poetry, poezija, proza

Angry poems, Recommendation of Nemesis

Hunchbacks, butcher clowns, villains!

With a cloud on their back
Butcher clowns
Regana’s daughters
Who hate my day
And all my mornings
Born from the wound
Of glistening narcissuses
Litter of Lucrecia
You exchanged venoms
Compressed into pitchers
In grinds sweetly
To stain the knife
With ancient cause
It is the artist osculating
He butchered the night
Of silence
And hush
But I will further hear
The eternal echo of my death.


in the hour of celebrated departure
the warriors slumbered.
They breathe out under banners
And bloom in the hollow.
Flowers separate them.
Or are those
Intersected roads,
Time fell asleep
In ambiguities.



They lied to the constellations, and stars
The colorful fireflies with drums on their wings
Hidden inside the flakes of chitin
About the origin of the dinosaur bone and silence of the cosmos

In the image of god by which – they lied about this too!
Pulse the rivers of light
Hypnos weeps, and the tears of ice are a gruesome cure
Weeps on the catafalque of the Queen Kai and Gerda

Eternal Herman watches the game, he will hunt you down
Quickly! Do not say how foxed dreamer does not warn

They lied to me that I am fertile, dreamy and fertile
The mortal mouth of lies bent like a toy
They lied that there are addict giants
On the Cape Verde
And the faces of savages are like an ironing board
The smell of clean laundry is mixed with salt
And the eternal prince with the yellow heraldry of the irises
Circles around their feet

The scalding grip of a lie
How she embraced you
Like some kind of a law is crumbling or
The steadily Nothing is being demolished
Within the inconsolable Truth
The ship is sinking!
Munchhausen pass the gun, you lurid earl
Mammoth killer, you crocodile, you dreadful rhapsody of white
A vixen your mistress Mother – Lie!
Uneasy, work-eaten, strong
Are the poets of your Hell,
On the pyre of the sea drowning like the truth

This is why my laughter is no longer heard,
This is why my womb is pillaged, for
The sea torn from laughter clamors:
“Oh, naïve daughter. . .!”
The sun does not exist
After 25th ideals are dissolved in hydrogen chloride
All the dark and cynical faces
Are the alcoholic dream of the universe
And the gale of everyone’s laughter is the start of a thunder
Make-up is smeared in the circle whose path
Follows the Eternal Beast with its intestines of pickled love

The lied to me that they lie!


You, with a wax masque of a Summer rain, inconstant scatterbrain

Know: 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, Know:

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 .
Bloodsucker! Anathema! Harpy!
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!

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

*ma’a salama good-bye in Arabic


Recommendation of Nemesis

We met by the reflection of the eyes,
Echoed the enamored god
Like Echo mortally in love with pretty Narcissus,
The future suicide from who will grow
The flower and myth of sin with oneself.

With oneself I found that:
My mouth is sutured
My hands mourning songs without masochistic pleasures.
Do you seek within her the aesthetic artistic utterance with truth and freedom?
Or merely an attempt to put things in their real place.
I knew I shall say the monstrous everything or I will say nothing.

(The Minotaur of Tales)
Kill her!
May the sword taste her stomach and breasts
After your fingers and face!
Kill her, and do not mourn her!

It is a gamble, card playing,
A splendid, glorious and retched plea,
To disclose and discover the flaming blade.

(Joan of Ark)
Stab her!
Stab her with a spear!
Remember the dungeons and betrayals!
Remembrance is death for repentance!

We met at one of the impossible places,
We were a pair of unforeseen miracles.
It was a gift, a curse and futility.
Where the glance hits both the one and the other.
The glance that brings and takes away.

The abyss among people laughs in the faces of those who give away their deepest thoughts
Or the histories of loved beings. At the end, a tatter thrown to the road is left.
A fable interesting to none, the secret in the service of the one who scares and enchants.
Will our great freedom and intrepidity judge us out of most noble incentives?
Will our anxieties, the magnificent relics with brutal renditions, whirl in other letters?

Monstrous legislations are governing people and the black hour chokes within us
Both the thinker and the emotive man.
Wrapped in black atmosphere, we buckle , grow pale, the throat spreads its limits
And fear sprouts outside with words attacked by assumptions
And the horrible remembrances followed by cruel pain, self pity and remorse.

