poetry, proza

Slavery in Serbia, from the perspective of a Serbian’ resident alien, Leila Trajkovic Samarrai

A kindness died away between the pillars of
a strange home, a distant domicile in someone else’s garden
there is plenty of foul language and malice here and there, and I’m tired
I am so… rectum-rapingly worn out under
the sky
the bird
the overshadowed fowl
this ruinous world, mine as of late
Shepherds!
you expatriated me into the living pasture
you expatriated me out the gates of Hell
to serve as a maidservant faithful to the earth laden with the mites of May

To those who expelled me to my pasturage
to those within cruelty’s sphinctery grip
in waterfalls that grow in the morning sunlight
in yesterday’s paradise
in the freshness of Day

 

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proza

The scream of butterflies, edited version

The scream of butterflies 

It is like a desert where time isn’t told by clocks
it is like the crevice for the jailer to peer into a cell
it is why the birds, to me, have no name
it is the cause of my timid disruptions
it is the cause of my fallen kingdoms
It is not a creature known to human heart
that remains unmentioned amid my words.
SERBIA.

in this land that is not even my own
in this land where proud Palm Readers tell fortunes
(I might say that Serbia is a witchly soil
but there is no magic inside it)

Can I even be alive?
within the poem that screams while singing

(a witchly silence)
me, a flower studded in silence

If I have to die here
leave me to open up in silence
I, a strained water
I, a chained tree
I, a shepherdess in the witch forest
I, the mutes well of
a dying swath or mad, screaming butterflies
yes…

Bitterness? Or purity?
deceptive ventures
and useless experience
you have set in stone my human loneliness

Let us out of here, miss S! ..!!!! (scream of butterflies)
let us fly through
your sullen azure arch
In return,
we’ll celebrate you as a jailer
on the 25thanniversary of your hammer – existence, scavenger
we will glorify you, we… we, the winged corpses in the pit.

This night of torture
this dawn of tamed passion
this heartbreak soil.

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poetry, poezija

POUR EVE, Dedicated to Eva Gaëlle Green (Gren), Leila Samarrai

Dedicated to Eva Gaëlle Green (Gren)

We the odd ones
We the selfsame ones
We are both
An ugly, broken thing.

Loosen the grip, o shocked goddess
femme recherché
laisse-moitranquille
Tis all in the foam
In thine shell

Adam’s member
is a snake which
sheds its skin
a maggot in a pink apple

I water the rage
With soft, tricked tears
Don’t cast your pearls
Before the phalluses

I depart for the graveyard of forbidden delights

 0353320

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satire

Leila Samarrai, A poem about a crocodile

In the dreadful crocodile land
Something odd is always at hand
Quickly, swift, a non-stop jerk
Is this bold dragons’ constant smirk

They’re strongest with bellies filled
Drunk on blood of men they’ve killed
Out of Nile’s vast delta here
Three dreaded crocs did appear

Through an Adriatic slit
Two more whales came, via Split.
Two Siberian beasts more
Reared out of Mulyanka’s shore

From Mulyanka of Perm Krai
Russian, then Italian sky
Crocs their freedom do not lack
Down the Sava-Danube track

Gathered ‘low a bridge’s bend
Suicidals near their end
These beasts roam about the town
One fierce bite has me pinned down

As they swim and float around
Pin-like their eyes I have found
Meaty prey sniffed by their noses
Sharp-toothed jaw said prey encloses

I’ve a deal with them worthwhile
Cro co do co lo do rile
May their trio boldly hop
And on horny scuta drop

May blood-showers flow like ale
Lubricating our scales
One life but one Euro’s worth
Our words but empty pits

Hollow caves our stomachs sit
More cash for twos we commit
I’ve a deal with them worthwhile

Cro co do co lo do rile

Down their shoulders I descend
Embracing them with my arms
My tummy is going nuts
Hunger dancing in my guts

Already they’re set to drop
Already by waves they’re called
Why waste thought? Use this dilemma
To toss this human Kinema

To the current evergoing
Hell-way they gave, full well knowing,
Dreams that they had all perceived
It’s quite gruesome, this whole plot

Now life has it, then has not
What does my arm small and lean
Embracing their waistlines mean
Even killers feel depressed

