poezija, proza

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

note: I am a slave to the extent in which great Spartacus was, too…

A kindness died away between the pillars of
a strangely home, a distant home in someone else’s garden
there is plenty of invectives and malice here and there, and I’m tired
I am so… worn out under
the sky
the bird
they have overshadowed
the world of ruins that is mine now
be lost, be distant, between dream and life

As were all the other evils that I hugged
as were all the other evils that have surrounded me
you expelled me into the living pasture
you expelled me out the gates of hell
to serve as a faithful slave girl towards the ground
I do not hear my verses, nor the sound of their loveliness
neither the sleepless sea

Only cries are given to the recklessly break
to my reckless limbs
recklessly
to them who expelled me to my pacha
to them gripped by cruelty
in water falls that grow in morning sunlight
in yesterday’s paradise
in the freshness of May

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leila, poetry

Defeat

Through savannah and Karakum
one hundred thousand
deaths are riding
to the throne of Kazakhstan

Xerophytes from Kiev
welcomes Master of the Urals:

“We fell down without delievering
the best we could
the best we had
on cavalry
I cut out Kyiv
but,
saline glory looks pale, is fading”

When she heard this
river huddled
among the bowel from the Hetman

at dusk
all died down
all Cossacks
have fallen
assigned to the cruelty

Along the steppe
boomed and thundered
in a flood of
river Nadja

As I walk I am crying
as I walk I’m laughing

This water is born anew

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Uncategorized

THE PARTY AT THE BANKSY’S

dedicated to poets and to all those who feel that way

1.

THE LETTER OF PURE REASON ADDRESSED TO BANKSY COVER POET BAND

You can not destroy the Thing.
you are unable to choke it as you like to asphyxiate the human form
ashes to ashes, dust in the mouth, there is a tongue inside or
a thin chord, of the monster – monster mute
after a large cut-off

But you cannot stop the Thing
as you can not stop the body to penetrate into the body,
nor to pause an air to mix with an air, it flows…
into the water, water moves through the water, a wave will cover the wave
at death’s door,
demise is behind a word, vain, the syllables cannot waive her part

2

THE PARTY AT THE BANKSY’S

While sipped Bollinger at fiscal cash register,
they saw a monster riding the cumulus
no, monster cannot ride a cumulus
logic finds monsters cannot ride a cumulus
the monster came down from cumulus
thus, the nouveau poets and the monster met
at the fiscal cash register, dancing and sipping together

After a drinking session, they tied monster and portrayed him
at the circus performances
because monster does not riding cumulus
a man may be ashamed looking at the face from the monster

3

WHO FEAR PERSECUTION BY BANKSY COVER POET BAND

Nouveau riche are looking for the word to cage her
how can one cage the word?
the perfect crime for better sales
but you cannot kill the word
for word is the thing and the thing is the monster
as you cannot trap the monster that is riding cumuli

imaginary, vague, impossible
fantasma is dancing in the field of nerves quickly, of
one nervous writer and hid in in his book
inside the book is scratching monster, bound in a story

You cannot kill a book
all you can achieve is that she, with her torn sheath,
hides herself in solitude, reading herself
looking into the wild heart from the sky
and be happy.

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The Word in me.
the Music in me.
the Monster in me.

Sure you could get your clows on the book
and ripped her to pieces, sending it into the shadow and trade…
(How much you are strong!
Persistent, especially)
the word pops up from the book,
hops in the air and disappears among the cumulus, screaming:

“God is calling.
God is poetry. Hurry up, Banksy!”
“God’s calling Banksy?”

The Banksy cover poet band has to go to church because it was written
that in the beginning was the Word
so the logical thing to seek the in a church
piety has changed shape.
The Thing had to be quiet, but at least she escaped pests
and this time.
Maybe you are wandering where is she now.
I am looking at her, we are smiling to each other
boocoo dinky dow, she cooes, my sweet little monster

Although ..
Have you ever considered the possibility to kill the Writer?
or is not necessarily.
they are mostly on Banksy sale.

A sell out. Somebody who comprimises their integrity, morality and principles for money. It is commonly associated with attempts to increase mass appeal or acceptability to mainstream society.
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poetry

Night and an open door, Leila Samarrai

Night and an open door
Spook takes over my head
I see your eyes
Judgment hour – accurately measured moment burns away
I see your eyes
They do not belong to me alone

I threw my soul
Those are the irises of the breeze – yell the dark mirrors
Used up voices grow from blood
They knock over trees by crawling

You return
Roughly wetting the sanctity of my lips
I
Mute and stiff on the threshold
Bitten by the first pain
I spew snake venom

Those are perhaps the silence of your hate and my oblivion
In truth
Neither you, neither me, neither communion

Neither sailors
Left on the lost spectral shores
Neither the cry of ships in the night
Or is it a song of violent love

She is never left voiceless
Even when unheard

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poetry, proza

Poem 1 of the The Exorcise Trials: Leila Samarrai

Exorcise Trials

Poem 1

1

ME

You dare to talk about the psyche?
You think I lack stamina for twenty-five push-ups?
What do you know of a woman?
Are you thinking of Psycho as Isolde
Or Juliet perhaps?
The ones who received Aphrodite’s curse
To be beautiful, but lonely?
She’s a vengeful bitch
But still so pretty…
Now go and look where her hands are…
I, The Goddess Of Yelling, I… scream
DIE and dumbbells drop
They call me Dame Judi Dench of the gym
I cut off The Venus’ limbs with my voice
Inside I’m just a few pieces of broken statue
I want to be like Aphrodite of Milo
To be sold to the French at a good price
If only some farmer from Melos had unearthed me
Like her, I’d be in the Louvre, beautiful and exposed
Instead I sweat and toil in a man-made gymnasium
Counting to ten over and over

Aphrodite de Milo:

Dear Sister

I have a part of the left hand and an apple
I am Eva, now, immovable
with lust in this boring paradise

That is my trial.

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