(Shepherd Henry Roberts of Salem)
Burn the witch!
Hair by hair let her burn!
May she scream helpless!

Without the strength to continue the letter,
Stumbled by the free to:
Say more!
Say faster!
(necessarily trivial)
I wish to sing
The way it should be or should never.

(Recommendation of Nemesis)
Kill the heart memento
Pertaining to the mocking bird!

She (it) is the boil in my stomach,
She eats it and minces it, destroys
The nightmare from which you cannot awaken by anything except walking and sleepwalking,
While she climbs to heights with a view to the Precipice,
That fills the eyes of the caught sleeper with horror.

(Poe’s recommendation)
Kill her in her own vomit
Without right for mesmerization.

Confession at 3.33

I confess to you, I of an unusual nature,
And all the kingdoms I offer to you- plain.

Lying tongues- orators and benefactors
The first one is of giants of song as of hay,
Through games of ancient history they peck on the intestines
Filled with the substance of nasty virtue,
With fruitful mouths they drink the wines.

Serpents hiss with human tongues…
The orator is amidst the ball and casts off damnations… with love.


Washerwomen wash the shores for incessant feasts,
For the water trough of the early morning peacock.

Tigers roar- damned by the fables-
To washerwomen, for labours sake, and the dishes plentiful
Fools drink the honorable regal wines.

Casanovas, drunks, erotomen and everybody’s merry Big Brother
Far less then geniuses
Who lead the fools
With fornication, cunningness and booze
To hidden thoughts.

Scared dogs.
Skilled at stuffing bones.

I raise my right hand and swear on the darkness of
With an unburdened mind and a truth in my heart
Within the light dewy with the ability of
Your knife cut through all the conditions of disorder.
It’s entirely safe in my hands.

With a frozen smile,
I walk through the fall
Of a zillion kingdoms.
Flags are waving and ships are sailing underneath the sky
Of a broken magnificence.
After years of absence
Colored in oddity,
I stay…
To guard them while drowning in tears

Of my Arabian wrath.


“Avanture Borisa K. Leile Samarrai”, OSVRNI SE U SMEHU, Aleksandar Novaković

Avanture Borisa K. Leile Samarrai


Ova zbirka međusobno tematski i vremenski povezanih priča (zbog čega bi je neki olako proglasili romanom), objavljena pre dve godine u izdanju Everest Media, predstavlja delo koje, po mnogim svojim karakteristikama, odskače od aktuelne domaće književne produkcije. Postoji nešto, u svojoj suštini, iznenađujuće u pristupu autorke Leile Samarrai. Dok se velika većina domaćih autora, žanrovskih ili ne, trudi da ide „utabanim stazama” kod spomenute autorke se probijate, bukvalno, mačetom kroz džunglu značenja, istorijskih, kulturnih, subkulturnih referenci, citata, zaumnih zapleta na tragu montipajtonovskog humora i davnih bibap- viceva koji insistiraju na nonsensu i potpunom odsustvu katarze. Na kraju krajeva, komedija je, kao i satira, na kraju krajeva, kao suprotnost tragediji, okrenuta anti-katarzi. Oseti se u autorkinom stilu i ponešto od „Slučajeva” Danila Juvačeva Harmsa, kao i, očigledno(nomen est (p)omen) kafkijanske paranoje, Boris K. je, kao i Jozef K, čovek koji je zaglavio u procesu (Viktor Peljevin bi rekao u tranziciji iz ničega u ništa), kao i postmoderno koketiranje sa stereotipima, izvrtanjem istih, metatekstualnim. Ponegde se stiče utisak da su prosečnom čitaocu, ma šta i ko on bio, potrebne fusnote da bi razumeo neku od autorkinih priča do kraja. Ali, da li je to zaista nužno i da li, zapravo, previše povlađujemo tom imaginarnom čitaocu?