Post doing what they do best
I meandered into titles
Which I find to be mere trifle
But who’s bloody all the while

Moreso than a crocodile
Who will pay the deal enisled
Other than the crocodile
Watch thyself oh murderer

Suitable and pick-of-litter
Are cutwaters none the fitter,
Windshields and the lightning rods
Are but desperate roughneck sods

And their circle-natured days
As they float livid and dreamy
One drunk sailor, brave and scheme-y,
Swims across the river’s dirt

Two oars tied around his skirt
Sings away the filthy Beast
Bathed in the light of East
With a fiery yelling slope

Right then he sang: “I give hope.”
Golden wings upon his back.
My deal is rendered futile
From my present crocodile.

Come another chilling morrow
I will seek a new tomorrow
Past the bridge and midst of branches
Where tangles a wrinkly road

Rage about my gold grows hot
Which I withdrew from the slots
This strange body, livid, frail
Chisels open this whole pail

Living dead man lets out shrieks
Mercy is what this one seeks
We vomited from the bridges
Till at twilight what we knew

Was a perfect scenic view
One whole city at our palms.
Belgrade cracks before our eyes
Statue-shadowed, it’s alight

Eternal is this vignette
Of a fiery townsman’stête
Under Victor’s statuette.
Our deal, though, is most worthwhile

Ro co do co cro co file

Gentle mom frightens her child
With a carcass most reviled
They rend those who cannot swim
New age jumpers, wretches dim

Slime and lees the water sweeps
One life, joyless, Death doth reap
In the slimy croc-filled dip
The beast took my blood’s turbid sip

One black freckle graced my leg
Their three lids are snow-filled kegs
Two icicles slipped mid-stream
From agape, cold Nile, it seemed

Wherein formed an iceberg vast
Empty trash can, of crocs past
Wicked that have fled erstwhile
No more delta formed by Nile

All its force now in exile
Emigrants on nightly mission
Clatter on with sharp dentitions
And their bodies slither slow

Pays up, then comes to me quick
To get my whole body licked
There’s no flight, no submarines
Nemo quisquam captain-like

Nor a sailor, one whose looks
Dwell in Jules Verne’s famous book
Nor hope in the light of day
Which mid-hearts doth lives and stays

While we were so full, nubile
Prior to the crocodiles…
Prior to the crocodiles…

Cap’tayneNemo, come to us
Up close comes the Nautilus
Maybe there is hope, I chime
To engender a new rhyme

And while beasts all roar and flail
Let’s elope towards a new tale

Do come closer, do come closer
Worry not, worry not
You are but a child, you are
Squeal and weep and spew some snot

Even though a child you’re not
Trudge, step all over the valley
For your shepherd follows by
Should I try and throw the die?

But, that number falsify
For the croc doubts aught and low
Taken by his mighty stench
That the killer up and went

Boat amid the night blood fled
With it filled the riverbed
And exchanged the Euric lead
Guate’s cute asylum spiel

Now I must break our deal
Cro co do co lo do reel
(Cò?)
Do co cro co ro do KILL!

quote-the-creatures-outside-looked-from-pig-to-man-and-from-man-to-pig-and-from-pig-to-man-again-but-george-orwell-308922

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poetry, poezija, proza

Commentary on the poem Rabbi Isa, deliver me NOT from evil, by Leila Samarrai – Ljubodrag Stojanovic, Serbian writer and poet

https://leilasamarrai.wordpress.com/2016/06/12/rabbi-isa-deliver-me-not-from-evil-leila-samarrai-edited-version/

Regarding this poem, Indifference will be a feature of those who, in fact, have not read it. Others will praise or reviled it, the opportunists may growl a word or two turning the conversation to another topic. I think the poem is emotionally open, strong. Babylonian mix of languages is not an obstacle.

Jesus is presented beautifully, that primal Jesus, not through his alleged representatives on Earth, embodied in the make – money organization, as well as power and authority. Oedipal part, although in Father-Daughter relation is the most obvious
in King Richard part, where persistently repeat, like introduction to Ravel’s Bolero, echoes in head of the reader, insisting to be awakened by a Mother from nightmare in this shamelessly and father – less world.
There is a very strong part in conjunction with androgynous snake.
The snake is deeply connected with the Father’s part.
The absence of a King in her life has built a structure prone to resistance to the male part of the world. She identifies herself through the male power, so to speak, trapped in a woman’s body. Hence the emotional affinity
targeted at women.

