Dumpster Fire Press is proud to present the English translation of graphic horror novel sensation VALKIRIA…behold ancient supernatural erotica creatures and their drug addled consumption of the innocent.
Auras inhabiting robot bodies to rescue lost souls. Adam and Eve team up and a flying coffin spaceship!
Everything you ever wanted in this pornographic grindhouse biblical tale of suspense!

I first came across Samir Karimo when he first submitted to VOICES FROM THE FIRE and later DEATH BY PUNK, I was intrigued or rather dazzled by his no holds barred approach to just being out there like a splatter-punk kid beat-boxing storyteller along with his manic amalgamations of genres.

So, when he told me about this horror comic he was collaborating on with artist Miguel Angel Sanchez along with the original editor, layout and designer Felippe Arambarri…needless to say I was in for Miltonian tales jacked up on steroids and fueled by acid dreams

As you should too, harkening back to the old school VERTIGO books of old from DC with a slick manga, jump-cut action flim sprinkled with spastic mythic conceptions and cosmic inquiries VALKIRIA like it’s original creators are right when they say


Stay surreal, it’s October and the planet is on fire…



Pretty Girls

All I do is walk about them in this valley of the Sun

they’re so often

they can soften your mind

if you let them often

I often take on endeavors that profit my lifestyle

all of these remarkable beauties I encounter, thee attire their fitting, thee smiles I’m receiving on an often so soothing often right before my organic opticals I can feel their flesh before eye contact

it’s not just an imagination

this is just an actual happening quite often…

Grooves of the Solar Body touching their epidermis perfectly

plentiful burning sensations on a daily basis

just inhale how daily you’ll see short shorts with Pretty Buttocks showing

Bodily dresses promoting Katrina within my grasp, I Love this land I live in…

She enjoys strawberries I’m feeding her within my grips

Sunsets I’m showing her warming her thinking membrane

She expressed to me that she wants me to express my poetry vocally to her streams seeping to her synapses deeply I can merely touch certain women and arouse them mentally

She’s flown among this country constantly

been in strip clubs


playful magic sexually

I desire that…

Let’s make contact…

Shall we?

The Prince and The King

We started in a region of the country that had us somewhat stagnant…

We always found angles there

the rise of our empire was oncoming we never stopped we knew we were destined to be reunited when we could…

We always do things together

We always hold our own

We’re always told we are very much alike

I always feel that more empowered when I’m with him

the charisma combined is undeniable

We walk in rooms and always gather attention without a syllable spoken

 we’re Goku and Gohan amongst the universe

Scorpion and Subzero we wore them shirts together I had our symbols embedded in my Soul multiple epiphanies striking me as we continue our progress of sustaining our royalty…

as we are arising in close similitude amongst this fiery valley together

we’re searing minds with our ideas then your subconscious will hit you with a flashpoint of a memory of seeing us the burn will reoccur at any given moment as we have supplanted ourselves as individuals that our securing our thrones…

Have a conversations with us…

We speak in Kingdoms…


Slipping through the briefcase abruptly 

Hunger pain of cruel side swiped dilemma rotten tooth & all, trees blown from mountainside where goats lay w/ shepherds who point their crusted fingernails at mailmen on acid washed jeans of environmentally unsound corporate nightmares, industrious, floundering, cooler than a kumquat & just as incomplete, whereas (& this begins at home) a stray bullet enters the throat & exits the abdomen just like a daredevil film played out to the delight of no one, purposeless, like a giant in a hot air balloon or the thirty-three yrs it takes to screw in a magnolia, just long enough to disregard the wisdom of the ages to the time of a Mickey Rooney coughing fit in a drugstore in the desert w/o cops on ego trips & the dust blaring like loud speakers as comatose as a leap frog dais & a misunderstood cat on the verge of a jump, pumping the room full of the vilest perfumes gave the trained seal the utmost pleasure, while someone resembling Belinda Carlisle made a face out of juice cleanse & then ran all the way home to avoid punishment, chain linked fence of nightmares, ice man, no ma’am, look out for the falling acid rain, smells like burning flesh all over again, destined to repeat failures, the historical impulse relegated to the gutter, bowling ball shaped like Robert Desnos, releasing mustard gas just to get some attention tho & if in another fit of wailing the child could render everyone nearly utterly incapacitated, then the plan could truly begin.

