prose, Uncategorized

Writer

When you have stories, you always have your family. They will always be your priority. Your responsibility. And a writer… a writer writes. And he does it even when he’s not appreciated.. or respected… or even loved. He simply bears up,.. and he does it… because he’s writer.

www.facebook.com/leilasamarrai7

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Uncategorized

Kitty Kisses, to my beloved tomcat Spartacus

.12605331_173741199648543_3422781219120191768_oFluffy, curly-headed, looney ball!
He jumps upward and bounces off the walls.
Thwack! (Kerplunk)
Then he curls up, snoring in his sleep.
(Huuuuuuuhh. guhrrrrrrr huuuu grrrr grrrgrrr…..siiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii…)
He is such a such a noble cat!

Sometimes I call him Gerard Erickson.
Sometimes I call him Sanders Pennington.
He speaks, cat, dog, human:
‘Tomcat, are you going to eat the dog’s leg, perhaps? ‘ (rub, rub, up-tail)
‘Sspurr -ior! But.. I would paw – fer beef steak.’
(Huuuuuuuhh. guhrrrrrrr huuuu grrrrr)
‘Are the chicken wings too bad for you? ‘
(blglglblglllgbbblglblgllbgglgllghghghghh)
A roasted mouse in the microwave?
‘Disa-purr-! , slave! ”
(P – KIIIIIIIIIHHHHHHHHHHHH! ! !)

Before that, scratch my elevator – butt!
Then he turns, in Dead Mousie pose, and clumsily mumbles orders:
‘Open My door’
‘Close My Window’
‘No, do some ‘Prairie-Doggin”!
‘Do some Cat – Dance! ‘
Both left feet moving
Then
Both right feet moving
‘Walk like a cat, you, clumsy camel!
Think like a cat!
More kitty – like! That’s it.
More kitty – like.
More more cattitude!
You have no style, let’s get you to ballet! ‘
He sings soprano (Mrrrowwww. Mrrowwww. mrrrrrowwwww.)

‘Merry Meow Birthday, my Batler, where are you?
Happy Meow, too you, too!
Fetch me my slippers!
Pass on my reading glasses!
I have to get my higher degree.
Heeeeeeere kittykitttykittikitttykitty!
Heeeeeeere kittykitttykittikitttykitty!
Heeeeeeere kittykitttykittikitttykitty!
Go kitty! …Off’

Winding Up
Digging In
Revving Up
Once he is in his cat – cradle
I am telling him tales to his fluffy tail
He is my, fur real, Claw-some friend
He is my dearest and purrrr-fect son
Arm to paw
Cheek to cheek
Heart to heart
Lips to muzzle (mwahhhh)
(Lub-dub…lubdub….lub-dub… Lubdub….)

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poetry

Love, do you believe in love?, PART ONE

I, invisible goddess, I envy unloved goat-nymph
on Greek islands
Let me and my invisible do more harm to visible
unlanguage me, but do not make me play the harp to Harpy
Her name is Love.
Hear me mortal’s. twist your sights
demigods, taste my riptide
wrought pen of magic fire
On behalf of this sword and in the name of the ocean
the tides are turning, love is changing her place
the Love is not looking for a place under the sun
the Love does not seek the city under water
the Love does not get the wrath of Poseidon
Hecate, I am diving into the fog, for I see your monsters
in the mist …
Love, do you believe in love?

 

END OF PART ONE

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Uncategorized

In the mirror

 

In the mirror

 I see Suns long passed
the breath which wipes away the glass contours
is frightened and uneasy
The Moon – what a sensitive parasite that is
If I lunge at the mirror
I will crack my tooth structure
I’ll consume the Suns, devour the Moon
Rend asunder hesitant bodies
I hate you, you, you, and you,
though I love all of you
you and you and you.

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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

The Perfect Love

I’d give you the perfect love
and the wretch, without which there would be no perfect love
I’d give you a night that has yet to be born
and morning with vile intentions that has not happened yet

I’d give you lavishly morning in the wasteland
I would given you all the sweet languages
and all the shapes that were slowly matured in me

I’d give you them, wolves and jackals
and Beethoven’s Ode to Joy
and Belgrade on fire from which I
managed to escape,
roasted, skinned and cooked
I would give you Heaven and Hell

I’d give you the fire
and the quiet joy
and the child’s language

All that is both happy and sad
and wounds that emerge from the mud
and my childhood
and my father whose hands killed me twice
and his words were rubbed into the places that hurt

I’d give you my luxuriously morning in the desolation
and feeble tail surfaces in the text
and truncated chairs in my poems

I’d give you everything!

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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

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 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 Lion’s 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

Excerpt from a poem “The love that never dies”, Leila Samarrai

*

She rode the Lion’s 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
*
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

 

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