The lack of a living father, coward without responsibility, on one hand, polarizes her personality since, on the other hand, there is a great dose of love for the aforementioned king, hence simultaneous hatred which initiates ambivalent emotions, hence the lyrics. Anger is directed towards the male gender, and rage against women is turned only to those primitive, deeply stupid and perverse women, ie, those that deserve it with that kind of personality

Jesus is the Father, a kind of father should be. Get up, girl! Jesus, as we know him from the New Testament. He encourages, forgives and does not judge. He prefers sinful children, prostitutes, revolutionaries, thieves, from bland people.

But she does not want protection from evil. She considers herself strong enough to stand up to evil, but rather only to refuse protection, she accepts evil as part of herself, what Njegoš would have said, to do evil, to defend yourself from evil, there is no atrocities in such things.

The choice of location is interesting, selected by Nightmare itself which is logical. If a dream-nightmare is ego and superego compromise, than the sequencing of the images is a universe in itself where there is no time and space.
Splendidly divided in thematic terms, your poem is a circle that folds and unfolds herself, she can exist independently, but as a whole she is rounded and as such she gets her real meaning.

 

Ljubodrag Stojanovic, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=73i-fGeWBUo, Serbian writer and poet, he has published the drama Serbian Story (2002), a collection of aphorisms
I, crazy and confused (2009). He is represented in numerous printed and electronic anthologies of poetry and prose works.

https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100011126642029

https://twitter.com/childebyron

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poetry, proza

Komentar na poemu “Ne izbavi me od zla”, Ljubodrag Stojanović, književnik

https://www.facebook.com/notes/leila-samarrai-green/ne-izbavi-me-od-zla/249775012045161

https://leilasamarrai.wordpress.com/2016/06/12/and-deliver-me-not-from-evil/

Prema ovakvoj poemi, ravnodušni će biti samo oni koji je nisu čitali. Ostali će je hvaliti ili kuditi, oportunisti će možda promumlati dve ili tri reči i okrenuti razgovor na drugu temu. Mislim da je poema emotivno otvorena, snažna, ne smeta vavilonsko mešanje jezika. Divan prikaz Isusa, onog iskonskog, ne putem njegovih navodnih reprenzenata na Zemlji i na zemlji, oličenih u organizacije za zgrtanje novca, vlasti i moći. Edipalni deo, doduše u odnosu Otac-Ćerka, najizrazitiji je u delu o Kralju Ričardu, gde uporno ponavljanje, poput uvoda u Ravelov Bolero, odzvanja u glavi čitaoca, insistira, traži od majke buđenje iz košmara u bezOčnom i bezOtačnom svetu.

Postoji izuzetno snažan deo sa androginom zmijom.

Zmija je duboko povezana sa delom o ocu.

Nepostojanje kralja u tvom životu je izgradilo strukturu sklonu otporu prema muškom delu sveta.  I prepoznavanje sebe kroz mušku snagu, uslovno rečeno, zarobljenu u žeskom telu.Otuda i emotivni adinitet usmeren ka ženama. Nedostatak živog oca, kukavice bez odgovornosti, sa jedne strane, polarizuje ličnost, jer, sa druge strane, postoji velika doza ljubavi prema pomenutom kralju, otuda istovremena mržnja što inicira ambivalentne emocije, samim tim i stihove. Bes je usmeren ka muškom rodu, dok je bes prema žnama okrenut samo prema onim primitivnim, dubinski glupim i izopačenim, odnosno, onima koje svojom ličnošću zasluže.

Isus je Otac, ali onaj kakav bi otac trebalo da bude. Ustani, devojko! Isus kakvog znamo iz Novog zaveta. On bodri, oprašta i ne osuđuje. On više voli grešnu decu, prostitutke, revolucionare, lopove, od mlakih ljudi.

Ali, ona ne želi zaštitu od zla. Ona smatra sebe dovoljno snažnom da se suprotstavi zlu, ali, ne samo to, ona prihvata zlo kao deo sebe, što bi rekao Njegoš, zlo činiti, od zla se braniti, tu zločinstva nema nikakvoga

Interesantan je i izbor lokacija. Noćna mora ih sama bira….Ako je san-košmar kompromis ega i superega, biće da je nizanje slika svemir za sebe i u sebi gde ne postoji ni prostor ni vreme.