Mogla je autorka, da je htela, da ide lakšim putem: „sažvaće” prolog, sažme priče, pojednostavi karaktere na nivo skice Čika-Gliše, prepolovi knjigu i ponudi je na štandu jedne od, štono zapadne komšije lepo kažu, nabrijanih izdavačkih kuća. Ali, to nije bio slučaj. Štaviše, da je tako urađeno to bi bilo krajnje predvidivo i osrednje. Ovako, pred nama je slojevita storija o čoveku koji je, po svojoj suštini, „nama priličan ali bolji od nas” (definicija tragičkog junaka) i bačen u ovu papazjaniju od sveta koji se raspada. Layout 1Smešten, nimalo slučajno, u Fenomenopubliku, pseudo-državu i pseudo-demokratiju, Boris K. je čovek čiji se život, identitet, životne okolnosti, svet oko njega, menjaju brže nego statusi na društvenim mrežama. Boris K. je21st Century Boy – everybody’s toy ali, rekli bi Englezi, nobody’s fool as well. Kad smo kod distopija, ne možemo a da ne spomenemo Vinstona Smita iz Orvelove1984. godine. Paranoja i pritisak društva postoje, Okeanija u kojoj Smit živi je ništa drugo do svet u malom baš kao što je i Fenomenopublika svet u malom. Ali, za razliku od Smita, Boris K. ima gde da ode. Niko ga neće zaustaviti. Sloboda delanja mu je, na prvi pogled, neprikosnovena. Ali, svako malo pa može tu i tamo da se pojavi neki samozvani narodni tribun a la Megavažnić koji će da mu sreću kvari. Ne zaboravimo: u ovim pričama postoji snažna satirična linija, uperena pre svega protiv liberalnog kapitalizma, kleptokratije, korporacija, ksenofobije i predrasuda svih vrsta. I, naravno, Fenomenopubličani najviše vole da jadikuju za pokojnicima kojima pripisuju atribute koje za njihovih života, nisu videli. Živi su trošni – mrtvi su neuništivi. Zvuči poznato? I trebalo bi.


Preterivanje, rekli bi neki, barokni pristup tematici, rekli bi drugi, ne treba posmatrati kao minus. Naprotiv! Setimo se da je jedan od najvećih satiričara, Irac Džonatan Svift upravo preterivanjem, pa negde čak i ekstremno vulgarnim i crnohumornim rešenjima, nakitio lutanja Lemjuela Gulivera. I to nije ništa čudno jer, upravo groteskno, banalno, iščašeno, ostaje u sećanju. A to je upravo ono što postoji u pisanju Leile Samarrai i predstavlja najveći kvalitet zbirke pored neke skoro dečije razigranosti, humanosti i skoro pa roditeljskog odnosa prema glavnom junaku. Priče o putešestvijima i nezgodacijama Borisa K. predstavljaju, za onog imaginarnog prosečnog čitaoca, poveći izazov. On će pokušati da ih čita proredom, da preskoči, kao što to radi s domaćim bestselercima, rečenicu ili dve i naći će se u nebranom grožđu. No, ako se fokusira, njegov trud će se isplatiti. Štaviše, vratiće se nazad i obratiti pažnju na neku skrivenu šalu ili dosetku. Sagledaće ga kao deo šire priče ili posebnu priču koju ne mora da stavi u neki širi kontekst. Bilo kako bilo, isplatiće mu se da pročita ovu zanimljivu, hamvaševsku knjigu, baš kao i drugi deo Borisovih pustolovina koji, koliko sam čuo, autorka privodi kraju.

Aleksandar Novaković


НАСТАВАК АВАНТУРА БОРИСА К., Лејла Самарај, (Leila Samarrai)




Леила Самараи


Фрау Сузи. Ћелава, вечито у белој хаљини за венчање испод које крије дуге црне чизме СС јединица и каму залепљену за бутине. Носи дуге гаће с белим и црвеним тачкама које држи појас с натписом: Гот мит унс (“Бог са нама”)

Баба Родос. Огромно црвенокосо биће са косом у којој бораве мањи организми – мушице, мишеви и сл. Некад се облачи као весталка, а некад као друид. Жели да исече Бориса златним српом.

Плавуша– хибрид колагенских уста са завојима по целом телу – она стално иде на пластичне операције и где није завој ту је конац, свеже ушивен. Млати ружичастом Прада (фали “а” па се чита Прда) ташницом

Мегаважнић– здепаст, ћелав, вечито жвалавих уста. Са доње,велике, лабаве усне увек мало пљувачке виси… Обучен је као комбинација између партијског апаратчика и америчког конгресмена. Његово тајно оружје је бондовска пенкала која избацује космичку љигу кад се окрене у правцу казаљки на сату и претвара непријатеља у беспомоћног љигавца који гласа за њега.