Discovered rimless spectacle a triumph

frigid atlas pumping literature guts

leaving bright spared cosmetics

at the door of bestiality grunged 

butt licked w/ comforting smile

unlike a simulacrum rollercoaster

once begged shot through the ankle

shanty town stripper pole glittered

nightingale bejeweled eaten thorns

glued previous & a stingray

monogramed shirt coarse

bossed around financial aid

hum humming humbug

feeling the wind on the skull

whistling infantile peekaboo

an issue springing windpipe

flowing biblical vileness gripped

shrimp clogging throat constricted

fetishized clause living speaker phone

Because of the sounds of crickets

take my library for granted

& squeeze your blackheads numb

being shoeless meant humming

while running with scissors entailed buckets

first sail to turn an orange

could easily become a pineapple

while second knuckle sandwich

revealed victory to be opaque

Diplomatic armored car seen from space

Every folded decibel skittish

troll looks to planetary movements

for indicative surveillance guts

tho mammoth diaphragm salad bowl

then barriers benefit bare bottom knuckles

against wall covered genitalia

converts soda pop each caveat

wildlife penetrates electrified fence

well springs ponder available regalia

Polish minister of culture trips on shoelaces

calls the ambassador a wholesale jumbo jet

& then visitation rights excluded.


The Other Side of Things

I wish to see
the other side of things.
So let me be now
the masculine part
of everything.

I wish to produce semen
for mere pleasure
or for a new life.

I wish to be a plant
a rock, gay, straight
a fire log
black, white
woman, man, child, animal
and be even myself
from time to time.

I wish to be Van Gogh’s prostitute
in a wheat field with crows
and let his vagabond pencil
portray me
with a harsh touch.

I wish to be someone’s person
of trust
and be used till I’m worn out
for their needs
for their whims.

I wish to be a herald of peace
with power in my breath
and spare you all the grief.

I wish to be forever child
forever woman
forever man
forever here
forever drunk
forever laughing
forever in love.

Bitter Laugh

Time is warped and I’m just as thwarted as a minute badly spent

A homeless man elongated me his last coins
but someone else took them

Time is obscure and I’m just as dark
in my thought

Someone is laughing at my dream of social justice
and I’m bitterly laughing just the same

That man conveyed me the value of his only affordable meal
and I see beauty in it.

At Leash

Didn’t they entrust you with their lore from their tongue of death
telling you how to slay the worm that gnaws you up and sucks dry the blood in your veins?

Maybe they showed you the embers turning into ash with no further fate
but this might not be enough
if you don’t fully get the sense of Sakura at its last stage.

Are you at least aware that everything begins with the ridiculous aim of reaching out the end?

In between, there’s that thing about being loved with a love that is real only when you feel its whirling physical and mental vibrancy…

Now that you know things and how to make your moves in
this intricate maze
maybe you are aware of your peacock feather deeply stuck where it fits you the best.
But, tell me, is there any shame, any pain?

Being at leash of your undisputed chain of weaknesses
might have been fun for a while
but it only allowed you to
release with each step
the stinky trail of your swollen ego,
inebriated by your own airs…
Now you might crave for a change.




The Rules of Attraction

Leaning forward on his barstool

he telegraphs his best move.

One so obvious she wasn’t sure

if she should duck or counter punch.

Could see that he was an assortment

of all the bad DNA left over after

the good stuff had been handed out,

the mediocre stuff claimed and only

the dregs remained.

Was kind of shocked when he asked

asked her if she’d like to see his rubbings.

“Rubbings, huh? That’s a new one.”