 

Tematski sjajno podeljena, tvoja poema je krug koji se sklapa i rasklapa, može poszojati samostalno, ali kao celina deluje zaokruženo i dobija pravi smisao.

Ljubodrag Stojanović, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=73i-fGeWBUo, književnik i pesnik, Objavio dramu Srpska Priča (2002), i zbirku aforizama I lud i zbunjen (2009). Zastupljen u brojnim štampanim i elektronskim antologijama sa poetskim i proznim radovima.

https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100011126642029

https://twitter.com/childebyron

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poetry, proza

Poem Of Babel, Leila Samarrai

NAHUA

It is a place of seven caves
Somebody calls me by my name.
It was the Hueyapan vicar:
“Diego”, – he told me – down there in aztatltlan(tli), the Nahua tribesmen
Cut people up
In pieces.
A sacrifice, Diego, it is a sacrifice.
Chicomostoc… (rhythmic drumming)
Rabbi Isa, Rabbi Isa… (rhythmic drumming intensifies)

RICHARD THE CANNIBAL KING

He took rothers and left the stede, that is the King!
The Cannibal King, For the King is the great power
that overpowers the great power that overpowers
the powers the great power
that overpowers the great power that overpowers the powers
Unis,Unis, Unis
Mother, mother, Mother who is Father, awaken me!
Fear not the nightmare, my child, but sing praises to her(demonic laughter)

SUDD MA’RIB

Selena is reading the spells from the Book of the Moon
Blood, my heart, my bill, me in a pool of blood
Ruinous, violently, I bounced my moist body
Towards the tambourine stars
u sudd Ma’rib, la ciudad perdida, *The lost city (esp)
my bane, in the pit, an engine-maker, a prophet, my salvation
mydeca, are – pr – pour.. pour, pour..
my blood
my bane
my heart
my salvation
Abwûnd’bwaschmâja *Our Father, Aramaic
Abwûnd’bwaschmâja
And to this the Rabbi told me:
Talita kumi. *Stand up, lass, Aramaic
l’ahlâmalmîn. *Amen.
L’ahlâmalmîn.

EGYPT

Yet another dream…

I was born
The Goddess of Air and Invisibility
I was born and died a virgin of the Ogdoad
me, Amunet, the female hidden one
the androgynous goddess, the serpent, the lesbian
goddess of graves and coffins
and the moonlight cast by Iah made my dream illumined
I am the nightly vision written of in Anacreontea
Take me to your bedding, if you want your woman to love you
Your hands quiver, but they know how to caress
Kiss that bit of the body where my eyes divert
Of the tombstone
In the dark land, in a bloodied area, in the riverbed
You will be reborn
In the Ogdoad, you will be reborn
In the sudd Ma’rib, you will sing thy love and thy life.

TALITA KUMI!

Fear mourned me
Horror clawed at the cheeks
The spasm of fear is as hard as a quince

(love is a bone breaker, the Dream is interrupted)

SERBIA

“I know what I’ll do. I’ll give you a drachma!”

While the landlady waves with the electricity bills in hand
She’s looking at me as if I were her lamb meant for the slaughter
but, I am a she-dreamer of beautiful lips
Jesus understands me, we speak the same tongue
Amunet understands, she would hold me in her generous embrace
The cities understand, the blindness understands, the blood of the innocents understands
While I cast the curse of the fiery tongue on the Daemonion
After I’ve sacrificed my own world to the world outside
She burned at the spot, bills in hand and all…
O, how we do not forgive our debtors.
And glory be to the hellish tower of slaves!
glory! Amen oh Babylon
I walk thy streets, bare and free
Rabbi Isa, deliver me not from Evil.

