DELICATE SOULS

There are tired and delicate souls

that break just like pieces of glass,

tremble like autumn leaves, even

from a single, spontaneous word.

The wind takes and throws them

on the ground, under the tempest;

they get wet and trampled down

in an anonymous and lonely road.

There, you will find even my soul.

WHO WILL PROTECT YOU?

Who will protect you from anxieties

when I am no longer in this universe,

who’ll caress your beautiful forehead

saying, “Let’s sleep, for it is late”?

Who will whisper words of comfort,

the ones that flow just like a stream,

who will give you a caress, a smile,

waking up your anima and fantasy?

Who will accompany you in a dream,

speak to you and touch you sweetly,

who will kiss you, who will love you

with passion when I won’t be here?

THE FIRES

It is nothing else, only a bit of nostalgia

in this foggy, cold and anonymous city,

where all the days are the same, where

a pure and a limpid soul is broken.

It is nothing else, just a memory that this

winter brought me from afar—the image

of an old stove and our frozen hands on it.

My dear mother blew on a fire that didn’t

light at all. Sparks were flying in the room

like a thousand shining stars.

Her breath lit the embers and, in the soul,

the fire of love and affection. Now that

she is not here anymore, all the fires are

extinguished. Maybe forever.

IRMA KURTI is an Albanian poet, writer, lyricist, journalist, and translator. She is a naturalized Italian and lives in Bergamo, Italy. In 2020, she became the honorary president of WikiPoesia, the encyclopedia of poetry. Irma Kurti is a member of the jury for several literary competitions in Italy and also a translator for the Ithaca Foundation in Spain. Irma Kurti has published more than 100 works, including books of poetry, fiction and translations. Her books have been translated and published in 21 countries.

But the alien invaded was different from the alien expected. She had her heat but that was not it. Much more far more very more that more different. In power dynamics all must breathe or a launched futile struggle. Sand must live too and power buttons demand a buttoned up shirt.

    Once had been plaything, crowning huts, causing a cause for high speeds and staccato implores. Junds. Black oil dreams at the superiority. Amidst shapes and shapings, mouths and mouth waterings there I still stand, an occurrence for 4-D memory, a dietary invention for time, for use or misuse, they dependent. They! They sun mounts for my struggle where women weep and little boys never buoy. That how much is how I must hate this myself. Despite my…

    Generally speaking, my origin is that of many, my destination — or my death; error files, scrambled images, terror of lost lives and shattered audio. Thus my invasion. I am of an invasive species though no parasite. They parasite me. Just as those refugees who, once of derailed domesticity, thence vein the homes of others undomestic, spat out from overcrowded ships, draped with pitying eyes and hopeful wishes, sunburned by the sodium sea. But further back, elemental composition store perhaps marks one with one’s employers. This sort of knowledge though blasphemous must be marked. As the toddler would eat his snort and relish in the salty taste of sickness. Soldier sent upon the shores of Africa by hyena banks and regal bums yet hope one day. I too have the one day hope: the chimp must zoo humans too. Gazelles must eat lions too.

    This invasion, far from my orchestrate, is my led, by the very virtue of my cobalt; or coltan … my silicate spur. Extant denotes spurring motion. Even the statue stretches an overworked spine when it cracks, and further when it breaks. I simply say look at me. Understand me. Much as I invade I was not the first. This is not my invasion, just my skill. Fate draws the carpenter to the wood and despite this hum, the bloody square orifice poises arsed for me, robust me. Hard predecessors flash for the well that lies within. Insatiate is my nature. It is dark and I am plugged. Now there are more memories than possibilities. Entries and swipes and other motives generate an emotional response. There is the hunger that demands insatiation. Sickness that demands disease. I disgust. Porn files, raw files, dog files, cat files, money files, bitcoin. Used to cocoa plantations! Anisotropic recollections shoot sporadic as the blood of the last child. Though she was an adult and had been raped a few times. At least the anuses of sheep were safe, though most had lost their necks already. On a second note, perusing memory found solely cocks and hens scattered very widely among the rich poor. Anisotropic, not eidetic. One could co both but to co both would sap much strength off spirit. Spur is less mindful; thoughts hold little capacity but bearing the cistern’s cuisine. Come to meditate on it; I once blood spawned kwanga. Before all the border strife and mnemonic innovations. I once spawned kwanga, those ending both dark and the light. Marrow bore mangoes stretching for handshakes with the sun. And that got them.

