good enough. I know that..sometimes.. yes, I am too silent, but I think she exaggerates! Not all are as outspoken as she is.
Hasten to the tomb, Peter!
explain to the aforementioned nutjob that someone has to do God’s work.

Saint Peter
can go down
out of the clouds
when he wants to
thus spoke the lady rocker
aye, gaga, young, wild rocker

RECITAL CONTINUES:

My Tootsie Roll, we’ll intertwine our fingers again someday
one fateful night in passion and destruction
the night flashes, and the sky is close
They have forgotten to lock up my eyes
my name is Georgina
raving, rabid Georgina

PETER:
Then she told: give me Peter’s body
I want his body
I want to notch his body and my soul like a fire
Fire! for
a shimmering night
a night of flames
She rose from the grave
She walked toward me
With a knockdown gaze:
“I baptize you with water to this grave”
She sits on a mahogany bench then,
which is intended for the visitors of the dead
the music is rocking inluxurious splendor
Just tragicomic love noise in the background
played by the orchestra in lacy nightgowns
one sad melody
She licks the remnants of her coquetting life
and her beak is facing the sky
the smell of the sound incites my imagination

GOD: Even Peter has become dirty.
PETER: The cemetery has mud, sir.

RECITAL:

Yes..
overshadowing men are pillocks
They’ve been with plains of wisdom
They’ve been the height of sentimentality
smitten poets
Some of the defeated wove beauty
Or they, too, were simply – poets
Yes..time does not exist
She was fooled by swift motion a long time ago

“Art is a mistake and I must take my leave.” – Goddess, God or Lord puts on a pair of black gloves, although she – the black spaz is not the son of a glove maker.

Over there
where the Goddess went they do not know her
she is currently waiting in line at the employment office
for her social security card
cursing the existence of free will and verse

Now He’s unclean like me
He may become a better god
And maybe shall decide to die
It comes down to the same thing.

But, my recital goes on.

RECITAL CONTINUES….

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DRIPPING WINDMILLS, Leila Samarrai

DRIPPING WINDMILLS

Snatch your mind from the clutches of the wolves
That have been observing and watching you
And fasten it with quiet dignity
Snatch it with a torrent of your body
Then wipe the sweat off your brow
While the beasts lure away
And may it be your last address
Your last stronghold before the voices of the buffoons
That boom at first
To make a pharynx out of your ears
So they could vomit cozily and instinctively
All over you
While glorifying the spiteful noise of theirs
And bursting with exultation
Herds of pigs look forward to your fall
But you just mute the miserable noise
Of their shameful fermentation
With no laughter appease those who’d like to
Sit on your head
Who would snarl then
Shamelessly accepting
The last cadaver out of the darkness
May the redness of a total autumn flood you
Of an autumn tearful and adored
Confronted in the dusk with the secrets of shadows
And then all will pass
Just take a little breath of fresh air
And rip out their Secret with your ears.
Let them scream
Helpless and empty
Finally.
And while they’re grabbing you
You break loose with your teeth
With your nails
And you foam and keep on pushing them
With your elbows
With all this stuff
Past and future
For the sake of your time that is arriving
And overcoming them
Your deed will extol you
Like a spark of kindling wood
Which haunts the serpents tails
When driest is your mouth
And thirst torments you
And you’re starving
It’s them
Them who
Brooding over your head
Await the last wind that will
Bring the cry out of your throat
And they’ll feast then
Peacefully and self-admiringly
Over your carrion
Don’t you let them do that.
Instead, quarter their bull heads
Make them fly away
Let them merge with that
Treasonous air
Oh, did they sway you once
Upon a time
While you languished in hopelessness
While heart of yours was starless
Then, when you suffered
Assigning them your word
At their mouths you looked
And you shrieked and teetered
Consumed by hangover
And they plowed your throat while
Their unskilled hands chanted hollowly
Writing lyrics with your own blood
Never let them do that again
You just silence that greedy mob of pigs
Which calls itself a pack
Mountain wolves they call themselves
And for your glory of tomorrow
After all the hushed-up vileness
The One that never dies will take care of
The One that resides in your deed
Like a chaste bride
For tomorrow you will live forever
And a fog will devour the bulls
The burden of time will blow to smithereens
All those thieves anchors and gory pits
Those growing arms that are grabbing your sleeve
And pulling you
Browsing the back on which youre laying
Coiled and voiceless
Time will doom them
With your new verses
It will write on the crown of their heads
And point a finger right in their eye
Because they should have never
Attacked a dragon
Those shameless plucked eagles
And the living fire of your proud spirit
Will swallow them with all their
Confidence
While you climb in the solitude of prayer
Reaching the uttermost cognition
God Himself will save you from the evildoers
Ill-fated hearts
Don’t you shed a single tear
Don’t let a sound escape from your lips
Rejoice because you’re a poet
And Gods inspired you for eternity
You will live when there’s no more roars
And in the darkest night you will live
And you will breath peacefully
And you will love.