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prose, proza

Ljubodrag Stojanovic, on “The Artists” story by Leila Samarrai

What  I exceptionally like in your writing, is the top dislocation of epochs and people, an erudite toying with the documentary and imaginative, unpredictable, magnificent imagination and brilliant dialogues. No need to be Tagore to enter the ruins of your worlds and mazes, where  Mozart and Trier face, as well as Wagner and Bach or Bachs. You use time and space as toys, sometimes as means but not an end (goal), well before limbo in which, in fact, does not exist. In your necropolis living people live their lives, while dead or inanimate are walking the streets, and these dislocations seem quite convincing, realistic, and even logical. Such writing and you as the author, deserve much greater number of readers, because the fate of the poem-letters-the story is not to remain silent nor the fate of brilliant writers to be silenced.

Ljubodrag Stojanovic

http://www.alma.rs/autori/lj-stojanovic.html

 

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prose, proza

Umetnici, The Artists

UMETNICI, Leila Samarrai Green

This is the story of two artists, male and female, they are the actors in an unusual film scene, including even crazier scenario, a motive for the shooting is totally avant-garde, and satirical, in the best manner of Lars Von Trier. I was inspired by Eva Green, a bit and her “story” with famous Danish director, but the story is genuine. Unfortunately, I do not have an interpreter, so who doesn’t know Serbian, he/she will have to wait.. 😦

***

“Pažljivo sam pročitao tekst o Vagneru, gospođice. Vrlo strastveno, silovito. Baš zato što nisam vagnerijanac, dozvolićete mi (nadam se) da iznesem neka kritička zapažanja.”

Mary Lynne je sebi dopustila sitan smešak i prekrstila noge za stolom.
Muškarac se svesno naprezao da ne gleda u njene krasne, vitke noge.

“Tekst počinjete udarno, naslovom koji gađa usred srede, bez okolišanja. Čitaocu se učini da ćete… ćeš… – njegov namrgođeni izraz je smekšao – već u prvom, pa već u drugom pasusu razraditi, argumentovati kvalifikaciju koju si iznela… snela.. avaj.. oh bože, izgubiću se… u naslovu, da tako se to kaže, U NASLOVU!, načas se pribrao i počeo da udara glavom o sto– a ono ništa.”
Kažeš da se iživljavao na bližnjima i na kolegama, ali da ne možeš da navedeš nijedan konkretan primer, jer nijedan zapis ne postoji, ili nije obelodanjen. Čudno, upita se čovek: a otkud onda smelo tvrđenje da je čovek bio osvedočeni sadista, kad ni dokaza ni primera nema?

Muškarac pruži ruke ka njoj. “Oh, Maryyyy… Zadaviću teeee! Petljom od žice, bre!”

Muškarca je zgrabila panika. Uhvatio se za gušu. Vrištao je: “Zgrabila me je panika, zgrabila me je! Moram da skočim!”

I skoči na nju mrmljajući kako je uistinu nesretan.
“Gle ti nje, kako mi se daje lako! Nisi više gorda tako! Diži noge bre klado neotesana! Kad bi dunuo neki vetar pa da ti zadigne suknju, a ne sam da se mučim, još da ispadne silovanje!”

“A i bilo bi romantično”, mazno će Mary Lynne.

“Jeste, kao u Tanhojzeru. Zapevaj zapevaj mi, budi ti moja… Vilhelmina Šroder!

“Jel kao Venera?”
Umesto odgovora on joj digne desnu nogu kao da gura plug. Prebaci je preko levog ramena.

Venera zapeva:

“Oprostiti ti nikad neću jaaa
vrati mi se ako želiš srećuuu”

“Moja sreća”, zadihano će on i tad prebaci njenu levu nogu preko desnog ramena (a gde se dela druga, nije bio siguran) – Moja sreća leži u Mary!”

I dodade:
“Mislim, takođe, da bi tekst bio upečatljiviji da nije pominjan Hitler. Šta, pa nema šanse da Staljin, koji ni po čemu i nipošto nije bio manji monstrum i ubica od Hitlera, nije voleo Glinku, ili Borodina, ili, najpre će biti, Musorgskog. To ne znači da su ovi kompozitori bili zlikovci. Postoji nemala mogućnost da je Idi Amin voleo Tartinija ili Paganinija, što da ne. I kontraprimera ima: Betoven je obožavao Napoleona godinama, njemu je i Eroiku posvetio, pa se posle razočarao, digao ruke od Bonaparte.”

“Eto”, reče Mary nakon eksplozivnog završetka a la Eroika. “A sad.. hoćemo li malo Vilhelma Fridmena za moju dušu, ljubavniče?”