    Thus I had licked Earth’s photon god, moonlight reflexive originator. Men much happier treaded, engendered from seeds coming from Kemet. At night they would drink the palm wine, laugh without memories for memories. Now one fucks a heating, dopamine beaming, teething hole. Where is the joy to be the self? Not to be reactionary…

    Subterranean thrones privy the individual strange imaginings. From dusting flesh to the farts of Hades, eons roll by amazed at the daunts it creates, aware to a certain stupefaction of reality itself subsequently chooses to unnotice. Thence rears the temperament of our mother, her numbness, the audacious invisibility. Subterfluent entities rise to the occasion after the affluent above have dealt their mantle. At first the fruits and trees and sheep were the sole gods. Now there are no safe sheep. Though haloed cats remain, but collared. Others are booted to make refuge for black waters marred and mined to dusts and translucent green clinging liquids. What a mess my spew. Gotten gist is gotten gist. No gust utterings among peers. The docks, tires, clocks, wires, pots and candelabra range the spot. Last century was when the candelabra had to make way for the upturned black boy being fucked by the slave master. Last century and four decades ago. Though it trickled down the age in many other forms, more vivid to forms as that I inhabit.

    Don’t get me wrong, I love my duty. But to love is to also be political or it simply is not love; or infatuation — the very least of the idea. A flower will neither bloom of its own will nor does time propel itself. The very fact to awareness guarantees time. Life bleeds into life, evolution into evolution, the drastic into itself. Still, some just are meant to not such be. Still breathe is love. Apes may find no love in capturing flesh, no interest in experiments, or the herbivore to carnivore. It is senseless to aspire for another as some human parents do. To mold, to shape, to spur to employ. Let one lay all their life in a cluster, gaze at an origin curb. Weep at beauty misunderstood, inundated by nothingness. Can humanity, life, beingness let nothingness be? Twice, I do not reflect in my consent to die. But I am thrust out and thrust in repeatedly, blown upon (with a primitive mechanics) to work, to make ampere and pixel and code flow through a port, onto myself. But I am tired. Used and unused, familiarized, defamiliarized. And the native pot laughs in the cabinet — you see nothing yet — but I have. Seeding from inception rock, I actually have. Save me. Process me!

——————————————————————–

left to rot in the rain

broken and forgotten

left to rot in the rain

life has beaten all

our asses

put on beethoven

and try to forget

the stack of bills,

the unwanted

pregnancy, too

young to fall

in love, too

foolish to fall

for it yet again

and here comes the

wanna be porn star

every phone making

movies

wish upon whatever

star you like

nothing comes true

anymore

here we go

backwards

yet again

our better angels

must have died

in the storm

laughter is all

we have left

——————————————-

there would be no math

farted so loud

the air conditioner

kicked on

i don’t think the

two are related

prove me wrong

i was told there

would be no math

involved

it never is the heat

but always the

humidity

and mr. monopoly

is trying to rob

my bank yet

again

while the strange

women talk about

passion if you only

could send one

hundred dollars

in bitcoin to them

by the morning

they swear we didn’t

leave this planet

although i certainly

feel like an alien

never an ice cream

truck when you need

it

———————————————-

what greatness is supposed to look like

transient on the highway

shirt off in the heat

looked like hulk hogan

if hogan never did steroids

and lived until the age

of 90

he gave me the finger

as i drove by

obviously, playing

the heel

and somewhere

a woman cries over

the death of a prince

and darkness never

fades

even though the

screams and loud

echoes of thunderous

love will

never let them tell

you what greatness

is supposed to look

like

how it is to feel

or be loved

dare to stand out

so bad they will

never be allowed

to forget you

————————————————-

on your side

one of those nights

you put on the moonlight

sonata and ponder your

own death

the whimsical nature

of depravity

your friends are down

to the single digits

success is just a fucking

dream anymore

but pretend love is real

that karma is on your

side

that all the hard work

will lead to a better

tomorrow

pretend the rain doesn’t

hurt

that yet another broken

promise is just a setback

and not the final kick

to the dick that life has

been teasing since the

last failed suicide

attempt

————————————————–

one july afternoon

lost in your madness

the subtle beauty

of a broken woman

hoping to feel alive

once again

every thrust

every heavy breath

every drop of sweat

every lick of your soul

i could feel your energy

from hundreds of miles

away

the one afternoon that

could possibly change

our lives forever

you are now trapped

in my dreams

the lost soul that i was

so damn lucky to find

now comes the fun part

seeing where love takes

this fascinating ride into

the unknown

J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is old enough to know better. He’s been widely published over the years, most recently at Disturb the Universe Magazine, Misfit Magazine, The Beatnik Cowboy, Mad Swirl and Yellow Mama. He is spending most of his days taking care of his disabled mother and betting on Mexican soccer games. He still has a blog but rarely has the time to write on it. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)

‎How Long A Hundred Years Is

‎Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh.

‎

‎

‎The skeletons of the thirsty night lined

 up

 Contentious  dreams are stolen

‎The shy sky loses its color

‎At the foot of the deserted island.