Thought, maybe, he had conflated

erotic etchings with rubbings, whatever

that meant. He seemed dumb enough

not to know the difference between

Erotica and eratica.

So, she went thinking, what the hell,

she had taken more self-defense courses

than this guy had high school credits.

Found out rubbings were impressions

taken from headstones in graveyards,

like you actually took paper and rubbed

charcoal or something over the paper

and inscriptions appeared.

Was actually pretty cool and he had

a big collection.

Wasn’t even paying much attention

to the fact that she was in his house,

upstairs, where the bed was.

Requiem For A Dream

“She’s a maniac-a maniac

and she’s dancing like she

never did before—–“

Dancing the Samba

The Mambo

The Marimba

The Assassination Tango

Ballroom Dancing

Dancers Without Partners

Dancing in the Streets

The Locomotion

Step Dancing

Fox Trotting

Waltzing Mathilda

Slow Dancing

The Stroll

“Ellen Burstyn, how could you

play that role?”

Wired on high test speed

and no sleep, cutting holes

in the rug, dancing to a jagged

music of the spheres, a string quartet

raising lumps in your skin,

tumors new music is formed

from, plosive as the game show

host’s imploring of new victims

on stage, “Come on Down!”

and join a ghost play version

of Life no one survives, least of all,

you, stuck in the final phases of

of a lost requiem for dreams.

Ellen Burstyn, after this, none of us

will ever be the same.

Richard Farina Been Down So Long Looks Like Up to  Me

“—listening to Judy Collins

Country Joe & the Fish-Buddhist Chants-Pink Floyd-

Richard Farina’s ghost-classical spanish music

my skull cracking wide open—“

d.a. levy, suburban monastery death poem

All the spinning lights, emergencies rendered,

highway skid marks, paths of patched rubber

leading nowhere;

All the twelve string guitar pieces, harmonics                                              

for tainted voices, broken limbs, elegies for rusted beer 

cans, discarded refuse by

the cluttered ditch of dreams;

All the tattered road maps, Routes marked 66 like

jagged veins all along the battered highways

of your chest;

All the false proclamations like, “I am King fucking

Montezuma and this is the coin of my realm,”

the ravines it was screamed into, the unheard


All the Life Magazine pictorial features with Mimi,

promise suggested and never kept, the smoked

tea, fractured skull, no helmet laws necessary

then, the massive hematomas;

All the facile, forgotten anathemas of a doomed youth,

45 rpm singles in your collection like the one

by the Cheers,” He wore a black leather jacket

and motorcycle boots”;

All those lyrics that sound, now, like something sung

by the possessed, “He had a hopped up ‘cicle,

that took off like a gun, the fool was a terror,

of Highway 101″;

All that was left of your life reduced to a jagged red

line of blood on black top.

Terror in Brooklyn

The streets are a back lot movie

set, a western ghost town, are

designated to be called Brooklyn

in another lifetime, a twilit

zone where the widows of a Plaza

de Mayo are imprisoned beneath

an inverted bell jar glass, all

the names of the Disappeared

lost in the deserted, unnamed

streets of a city without an alphabet

for expressing grief.  The formerly

clear skies are temporarily free of

industrial wastes before an inevitable

soiling by an unexplained presence

of unnatural clouds; the white ones

suggesting scars in the shape of weapons

used for separating limbs from bodies,

of funeral fires for lost loved ones,

warriors, whole neighborhoods;

light poles shapes as giant awls, spears,

on empty sidewalks pointing toward

unidentifiable skeletal remains pinioned

against prominent brick walls for public

displays of where we are going, where we

have been and why.

Yo Soy Porteno

The floating bodies in a sea

of foul weathering are super-

imposed upon a dreamer’s

hat, an Escher study in mixed

media for forensic evidence,

chalk-line scenes of the crime

cutouts and imbalanced Nature.