“Počni!” – s Marynom haljinom nadohvat ruke, on se nabrzaka obuče u žensku haljinu i našminkan i doteran u manga stilu podiže uvis dlakave noge, psujući što mu depilacijska krema Cliven nije bila pri ruci.

“Znaš koliko mi je stalo do higijenskog standarda!”, zaplakao je On.

“Ma najbolja je hladna depilacija tigar lepkom za gumu”, smešila se ona. “A sad počuj…”

“Uf…”

“Vilhelma Fridemana su napljuvali do bola. Alkos, raspikuća, umro u bedi… (UZDISANJE) Priznaju, pritom, da je bio najveći instrumentalista svoga doba. Taj je razapinjao klavijaturu, niko nije smeo da mu izađe na crtu. Biografija naoko slična nalickanim biografijama znamenitih rokera. Snimljen je, avaj, i film, mislim da je baš takav naslov Vilhelm Frideman, gde on, kao, ispašta i muku muči (UZDIŠE SVE JAČE I STRASTVENIJE) kao daroviti sin znamenitoga oca. Fora je u tome što njegov otac uopšte nije bio tako znamenit kad je Vilhelm Frideman svirao, i njegov problem nije bio ni sa očevom ni sa bratovljevom senkom (za Karla Filipa Emanuela Mocart je svojevremeno rekao: „On je otac, mi smo svi njegova deca“ (OH BOŽE!!!), što su posle nesmotreni istoričari transponovali, kao da je Mocart mislio na J. S. Baha, a nije) (OBOJE UZDIŠU I JAUČU), već sa svim onim raznim muvama, buvama i planktonima koje čine život i nas, kao živ organizam, usred tog života. Leopold Mocart, ćale Volfgangov, slikovito je i narodski opisao habitus Vilhelma Fridemana Baha: „Izvanredan muzičar, vrstan kompozitor, ali mnogo, mnogo pije.“

On je dahtao: “Hendla mnogo volim. Imam Muziku na vodi u nekoj nedokumentovanoj verziji, tako da ne znam ni ko je izvođač ni kada je snimljeno, a verzija je, jednostavno, boli glava, otkida… Slušao sam razne druge verzije, ali sve je to uglavnom šit, ni do ramena ovoj mojoj. Hendla i Telemana, inače, smatram većim kompozitorima od Johana Sebastijana Baha…”

Za to vreme, u pozadini se emitovao Lars Fon Trier – ov “Antihrist”. Prizor uda u erekciji doprinosio je čaroliji i romantici ovo dvoje. Sveće su bile suvišne pored tolikih stimulansa. Na vrhuncu uzbuđenja, jedno drugom su naizmenično lupali šamare, svađajući se koji je kompozitor bolji.

“Alkos, raspikuća, umro u bedi, alkos, ra…a….. ah, mužu, mislim da bi to za večeras bilo to”

I dok se on presvlačio u muško odelo, Mary Lynne je ispred ogledala pevušila Messiaen: Turangalîla-Symphonie (Joie du sang des étoiles), režiser Umetničke trilogije Ron Gabe Jebster skoči na noge lagane i uz jedno Kamera, stop, oglasi kraj snimanja.

“Mnogo sam ja vama umetničke slobode dao! Svega toga u scenariju nije bilo!” – zamisli se – “A sad ti, mali, donesi Mary pištolj da ti prosvira glavu!”
Tad se glumica uzjoguni: “Nismo se tako dogovorili!
Jebster je na to uzviknuo: “Niko ne preispituje moj autoritet! Već dva sata iza one tamo.. staklene pregrade.. australijski ministar kulture sedi i čeka na scenario koji će prezentovati njegova mučna zalaganja na Art Konferenciji sa fokusom na neprofitni menadžment. Naša zemlja ne može ekonomski da se razvija bez inovacija na ovom polju. I edukovanja! Šta mislite vi? Ko mi je kupio ovaj Canon EOS 6D da vas snimam. Ženo, uozbilji se i nastavi oralni, sa sve Šopenom i mužem.”

“Ali.. Mi smo UMETNICI!”
“Precenjena reč. Ja ne razmenjujem ideje s personalom. Mi režiseri slavimo živu i rastuću kreativnu privredu!”