Доктор – Филозоф. Човек са најбескориснијом дипломом на свету. Магистар Шарене лаже, члан партије Шарена лизалица.
Оружје против Бориса К: бојна секира.


Мудо Лабудовић, шверцер лабудова са Скадарског језера,часни припадник племена Куча, у једној руци му је јатаган, у другој кубура, за појасом му глава црног Турчина. Грдан, опасан, преплануо, делује тромо али је прави мајстор у сецкању људи на парчиће

Хлуелин Хланлоес, велшки насељеник, склон сакпуљању лептирова и вивисекцији, низак, здепаст, црне косе и плавих, усађених очију, у руци има халебарду с велшком заставом на врху. Најуспешнији (и једини) имитатор Тома Јонеса у Феноменопублици и председник и једини члан свог фан клуба.

Жан Малтретман, уклети француски песник, осуђен да, вечно пијан, лута вековима. Напио се једном с Рембоом и после се више није трезнио. Лута светом црвеног носа и раскопчаних панталона. Изгледа као да је утекао из симболизма. У једној руци држи бодеж а у другој полуиспијену флашу апсинта

Јоханес Хосенфефер, дементни швајцарски часовничар, његови сатови раде уназад и, наводно су уникатни мада то никад није доказано. Хосенфефер је у Виљем Тел костиму и носи лук и стреле плус јабуку у устима. Нуди људима да их мало испроба као свог сина Једнооког Вилија. Наравно, нико не пристаје

Мариета Фелационини, сицилијанска калуђерица Цркве блудника последњих дана. У суштини обучена као сицилијанска путана. Има скакавац у руци, 45 година и гадан ожиљак који спаја њене, иначе, екстремно чупаве обрве

Махмут Џибра, тврди да је рабин. Обучен је као католички свештеник и говори паштуна језиком. Има црвену браду. Делује као човек који је пет пута мењао костиме и на њему је остало помало од сваког. Носи упаљено кандило, покривено иглицама. То је његова бола или буздован, или обоје.

Освалдо Кучамамба Бобчински, тврди да је јунак из изгубљеног Маркесовог романа. Еквадорац рођен из брака руског морнара и Кечуа Индијанке Делује као прави десперадо. Наоружан је смрзнутом свињском полутком коју је украо мало пре него што је кренула потера за Борисом

Њ.К.В. Шака Зулу Трећи, краљ моћног племена Зулуа, наводно потомак јужноафричког краља из 19. века. Висок, плавокос, блед, пегав, с леденим, сивим очима, рачуновођа куплераја у Бриxтону, туриста, одазива се на име Игнашијус Хагвалрсон. Обучен је у опрему Зулу ратника

prose, proza

Leila Samarrai: THE ADVENTURES OF BORIS K, Intro

Leila Samarrai


Веlgrade, 2013.

Layout 1


Persons, participants, extras, casual mentions, not-quite-unimportant, perhaps even crucial for the story although (seemingly) collateral, many of whom never appear but are always present – the personifications of context.

Author’s note

Names of political parties

PCP = Party of Conscientious Prosperity

The Communist-Capitalist Conjunction


The Rationally Humanist Party

The Labour-Anarchist Team

The Vocal Party

Coalition SERVICE

CURSE — Communist Ultra Resident Suburban Entente

SCOURGE — Solvent Communist Offspring Union Relevantly Guiding Employees

The Noteworthy Personnel Party

GAOLS — General Alliance Of Lawabiding Socialists

Introduction: The Life and Tribulations of Boris K.

A stone’s throw from a large river, a paradise on earth was built.  According to the media in the friendly Uganda, it was a small country – an oasis of peace among the lighthouse-studded hills. The earth was a shimmering white, as if illuminated by numerous torches; the sky was imbued with various shades of pink. If one was to look at the majestic city from atop a hill, the Republic would have appeared utterly bared in its beauty. People compared it to Ancient Rome, Ancient Egypt and Alexandria, and many reminisced about the golden gates of the city which opened automatically, dousing the newcomers in a veritable deluge of cash.  What the visitors did not know, however, was that, once inside, they would never be able to leave the city. There was but one city gate, and it was heavily guarded. The aforementioned notwithstanding, Citizens were regularly assured by the local media that the Sun, indeed, shone its very brightest in their country, and that its people were – without a shadow of a doubt – most content with their lives and lots.

