A foot drenched in blood
And a Heart on fire.
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
Do co cro co ro do KILL!
A compelling rape poem from Serbia.
So I mature like a corpse flower
My pulchritudinous petals reach up for light
And they come to me like flies to rotting meat.
This is the world of lies
Of thirsty angels who die
While still appearing angelic
They’ve lost their shine
Have you ever been raped?
You should join me like a vampire
You’ll be bitten for a limitless life
For a never ending night of screeching sodomy…
You love me in this dress
and you don’t see my full lips nor a shirt wherein my breasts seem safer
neither eyes but a moment before succumbing
you love me in this dress
and you don’t see my bleary-eyed and yellow gaunt face
neither pieces of broken statue or pieces of paper scattered around…
you are not wonder – struck with my scream nor with my attempt to get you to escape
I am taking it off tieing it around my waist
my movements are alternately feminine and rough
I love being a woman because my body moves to the beat of music more easily
but my boyish view that you don’t see slaps the spirits of the past
frozen on the other side…
still immersed in the coloring of the unfinished image
You would do anything for me when I’m in this dress, don’t you?
don’t you see I’m naked, pursued and burned?
don’t you see my old clothes
in the blemished closet loaded with garments as barrel shotguns
a talking picture has turned into a point..
in the background was a poorly dressed wake-up call.
You love me in this dress
perhaps I could remember and arrange any piece for you.
Maybe to play it in a new dress?
Don’t miss my poem “Are You Mad, Ovid” published in the pro-resistance and anti-douche issue14 The Odd Magazine https://www.facebook.com/oddzine
You can read my poem here: https://theoddmagazine.wixsite.com/oddity14/odd-shorts
The odds are back!
Leila Samarrai uses absurdist and the elements of farce in her plays. She favors surreal short stories, horror fiction, satire and humoresque, enjoying the vaudeville style of structure interwoven with the style of “Pythonesque” stories. She has had her work published in numerous local magazines, both in print and electronic form and been variously awarded. She currently lives in Belgrade with her five cats.
.Fluffy, curly-headed, looney ball!
He jumps upward and bounces off the walls.
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? ‘
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
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.
Go kitty! …Off’
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)
I live in peregrine flesh
I think in a peregrine head
I don’t want to be stultified!
Why you write so loud?)
I have been cured
Merchants pass art
Like an abandoned church
Doubled, the painting breaks
Across the Holy place,
A kitschy stall
And up for sale
A yellowed picture of the entire family,
Manipulative and false.
Can Vanity even paint?
Even if so, what does it see
A putrid nest of the Vain man
Will grow old with them
While the blindness smirks
Bribed with applause
Follows my eyes
To the death of that morning
To the graveground of art
Where I detoured for a while
To light a candle
For its soul.
An impure cheek
Got entangled with a venal hand
The pallet is dying, the she-painter
Smugly swings (herself) at the canvas
Too much misery have I seen,
Enough to leave.
I might be Russian already,
Set in the eternal capsule and floating
Towards a Siberia of frozen veins.
The pain need not be replaced with hatred
The pain need be cast out of oneself,
Cast out by crying,
A stream of tears
Instead of blood.
So that they pour out evenly
In its inexhaustibility.
I wish to create a poem of paintings
Made more beautiful by the blade of a knife.
A gallery, vast and alight.
Of massive wood deepen the fear;
Tables with little bows, as if cut from boxes of chocolates.
Canvases framed with frail slats.
Faces are present on the exhibit
The types painted
By the vertically challenged girl-friend of pride:
They bite, they pierce…
They are our nothing,
Like our inhaled breath,
Like the exhaled one,
Loquacious and empty
(with a dislocated shoulder or two)
I wish to create a poem of a craftsman
Who paid for his work to be displayed.
I wish to create a poem of a pigsty
It being a continuation
Of a Salierian fear
I wish to write nicely, picturesquely, of the eyesore,
So much so that you could sense it, touch it,
Yet I cannot, when all is nothing
(you cannot grasp the invisible)
I threw the wasteland on and brought a map
Moving towards Vienna at dusk
Where Mozart used to play,
And now wolves cry and lie in it.
A snake stuck in the crack
Its sweet tongue-fork
While it turned the body of the megalopolis
Into a backwoods middle-of-nowhere.
Overjoyed, the apathetic world
Not gazing at the canvasses
Is showing itself to the world.
Through the pap whose turn it was
The salesman accepts the haggle.
Sad, semi-finished paintings
What has a vain hand done to you
to make it only possible through a poet’s visualization
for you to reach what you could once have been.
I see nothing on you
Other than the shining sea
And the glorious terraces where I can enjoy
The stunning view,
Only illness and death,
As if from a ruin
The defeat reeking of rotting fruit
(and someone had probably bought you as well)
I hid away in the embrace
Of the uncertain eternity,
In a dark, mum world.
I have not heard so much silence on a noisier spot
Nor have I smelled so much darkness
Even in the caverns of my heart
While in the waking nightmare, dreaming,
I was choked by a thing very much alive.
Who could speak the language
of Gods, and remain forgotten yet
unloved, a sailor
who dreamt of bridging the wings
of the earth, the blind
man who survived the sirens
and remained aloof and well known on the shore.
I swung in the rain in Hades
and torched the warrior’s burgh in windy Troy.
I cried over the misery
of a stone forgotten me, a solitary
woman in solitary confinement,
the sun of a day askew, a skeleton
waving, a bird in the pink afternoon,
my sigh shimmering towards the horizon…
My chorus burst forth
and all wishes evaporated
into the all-knowing, faded margin.
Storm raging inside,
my head aching out
a grain of salt
in this driblet of blood.
Et vous… pagans who gnawed my manuscripts,
listen to the wind of centuries
tangling the strings of a gaggle of pissed off gods.
Unloved, peckish heart!
Rainy absence on the shore
become my name!
I saw these images
on the bloodied road:
first: me falling to my knees.
Second: back on my feet, struggling.
Third: the lips of Judas.
silence, not lust nor
in darkness, fragmented, apart.
My nothingness, announced.
Everything was said,
phrases like crushed glass in the mouth,
heard only as lies,
if heard at all.
As I trudge through the light-trickled night
I wonder why, is it just me,
my heavens, my uncalmed darkness.