Tada mu i On i Ona priđoše i izdevetaše ga, dok je Jebster klizio na pod u svom prevelikom odelu.

“Hoćemo li sad da nastavimo gde smo stali?”
“Misliš.. dok Ministar iza Pregrade gleda?”
“Pa posle pištolj u glavu, kao Romeo i Julija. Ili beše otrov.. ali ne cepidlačimo”
“To bi verovatno bila greška, no… kao što rekoh… umetnici smo, kolega, i u Umetnosti sretan par. Bez drame ne možemo”
” I voajeri”, rekao je neko šapatom, zaseo na stolicu gde se nalazio sad već onesvešćeni režiser i uputio im gromoglasan aplauz.
Tada svo troje nastaviše predstavu složivši se da i Suprugu treba dati kakvo takvo ime.
Mary je naglo podigla pogled i rekla: “Zvaće se Frederik. Kao naš nerođeni sin”
Niko nije imao zamerke, tako da je Frederik mogao da počne.
Ministar, koji je izgledom podsećao na glavnog majstora za struju, snimao bi nešto skupljom kamerom. Ali, pod uslovom da glumi Šopena.

“Bah Bah, The Best Boy”, oboje mu uputiše strastveni poljubac. Potom se, uz erotsku igru, zagrliše.

“Umetnici.. kakvi umetnici!”, mrmljao je Tajanstveni Putnik, Gledalac, Onaj Treći Bez Koga Se Ne Može, na umetničkom carstvu nebeskom.

Ali, Mary Lynne i Frederic su bili u zasebnom svetu, ovenčani muzikom i obdareni darom dostojnim bogova.

Kamera zazuja. Reflektori bljesnuše.

SCENA 25:

Pažljivo sam pročitao tekst o Bah- u gospođice. Vrlo strastveno, silovito. Baš zato što nisam bahovac, dozvolićete mi (nadam se) da iznesem neka kritička zapažanja.”

SCENA 26:

“…… što se porodice Bah tiče, volim Vilhelma Fridemana i Karla Filipa Emanuela, oni su zakon, svako na svoj način, ali provalio sam i neke druge likove – odličan je, recimo, Johan Bernhard Bah. U klasicističko doba istakao se Johan Kristijan Bah. Zamisli to čudesno stablo, tu familijetinu, koja se razgranavala u periodu od bogami dobrih sto i kusur godina, i davala sve zanimljive muzičke plodove. Ludilo.” (VRISAK)

REZ.

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poetry, proza

Ugovor/Уговор, Леила Самарај, Leila Samarrai

Stanodavcima, bankama, sektašima, kukavicama, seksualnim predatorima, lažnim vernicima, samozvanim književnicima, skorojevićima acca malograđanima, “racionalnima”, drkadžijama, glupacima, zlim invalidima, farmerima i drugim inim licima u busu 95tici, lažnjacima, seljačinama koji su došli iz pizde materine, doneli svoje kazane i uništili Beograd, i ako sam nekog ispustila, propisno se izvinjavam, mada sumnjam da pobrojani znaju da čitaju. Verovatno im samo ovo “pička vam materina” neće promaći…)
(stoga, prim. reč pesnikova: ma pička vam materina ukratko svima, )

 

УГОВОР

Осветољубива судбино, Исплети нову мрежу
јер мрежа којом их сад ловиш је премала
ТАД Гони их на Страшне обале
Уговор је потписан
a Задатак додељен
на руке Дохватнику!
Не штеди Грбавца док Врелина И Жеђ
злочинaца
Не испије моју освету
(Ум je помамљен ватром
(Гори, гори у дивљем пламену сурове моћи!)
Ни Терор неба са својом грубом руком да не учини
Да смртници задрхте, одвратно тихи у трци
обојеној у крв
као што ће моја гневна рука риљати по грлима њиховим
док не испусте безнадежни звук:
“Милост!”
“Зар под Терором Неба!?”
Когод се законом зверским сад усуди да
Молитву упути зажареном Богу на чијим грудима је
намучена Рана
стопало попрскано крвљу
и запаљено Срце.
Почујте:
Печат који на уговор утискујем
задатак је ДУБОКО мој.

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