Following one lavish speech by a certain Member of Parliament – the wealthiest man in the City, who spoke to the people without prevarication, with a lofty style and his head held high – the Republic was named Phenomenublic. His speech was so eloquent and inwrought with poetry.

Many people disliked this flamboyant style and immediately left the premises. Thus they missed on learning about phenomenization.* Yet this citizen, this idealist (to some extent, yes, even a revolutionary), this billionaire, this poet, did not miss the chance to open the door of Knowledge for his fellow Phenomenublicans, describing the terrifying effects of phenomenization with all its limitless powers in his work titled “Res Publicus Phenomesationes, in which he defined this, to put it mildly, unusual occurrence.

If a foreigner was to enter the Republic, he would take one look around and realize that the Republic was not quite what it had seemed. Parts of the city looked sophisticated, some of the sidewalks wrought in solid gold. The buildings were brand new, and the list of reforms published on the eye-catching billboard aprawled across the government building (formed by the coalition of leading parties – CURSE /Communist Ultra Resident Suburban Entente/ and SCOURGE /Solvent Communist Offspring Union Relevantly Guiding Employees/) grew longer by the day. Stepping around the handful of newly built edifices, however, the traveler would find himself staring at ruined asphalt pockmarked with manholes.

Behind those, caught in a strange trance verging on insanity, toothless beggars would emerge with blindfolds over their eyes. Within the shadows of multiple stairways, the narrow streets hid their leprous residents feeding on refuse – those were the losers of phenomenization. The winners – strictly for the greater good, of course – spun stories of the brighter future for these wretches, attempting to allay any and all thoughts of ire, offensive or revenge.

“Dear losers, rejoice! For hunger is the mother of ingenuity and without your leprosy there would be no splendour of this City. It is all, as Buddha had said, just one big spiral going from one extreme to another only to stop in the middle.” And the Losers were satisfied. The greater their satisfaction, the bigger their chances were of becoming clerks or venal top dogs.

“We strongly recommend a bird brain,” the authorities advised a Loser with a scheduled frontal lobotomy. “You will make a grand Minister of health one day,” they’d say.

Mere visitors, however, knew not the secret of this land – it was known to the Grand Pulpiteer alone. To all questions like “Are those just ragamuffins who will put up with anything as they wait, stuck in a manhole, for the arrival of better days ?” he would answer thusly:  “Each and every one of them is infinitely more avaricious, infinitely more hypocritical, than any of those living upstairs in their golden pavilions. You should be aware, my good people, that all the mighty patricians you pout and glower about used to live in manholes once. The roles change, it is only I that remain the same,” whereupon he would laugh and fall into the sweetest of dreams.


Preparations for the memorial service were well under way in the Phenomenublic – dully covered by the daily newspapers Informer,The Phenomenublic News and each and every one of the 76,548 Phenomenublican TV stations.

“Boris K has died – a bohemian and an intellectual, a Loser with no regular occupation, declared redundant. Penultimate among the last, or so it has been said, yet once upon a time the ultimate coffee bringer. A seasoned communist and ‘the most eminent of glass cutters’, an honorary member of the Nutritionist Association. His faithful admirers flock in from the remotest of areas… Members of the Losers’ Party are expected to attend the funeral; the widely famous State Jester will be performing fairy tales in the style of One Thousand and One Nights, sponsored by the publishing house Scheherazade & daughter,” thundered from the loudspeakers mounted atop the Phenomenublican government building.

The news were received with no small amount of surprise, as Boris K. was known to be healthy as a horse.

“Considering how many tons of protein powder he pumped into his muscular superhero body, we kind of expected him to live at least ten times as long as Methuselah,” some said.

“But haven’t you heart he was a bit… Especially as of late,” the others whispered.

“It has to be the alcohol that finally got to him,” still others mused.

Regardless of being a gym regular, it was a fact well known that Boris K. was no stranger to tossing back a drink or two (just to relax, mind you) before returning to the latest job he was assigned to – that of an armourer. He was cleaning semi-automatic rifles at the National Museum when, as rumour would have it, one of them accidentally went off.

Accidentally? Boris K had a significant number of enemies.