Even asleep, the artist’s intentions

are revealed by colors he denies

in the dreaming, slow tangos for

gitano lovers, tele-novelas for

everyday living–betrayed by 

Jane Russell, Rita Hayworth, all

the Judy Garlands of the underworld;

after the last kissing of these spider

women, imported from a Martian

outback of faraway places, only

the much-abused fedora of a

no longer singing, no longer

capable of laughing detective



Translated by Azad Akkash

Every day!

Every day

I pass by the madhouse.

From the third-floor’s window,

A woman shows up.

She cries: Help, I need help!

I say to her: I need that also!

She raises a wry laugh

And asks me: Are you mad like me?

In all seriousness, I answer: Yes, sure.

She shakes her head and says:

Then we will prevail!

To her, I raise the sign of victory

That is going to be lost anyway, And I move on.

As a Kurd Would Love His Stubborness!

I love these rugged mountains and these slender rivers 

with wobbly knees pouring into their charnel house.

I love these stones that defy sunrays in the midsummer heat

and the frosty cold in midwinter chills.

I love this soil that resembles my body

and this land that foremost means the heart.

I love this dust, a coal for my eyes it is,

and this air, a balm for my lungs it is.

I love this skimpy terebinth and the fragrant hawthorn.

I love cacti and its thorns, olives and its yearnings.

I love this thin reed that serenades all the time on the riverbank,

this dark swamp where frogs continuously croak.

I love the daisy flower that resembles the whiteness of my heart,

and these tulips that fraternize with my blood.

I love these mud houses

and these tents, fluttering on the outskirts of forgotten villages.

I love this generous vine, the bequeather of grapes and wine.

I love these yellow grain spikes, the bequeather of food and bread.

I love these swaggering kite birds,

and these cicadas, continuously singing.

I love my land from top to bottom and from bottom to top,

just as a Kurd would love his stubbornness!

Tomorrow, You Will Be an Old Man

(For me, in a quarter of a century, more or less)

Translated by Sinan Anton

Tomorrow, you will be an old man

The cane, always with you

You will walk alone

You will mutter to yourself like all old geezers do

You will become obstinate, hard of hearing, and slow

You will ask for help when you need it

But no one will respond

You will dream of the past

And the good old days

While your grandson will think of the future

And days to come

You will curse this vapid generation

Repeating itself like a broken record

How wonderful our generation was!

You will be the butt of jokes in the family

They will laugh at you and your positions

Which you think are right on

Your lips will let out a sarcastic smile

Whenever they mention words like “stubbornness”,

“Vigor”, and “faith in the future”

You might even laugh

Your bones will soften

Illnesses will roam freely in your body

Without permission

All your desires will be extinguished,

Except the desire to die

There will be no friend or a companion

Loneliness will be your support and comrade

I Don’t Care How or Where I Die

Translated by Solara Sabah

I rest my head on the rock of the oblivion.

Like a chorus, I echo the saddest song as follows:

I don’t care if I die poor or poorer than the poorest people of the world.

My two children are eating apples and chewing on pomegranate seeds.

This is most important!

I don’t care if I die.

Then I will wake up, walking alone in my funeral.

I don’t care if I never wake up.

My two children are whispering to each other with joy and happiness

as if they were two lovers.

This is most important!

Sargon Boulus had passed away in Berlin alone

as he was always alone;

reeled in to the brink of death as if he was a drunken Angel.

He was sick.

As a forgotten Prince,

Kamal Sabti died in a sofa in his home in Holland.

Ageel Ali had passed away on a sidewalk

as if he was formed to be the crown of all the homeless.

Mahmoud al-Braikan was killed with the knife of a thief.

He was a lighthouse, guiding the pirates to his penniless pockets.

Then why should I care if I die in a bar, ballroom,

cabaret or in the arms of a whore in a brothel?

My two children are eating French fries with mayonnaise.

This is most important!

I don’t care if I die by drowning, burning, strangulation, 

slaughter or by committing suicide with carbon monoxide,

like my sister Sylvia Plath.

I don’t care if I am put to death on my birthday,

like my brother Dilshad Meriwani, the strange angel of Kurdistan.