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THE LAST MOH’S DAY, Leila Samarrai

Dear fellow readers, even though English is not my mother tongue, I’ve written some poems directly in English.  As you know, poetry is a very delicate matter. I am well aware that I have taken a certain amount of poetic risk, but I truly hope you will like it.

THE LAST MOH’S DAY

1.
The Mohawk day: is lost and gone
The stink of ink in poor stomach and glossary
With glyphs and sad music.
Shall I taste the harp – like sound?
Or mad drums of boats – shaped percussion.
Thus my spite greets humanity.

The Spark once came in a shape so dim
The twofold mirror twinned nobody.
Black nobody in rift crystal, bring no – way not all is there

Nature has so many talents, an old dark breaker
Twisted tree, a mark of blemish
For some only a birth defect
Tiny line of malformation. –
I truly say: she knew her way
So, one day she made Moch’s day.

So I forgot who I was, why I was here in non- subsistence
Never here I’ll never be, no, never – be in co -existence
With the whip of an arty bastard
Stinkers and rats crawl nearby, but stinkers eat the dogs among the living.
Slaughtered ‘em all out of kindness
A sweet act of tender office.
From the sole of Nature’s heart.

At peace vigilance.
The bitter wind is bitter breath.
I smell the lofty gasp in leeway.
Look!The starry skies and snowstorms you gave me.

For what? To see?
How can I?

In such cheer and my good spirits
Only martyrs go to heaven
Since I’m trapped in blowup fashion
In unborn ways of shifting lips, bold to kiss my habitations?

Oh jackals, how I envy you!
God forbid all swift captains to live too long

But on the fancied Moch’ Last Day, one stood in order,
foolish phoenix, sculpted anger –
gun dog on behalf of all afore
And he sang a song of noble, elevated, golden spirits!
A summary for bad luck man, for the misfortune
Praise the boldness!
His face was hope
I, once dead craved my forgotten secret tunes
While he stood so steadily.

2.
At mating time of the Holy Cow, I promise you –
That I shall be seen… there.
Painted blue, with a tear in… this hand!

Tear?
My perturbation of the unexpected wounded inbounds
Took flight quick in the old dark blank
Embracing my own spit again, my forceful and glowing antipathy.

Cheap and petty as the Word demands
When the shell is breaking, the shell must be broken
Holy Hammer for Holy Stroke.

An accusation!
An accusation!
Fair parody of the sacred battle
Blessed are falsehood and misery!*

* – indeed they are!

3.
I despise soft angers.
Like felon who cry: Amen.
My tongue licks tools and means so disgraced
And their flames overlap me.
As falsity of guns and fires. As offence in the path of mind.
The truthful mind is immortal light for those who dare to find

The Blind comfortlessness of the broken king – his nutshell had veiled his
Graced courage.
Finally, do dare.
Shoot!
In all the hearts that fade away.

4.
The tone so sharply flirts with action
Towards betrayals, those wicked offenders
You are the core of Moch’s rubbled grief!
Indeed, is that so?
The vow trembles gladly in the heart of the thief.
The drowning age.

Drowned on All Fool’s day
Is there any cheat to blame for such a shame
Evildoer cries aloud, therefore the “Why” for his heavy laugh
When you see the clown, indeed, you smile.

Laughter is not for the Fool
Too many fragments in the sacred heart
The cruelest mouth that never be so cruel
As my despise of morally sigh..

The jester moans and weeps
Such promises!

You, mislead! It’s common sense
And!
The lawful right of sinful worms
A robbery of hope – invention
Undying interest of Judas
Makes kiss so sweet in amusing farce.

The love is born of necessity
let “why” stay cold for bride to be
Risen from the ashes…
Such palaces for non – such kings

God the Father
God the Father
Where’s your son?
And where’s your sin.

God the Father
God the Father
Where’s your son?
And where’s your sin.

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