One of them was known to be the rude mustachioed post office clerk. Infuriated by Boris’ “Operation Feather Pillow” which he used for courting women – soliciting them in passing and, contrary to all logic and necessity, slapping their behinds while flaunting his flexor muscles – and utterly outraged by being the only female Boris K. had failed to smack, she threatened revenge, becoming more aggressive towards her Post office clients with every passing day.

Others pointed their fingers at the mayor Haji-Honorstone.

Others still were quite adamant in their beliefs: “A completely kooky guy; I’m glad he is dead. And I will surely attend the commemoration.”

Whether they hated him or loved him, prior to his completely unexpected and sudden death he was respected by many for his contradictory nature: “A bit strange, but most industrious lad.” He really did give the impression of being a young man.

Boris did not mince words. He was known as a traveler through space and time, an urban legend equally respected for his relentless devotion to work as for his wealth of both manual and intellectual skills.

“The best known taxi driver in the world after De Niro,” the citizens of Phenomenublic whispered amongst each other.

A rumor spread recently that Boris K. was working on something very important before he died and that many different hands were involved in his “departure”. It was expected “never to be completely explained”.

The Phenomenublic Jester, a man of vast imagination (and, if the local lore and beliefs are to be trusted, Boris’ own fraternal twin brother) was invited to deliver the eulogy. Before long, scenery of impressive proportions was set on the main Phenomenublican square.

“Let us bury him, and get it over with once and for all!” Head of the Ventriloquist Association swore up and down that those were the exact words the Prime Minister Paramountson, affectionately referred to as “Whitebeard”, uttered upon the occasion.

The memorial service was held on a sunny day, under an almost white sky adorned by little but the pompous sun. And what a service it was! First to arrive were the Losers. They sat themselves down by the open waste containers, hardly believing their luck in managing to escape the manholes. Dressed in formal black suits and white hats in honor of Boris K they devoured the food prepared, piously planting handfuls of altar candles into the ground. Eventually they settled down to listen to the advertised stories, as told by the Jester, the waste container genie.

Professional sound systems guaranteed the quality of sound. Powerful video beams placed at the main square, where the memorial service was scheduled to be held, alternately displayed video messages, advertisements, and the gloomy face of the pondering Jester; he was planning on using the final part of his speech to demystify a secret: who exactly was Boris K?

The Jester sighed deeply, Boris’ favourite striped t-shirt held firmly in his hands. Everyone present – including those who had absolutely no idea who this Boris K. fellow was – burst into tears.

Are you wondering who Boris K. was yet?

Spreading his hands, the Jester glanced at the sky and approached the microphone. Catching a glimpse of the reflection of his own weary figure sprawled across the video wall, he began thusly:

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A word or two on Boris K.

Boris K. – The First Loser of Phenomenization

Some countries were ruled by the Inquisition. Others were subject to questionable privatizations. Boris K’s country was exposed to inexplicable phenomenizations. For Boris K, a man with no permanent occupation, phenomenization was so unexpected that he had no choice but to come to terms with it.

He got into different time periods without the use of a time machine. He found himself performing strangest of jobs without ever applying for them. He kept adapting to the situation, akin to a player advancing to the next level in an unpredictable computer game.

“What have I ever done to deserve the things happening to me?” Boris K. wondered. “I am no different than any other semi-skilled worker who got carried away by the idea of equality in our Republic. I enthusiastically neglected to further my education for the sake of blind faith in “better times” when the voice of the small, the ordinary, and the nameless would be heard as well.”

Boris K. was prepared to endure greatest of sacrifices in order to achieve this goal. As one of the deserving participants at the end of the great Revolution he was offered great benefits – which he promptly refused with utter disgust. It was against just such privileges that he had fought in the first place, he claimed, hence benefiting from them would be contrary to his beliefs. So he settled for an assembler’s job on a car factory production line, where he happily worked 12 hours a day fitting mirrors on the passenger doors.

One day he was laid off. Introduction of new technologies and reductions in work force, or at least that was what he was told; he was well aware the real cause lay in that ultimate evil slowly but surely corroding the fabric of humanity – the profit. Disposed of like an exhausted battery, empty hearted and with eyes full of tears, he moved from his humble but furnished apartment to the so-called “Lepers’ Valley”. The place was nicknamed for its inhabitants: hardly true lepers, but merely desperate souls befallen by a fate similar to Boris’ own. It was dubious in which of the two skins they would have thought themselves better off. The ancient buildings huddling together in irregular patterns, the abodes of unhappy families, were not made of concrete reinforced with Pittsburgh steel; they were built with eco-bricks with insulating layers of pure asbestos, which almost certainly guaranteed the tenants a case of lung cancer. As if there was not enough trouble in their lives.