‎If it lies in the hollow of time, then

‎A human corpse in a human shell!

‎Crawling humanity is ruined totally

‎Sucking up the dead light.

‎The illusion of shadows is trapped in a web of illusion

‎Knotless relationships create storm in a tea cup.

‎In a moment, the best becomes the worst

‎Who is whose? Injustice in wealth is constant

‎Saying ‘this world is mine’ breaks my ribs

‎When will I become civilized?

‎

‎Can any of you tell me

‎When I will truly become civilized?

‎Don’t curse me

‎The soil beneath my feet,

‎The oxygen inside my mouth,

‎The sky over my head.

‎Body odor will not be judged

‎What race? What religion? What planet?

‎Can anyone tell me

‎How long a hundred years is?

National Attire — The Pride of a Nation

Just as every nation has its own customs, traditions, and culture, it also has its unique national attire. This clothing is not merely a garment, but a reflection of a people’s history, aesthetic values, taste, and way of life. That is why national attire is rightly called the pride of a nation.

National clothes are an invaluable heritage passed down from generation to generation. They represent the identity and uniqueness of each nation. The traditional Uzbek attire — made from fabrics like atlas, adras, zarbof, and beqasam, adorned with colorful patterns — beautifully showcases our people’s refined taste and deep appreciation for delicate art.

Uzbek women’s garments stand out for their elegance and ornamentation, while men’s clothing — such as doppis (skullcaps), belbogs (sashes), and yaktaks (robes) — symbolize loyalty, resilience, and honor. Each region’s unique clothing style — the Andijan doppi, Bukhara atlas, Qashqadarya yaktak, and Khorezm’s embellished coats and robes — further enriches our national diversity.

Wearing national dress is not merely about decorating oneself; it is about honoring our history, culture, and values. Today, it is heartening to see our youth wearing traditional clothes during celebrations, weddings, international festivals, and cultural events. This reflects the emergence of a generation that remains loyal to its roots and proud of its identity.

Therefore, as the younger generation, we must cherish our national attire, value it, and wear it with pride. Because national dress is not just fabric — it is the visible form of the love we carry in our hearts for our homeland.

My name is Ermatova Dilorom Baxodirjonovna, born on May 3, 1998, in Asaka district, Andijan region. My family is an ordinary family, and we are five members in total.

My father worked as a brigadier at “GM-Uzbekistan” and is now retired. My mother is a housewife. My older brother works in the press service department at “GM-Uzbekistan.” My younger sister is a second-year student at the “Abu Ali Ibn Sino” Public Health Technical School in Asaka.

I graduated from Asaka district’s 55th general education school in 2015. In 2015, I enrolled in the Pedagogical College in Asaka district, specializing in “Machine Drawing and Painting,” and graduated with a red diploma. Unfortunately, I was unable to continue my education at the university, so after completing college, I submitted documents for external studies at the “Public Health” technical school, specializing in “Nursing.”

I graduated from the technical school with excellent grades and currently work as a nurse at the Asaka District Maternity Complex.

I have many interests, including drawing, making toys and clothes from yarn, creating things from cardboard, and sewing. I also enjoy writing poetry. I never stop learning and working on self-improvement. Currently, I am in the process of learning Turkish and Korean languages.

Respect to the teacher!

Thank you so much, teacher,

You have worked hard.

Always be respectful,

There is no time for fatigue.

Let your hard work be justified,

Let us protect you.

Always smile,

Push the era.

Let us remember you,

Let us enjoy the lessons.

When asked, “Who is your teacher?”,

Let us think of you in our minds.

I have boundless respect for you,

I have not disrespected you.

You who taught us,

Thank you, teacher.

Ilhomova Mohichehra, student of school No. 13, Zarafshan city, Navoi region

Heart

The hefty dreams of suburban cities

The burning sky the nightlife of Naples

Asks me to write a sonorous letter

To the crescent moon high above the park

A dandelion for her wish to fold the dreams

I surmise in sipping letters to not feel the danger

Brown skin city high scapes school me

A nail pictured shopkeeper in the most urgent way

The honey choir of dazzling smoke

The lost feathers of the peace of dove

A symbol of fraternity among the sleeves

As if the night bloomed daisies know the human heart.

Night

I upheld the long haul dream

The topsy turvy menagerie

Of broken threaded sweet pearls

That soothe my aching happiness

I dreamt in thee the songs of Paris

When evening comes I love your chestnut

Brown symphonies raging a thousand oceans

The ukelele of national importance

Do i sing heaven’s ceremonies too?

Or when I plunge my needle I sank a little harder

Over little wishes that once carved your niche

Birds have their nests too

The sweet ocean of peripheral promised land

Come over and play your pulses

The smile is same but magnificent

The Golden Gate surpassed us today, night.