Marigolds, My Wounds

Sipping wassail at the grave
of the Russian mystic,

lunacy crucified in his eye,
I knit a wreath for the vixen

suffocating next to the shaft,
gnawing the grid with her teeth,

cracking joists, swallowing
sonnets. She rode the Lion’s gate

in a low-cut dress, separated
with her axe and tossed in the pyre

the heads of the five Mycenaean bulls.
Blindness tucks me into that bier

of ravaged marigolds, wounds
serenaded in shadows

and my body, reeking,
unlike one who never dies.

Lulled within the years
a bloodied sun rises in the west.





You bite the poem under the tongue and words which made reminiscences into dust
They do not understand you, actrisa.
It is time for aktshluss

You were chewed by the populist phenomenology
Of verses devoid of poetry
In the band of false troubadours you cannot be actor primarium patrium
Aristocrat among poetesses do not forget that the Arabs divined your fate with arrows

Do not worry, Leila, I enjoyed reading your verses,
I Samira, the trade woman from the satrapy of forgotten empires
On my breasts I bared the burden heavier than the grandiose pillars from Hatra
Forever banished from the cradle of two folk I belonged to by the disfavor of Alan and Beog who found a dying city


Do not worry, Leila, with you are Greeks and Sarmatians and your name is nailed into the Grecian affiches
Announced by Sophocles on fliers and billboards of alternative theaters
And Caligula dances with your Greek single act dramas on Palatine games

Do not worry, Leila, unpopular poetess in a world which you overcame
With the miracle of discovering the secret home in which you mastered silences

Do not forget everything is a matter of injustice because there is no justice
Do not forget the world became a mine field and an insult
Do not forget another world will be chiseled by your verses of immortal longing

Do not worry, Leila, there will be time for all those who hotly growl on the mention of your name to understand

The unbearable ease of existence and the feather of your French Alexandrine.


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.


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.

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

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.



dedicated to poets and to all those who feel that way



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



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



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.


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.

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
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


Scream and Whisper, Leila Samarrai


image found here

May the screams echo. After that
The silence will stumble like a whipped wild horse;
A moment pilled inside the throat
Overpowers the yowl and endless wind
That whimpers down the roads of land we are condemned to
In a deaf room, in a deaf night, by deaf ears
The scream in my throat is anchored
To the howling whisper.