It was in such a building that Boris K. found his new apartment. It was not the vacancy ad that attracted him, but rather the unusual appearance of the landlady – who was in a habit of swatting at the heads protruding from the adjacent manholes using the highest-circulating newspapers of the City.

“Like swatting flies,” thought Boris K, eyes fastened on a greasy rosary. Frau Suzy (as the landlady was called) and Boris K. exchanged just one glance and immediately recognized each other. Brushing his graying hair back, Boris K inquired about the price. The Frau leveled one measuring, scornful look at him, flicking the ash from her cigarette holder straight onto his hole-pocked shoe. Boris K glanced at her defiantly. Frau’s response came in a raspy, ancient voice.


It was a mantra that meant one thing and one thing only and was uttered by the old woman only on the rarest of occasions. Boris K. liked mature blondes with an attitude, so he decided he would start his mission in that very unfortunate place.

Mission? What mission?

You will find out soon enough.

* Phenomenization, phenomenosition, from fenomenon (gr. φαινόμενо, occurence), something observable but utterly mysterious and untraceble, and better kept that way.



Res Publicus Phenomesationem The people of the Republic have fathomed the secret of the phenomenization by the agency of a mysterious clairvoyant gammer: since the Parliament was hit by a lightning at the moment when there were 111 storks on the roof, 222 members in the building and 333 rants under the foundation – the famous phenomenization occured. The thoughts of storks, rats and Members of Parliament commingled in the air and fell to the ground. Thus certain individuals realized they preferred living in the sewer, others keep trying to fly and carry babies, while the rest just keep babbling about politics. Anything is possible in the land of phenomenization.


My interview at “Afirmator”, an art and social issues (questions) magazine, Belgrade, interview conducted by Tamara Lujak


Majstor kratke priče, Leila Samarrai objavljivana je i nagrađivana mlada autorka. Voli da piše, živi za književnost, sanja o tome da, poput američkih pisaca, ima svog menadžera. Inspirisana Montipajdonovcima, Čaplinom, svakodnevnom situacijom u našoj zemlji, stvara britke, šaljive, satirične priče, pune oslobađajućeg jeda i gorčine. Uronite za trenutak u njen svet.


Šta je zadatak pisca?

Zadatak pisca je da dobro piše i to je sve. Čini mi se da je to udarna teza Josifa Brodskog.

Zašto pišete?

Iz zadovoljstva, i zato što smatram da imam šta da kažem.

Odakle crpite ideje?

Jednostavno je, ja kad lupim šakom o sto, pojavi se duh iz čarobne lampe, pokloni mi se i kaže: „Izvol’te, o Magistra Ludi!“ Tad izrazim svoju želju koja mi istog trena biva ispunjena.

Šta je dobra poezija/umetnost i kako biste definisali pesničko umeće?

Umetnost je igra. Poezija je igra. Na kraju dana, ili znaš da se igraš ili ne…

Šta je za vas dobar pisac?

Dobar pisac je onaj koji se ne boji da progovori; onaj koji diktira umetnost pisane reči. Pisac koji škraba i samo ćuti i kupi hvalospeve nije ništa do dokoni čitalac. Onaj kome pisana reč ističe kroz rane u svet i pada na papir, ne libi se da da i kritiku i hvalu, tome stremi.

Šta je za vas književnost i svrha umetnosti?

Preživljavanje ljudskog roda.

Kako ste došli na ideju da napišete Borisa K („Everest media“, Beograd, 2013)?

U doba apsurdnih događaja u Srbiji, koji idu protiv zdravog razuma, nije bilo teško doći na ideju, da se u duhu Monti Pajtona, pa možda i Čaplina ili NF putnika kroz prostor i vreme, napiše apsurdna satira koja bi reflektovala stvarnost u baba Valentininom ogledalu. Pajtonovske burleske u sprezi sa kafkijanskom atmosferom na šta prvo sugeriše ime junaka, samo su neke od referenci koje grade atmosferu. Zašto kafkijanski? Zato što je Boris K. i pored svojih Džoni Bravo moći samo običan, mali čovek u sofisticiranom točkiću sistema koji melje sofisticirano, ali melje. Džoni Bravo efekat, mišice superheroja su deo komedije apsurda, jer hiperbole koje volim da koristim, ponekad i do krajnjih granica ne bih li išla na ruku apsurdu te ga naglasila, deo su komedije i komedija, da tako kažem, dobija na komičnosti.


