poetry, proza

Mary Of Bethany, an unmercifully wicked sinner

LEGEND OF “THE LEGEND OF THE CURSED MOTHER, MARY OF BETHANY, A HEARTLESS SINNER”

Author’s note: The function of the religious references in my poetry is solely archetypal. I’m not otherwise particularly interested in religion, aside for its educational purposes, nor am I at all religious.

Cursed Mother, Mary Of Bethany

A sinner she, stoned to death for whoring, for the Lord made her unable to conceive; caught in the act of fornication with other women, for witchcraft, for an attempt to murder her husband with the soup of slain swans; her sins are many, and she is but one of many sinners

 And what can she say, Mary, the spat-in-her-face mother?
she – heiress of the firstborn whore in the city?
the Bible’s bad girl
Barren?
A prostitute?
A heartless sinner?
give her beauty and truth, to ruin them
cut off her Rumina’s breasts, to soak her wounds with tears
let thorns grow within her belly instead of children, she will bleed…

This is poetry of the rebellious blood
in insurgency

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MARY:
My ghostly eye was pointed at a thick
thorn that burst out of my body and continued growing…
a thin beam of sunlight turned it into a vampire limb for raping of human souls

O, you vampiric slingers!

Do the Prophet’s words not haunt thee?

Dear husband, do the devil’s sneers not haunt you?

Cast not your stones at my eyes!

 l, an infertile woman with
slit chest
I, Mary Of Bethany, an unmercifully wicked sinner
I hug my children under the tongue of the sky
in the celestial womb where
all my unborn children lie hidden
and the resurrected body of this world and all other worlds
and drops of milk running down my swollen breasts
blessed,
I nourish my castaway children under the star–spangled sky and refresh them with bloody bile and wine

I am a feminist drag King Of Heaven
Praise Jesus.

Thwack thwack thwack

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poetry, proza

Thus spoke my mother, Leila Samarrai

Thus spoke my mother.

Seek no longer the soil
Forgotten among the trees
Under which you were born

In the chosen night
When the grasshoppers flew away from the terraces
Into the heap of voices filled with hatred
Directed towards me

Silent mother
Not even a sound to flicker within me
How could I have known
About the other side of maps

Are they coming yet to take me
Rooted in the last morning of a bullet

I arise barefoot
The sea is frightened
Like ground from thunder

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poezija

The signs along the path are the only thing left for you, “The darkness will understand”, Leila Samarrai

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You do not grasp – the spilled blood is chiming
From unveiling you wrongfully dread
In agony of you yourself
While we pine atop Grecian terraces.

Daughter
Still rivers are audible in endeavor
And at that conjoined

In mirrors is the road to land of dead
And worshippers of the chronometer
And the unachievable bloom of summer

Put the pigeon on the fire my daughter
We are going to satiate ourselves
Grasshoppers as well my daughter
Before they abandon us through the windows

I forefeel that the unreliable man
quiets his breath and embarks on the way
of Beauty, Ordinance and Wars

The signs along the path are the only thing left for you

 

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