I don’t care if I die hungry, imprisoned or under the wheels 

of a reckless train, like my spiritual twin Attila József.

I don’t care if I am murdered in the hands of a mob,

like Lorca, or hanged like Hasan Mutlak, “Dabada” of Baghdad.

More importantly, my two children are okay!

And I write simple farewell love poems,

inspired by the flirtation of the waitresses

and the beautiful young girls, passing in front of the café.

My two children are playing.

My daughter is combing her Barbie’s hair,

and my son is riding his tiny motorbike.

This is most important!

I don’t care if I am stabbed with a treacherous knife

or given a dose of venom, like my uncle Socrates.

I don’t care if my death occurs in Athens, Berlin, Beirut, 

Damascus, London, Madrid or beautiful Washington!

Cities are similar.

Death is a wandering dog, prowling along the skylines.

My children are rolling a ball-like planet,

and they seem fascinated by it.

This is most important!

I don’t care if I die homeless in exile, achy, sad or drunk

or stabbed by friends’ tusks, like most poets.

It is important that in this moment

I’m listening to Maria Callas.

Deep down, my inner self is soaked in her melodious voice!

And my two children are sleeping innocently, it’s amazing.

This is most important!

I don’t care if I stutter with a drool

or sail through the madness swirl,

like my companion Cioran,

roaming the night due to insomnia,

putting my fate in the hands of coldness and delirium.

My two children are smiling in their sleep,

dreaming, perhaps about birds or butterflies.

This is most important!

I don’t care if I live or die!

It makes no difference!

Death is the departure of the soul.

I lost my soul a long time ago in the forests of the oblivion.

Why should I care now?

I don’t care!


Part-time Cartographer Takes a Call

Midwest Telecom ringing off
tones from the telephone receiver
beckoning a response from the captain
as he teleports himself toward the entrance.

A spike in volume sputters out its tiny speaker
pressed between his ear & shoulder while he fumbles
for that one decent ballpoint people keep stealing from him.

His tone carries low through the air with sensual murmurs
like secrets only this summoner is allowed to digest
all while black ink meets the skin of fallen trees.

In rhythm with almost inaudible hums,
the captain’s arm becomes polygraph
with the needle picking its pace.

Oh, how this message must be
something so important
& urgent for us.

When this dance ends
& I’m alone in this space again,
curiosity drives me to peak at the pad.

Nothing I can translate into the mother tongue
but what could possibly be a map & key illustrated
with its many webs only legible within the captain’s mind.


Concentrate with great diligence
on this battlefield where a great mate
proves its importance.

While pawns & knights go to fight
in the name of you, glorious king,
remember you ain’t shit without your queen.

Don’t pick a spouse based off appearances
for eventually the need to rub together wears out
& you’re left with an earache with no remedy.

Before you take a prospective to bed,
offer to wash her car inside & out;
you’ll be glad that you did.

If she has rotting food & bodily fluids
staining every fiber of fabric within,
it’s best you lose her number & never speak again.

Old Tricks

Crack open my cranium & lay out my tricks;
be sure to organize them by their strangeness
& find something you can use, too, while you’re at it.

Wife & I used to snap shots at couples’ nuptials
so later they could look in a book & see
the times in life they used to be happy.

We still find ourselves in makeshift picture capture
positions, lying down for that upside down frown
knowing sixty-percent come to divorce in the end.

I shut off any type of communication with hereafter
after things starting following me back home;
there’s no need for that energy around my girls.

All the cleansings attempted in years before
showed seepage slipping deeper within
a space some claim to call a soul.

Something about That Age

Time has come for my number to change
from lower premiums on auto insurance
to the year many artists find their expiration.

Twenty-seven plucked countless creatives
away from lights that helped them shine,
& my hourglass for the next 365 is about to give.

I made it past years that tried their hand
at pulling me under but failed to keep me;
what’s another go around the sun gonna do?

My skin calloused with scar tissue
shields me at full strength in preparation
for whatever this age thinks it can pull.