Kako je delo nastalo?

Najpre, ako ne uzimamo u obzir naučne teorije o postojanju paralelnih svetova, u Srbiji danas takvoj kakva, nažalost, jeste, primećujemo da je za goli opstanak neretko neophodno da ljudi žive u nekoj vrsti vlastitih univerzuma, što bi Englezi rekli „deluded..“ Kreativniji razviju i do pet i šest uloga… Zar mnogi Minhauzeni ne nađoše utočište u svojim lažima? No, Boris K. nije lažov. On je nešto poput anti-zemlje. Podignut je na nivo univerzalnog junaka koji predstavlja sve ostale i date su mu, autorskom rukom, nesagledive moći, isto onako kako su mu svemoćnom rukom fenomenizacija u alternativnoj republici oduzete… Tako se Boris K. kreće kroz alternativno – istorijske svetove i njegova sudbina se razrešava u jednom SF satiričnom romanu koji je u procesu stvaranja, a sve pri susretu sa vanzemaljcima civilizacije br. 5. No, o tome nekom drugom prilikom…

Možemo li da očekujemo nastavak avantura Borisa K?

Kao neko kome je duža forma prirodan način izražavanja, priznajem da bi to bio veoma lak posao da nije veoma teško nekome kome racionalnost, matematička fokusiranost i dramaturška preciznost nisu jača strana, ali recimo da zahteva vreme da se fabula sklopi, odgovor je sledeći: biće, ideje su na svakom koraku (delim Platonov stav), možda ne tako brzo kao što bih želela. Boris K. nije samo kratka priča, on je sveprisutni avatar i portret nedisciplinovanog, premda dovitljivog kosmopolite. I zahteva samo najbolje sklopljenu fabulu, početak, zaplet, omiljenu mi peripetiju i duhovit rasplet s primesama gorke ironije na račun društva.

Na čemu trenutno radite?

Poput vajara dletom krešem jedan roman sastavljen od isprepletanih pripovesti boreći se za svaku rečenicu. Taj rad ne zahteva preciznost u smislu formirane fabule, on je sam po sebi fantazija po kojoj se budan hoda i mesečari. Roman odgovara mom pripovedačkom senzibilitetu koji se fokusira kako na radnju, tako i na nijansiranje karaktera i ima osobine magijskog realizma, te mi ide od ruke i beskrajno uživam u radu. Nadam se da ću njime ostaviti na dalekom severu, gde je lokacirana radnja, trag u snegu… za buduće naratore istoga žanra (magijske fantastike). Taj žanr oficijelno ne postoji, tačnije nije mu nadenut to ime. Postoji magiski realizam, ali ovo jeste roman iz oblasti magijske fantastike.

Savet mlađim piscima?

Ne idite utabanim stazama. Kršite šablone i setite se da je Kafka bio izuzetno nesiguran u sebe. Smatrao je da ne zna da piše, što je prikrivao histeričnim smehom (neka vrsta kompentzacije za stid) kada su ga prijatelji nagovarali da im naglas čita svoje radove. Takođe, pisao ih je pozno u noć. Ovaj savet ne morate poslušati, ako ste ranoranilac :)


Like waves of the water, “The Darkness Will Understand”, Leila Samarrai

When will the nothingness begin
When will we hear the echoes of the morning
Devoid of celerity, love and wisdom

The hour will come
To be concurrent
To be silence and flash
To be collision and creation
So through the moment of nothing
You would be born to this world

From then spread through the taste of nothing
Like waves of the water


I GET SCARED TO BE, “The Darkness Will Understand”, Leila Samarrai


The semi-darkness and solitude will vanish
I will serve alone within myself even thought I am not my own
Before wounded knees everything opens
Flowers and thoughts, stories of justice
Wanton skulls and eras without rest

God will punish me I know
But in the cramp of passion
I will not be broken by those absent

We danced the whole day
The solitude anew embraced by valleys
Above the springhead
And sin to people

I get scared to be