The daughter of Abdusamiyeva Iroda Sherzod was born on May 15, 2009 in Sherabad district of Surkhandarya region. In 2016 she went to study in the 1st grade of general education school No. 67 in Sherabad district of Surkhandarya region. Currently, she is a 9th grade student of this school. She started writing poems in the 5th grade and has written about 20 poems. His poems were published in magazines such as “Bekajon+”, “Sherabod Life”, “Bilimdon” and prestigious German magazines. Her poems were also published on Google Networks. She works as a coordinator and volunteer in Sherabad district. She wants to become a journalist in the future. She intends to become a mature person who will serve the country.
Experiment to Determine the Extent of my Country’s Infertility
[Aim]: To demonstrate that my country is blessed with the fecundity of a twice castrated eunuch.
[Apparatus]: Specimens A-C, a concentrated acid, a stethoscope, a blindfold, three tins, a passport, a scanner
[Test #1]
Specimen A is a loyal patriot. A highly concentrated acid was splashed on him & he was left undisturbed for some moments. No visible reaction was observed.
[Inference]: What is dead can never die again. Every patriotic citizen in my country is now a sepulchre that temples the withering bones of the dreams of a lofty country they once cradled.
[Test #2]
Specimen B is a young man. A thick blindfold was used on him until his eyes morphed into a bat’s. Three tins were placed in front of him, but only one of them had a passport. Seven times the tins were juggled around, but each time he picked the one with the passport.
[Inference]: My country is said to be one of the largest in the continent, still nearly every young man & woman wants to jàpà.
[Test #3]
Specimen C is a regular national. A scanner was used to screen her neck & wrists, but nothing was found. When used on her waist, however, a special bead was detected.
[Inference]: You’ll either find a crucifix or some prayer beads dangling from my countrymen’s necks or good luck charms as wristbands or some other apotropaic hung as scarecrow on other parts of the body. It’s not their fault; the country has devised a thousand ways of devouring them– if they don’t end up like chicks on a kite’s firm grip with their only ticket to salvation being the amount their kinsmen can rally as ransom, you’ll find their corpses decorated with bullets, or still they’d end up being remembered as part of a figure, say the number of casualties of yet another crisis.
Jàpà: Nigerian slang meaning emigration
In Breaking My Creative Block
today the muse came, her presence musicing itself into the direful world of my
heart’s silence. i first heard her whisper, a gentle feather of a sound, teasing the
labyrinths of my ear with its enigmatic fragility. her warm touch on the nape of
my neck ripples down my spine & culminates at my groin as the tender
beginnings of an arousal. it’s just a drizzle but a desert will worship the only
water it has seen in a long time. i’ve played this game for a long time, so I know
better than to scare her off. i do not take her under me immediately, but to the open
fields of my mouth. there’s a mixing, a thorough blending until my taste buds
become branded with her signature. my tongue knows the taste of her essence now,
the fragrance of it diffusing into all the corners of my cerebrum. she is at home in me
& i know this because of the wetness soaking all the way from her into me. the desert
in me is gradually dissolving into a forest. my hands take the cue, pushing their way
into the suppleness of her body, my fingers thawing at the icy rigidity of her flesh, so
that more wetness will break into my arid grounds. her body obeys the commands of
my fingers, softening at their lubricating grace. her heart can no more contain the
melody, spilling it into the streams of her mouth. her mouth, too, cannot stand the
pressure & she moans the secrets that soon grow into echoes, reverberating in the
void silence of my head. my head is full now, full of the secrets, full of her. the
borders of my mind are completely tumescent. let the union begin.
(TIME) …as time flies fast – unless GOD cuts its wings. But then time seems to simply start to run out of space. Time sometimes only brings slow-motion sighing from the setting sun. Yes, time can heal; but time can also kill like a wind blowing out candles. When a rain- storm starts, you feel all you can feel until you come to find out if it is in vain… …as time flies fast – unless GOD cuts its wings. But then time seems to simply start to run out of space. Time sometimes only brings slow-motion sighing from the setting sun. Yes, time can heal; but time can also kill like a wind blowing out candles. When a rainstorm starts, you feel all you can feel until you come to find out if it is in vain… January 2004
(LEAF IN THE WIND) …the sun sets and the time pauses in a pantomime like an old black and white photograph of the night in the window. You dream of snow that tastes like cream. In the light of a moon- shaped plate, a silver spoon mixes sugar and salt inside your restless soul. Each time you lose control over the steering wheel of your life, you may feel as helpless as a torn leaf in the wind. For a brief moment, your memory lane turns into a free- way of living without regret or fear. Inside your head,… …the sun sets and the time pauses in a pantomime like an old black and white photograph of the night in the window. You dream of snow that tastes like cream. In the light of a moon-shaped plate, a silver spoon mixes sugar and salt inside your restless soul. Each time you lose control over the steering wheel of your life, you may feel as helpless as a torn leaf in the wind. For a brief moment, your memory lane turns into a freeway of living without regret or fear. Inside your head,… October 2010
(IN THE AFTERGLOW) …also known as the sun. This day is married to that night. Does anyone think that it isn’t true? Some words seem not to mean anything. Others – even less. You look at their lean letters while the evening skies are starting to grow dark as the easiest thing to sow in the afterglow of the day’s wedding ring… …also known as the sun. This day is married to that night. Does anyone think that it isn’t true? Some words seem not to mean anything. Others – even less. You look at their lean letters while the evening skies are starting to grow dark as the easiest thing to sow in the afterglow of the day’s wedding ring… July 2018
(AROUND A WORD) …in the Beginning when there wasn’t a single man. GOD created the World. So, every single word that may be found in It can also be seen as a word that has got to be coming from GOD. Whenever a word is found, it is bound to be around a word and, of course, the Word that was… …in the Beginning when there wasn’t a single man. GOD created the World. So, every single word that may be found in It can also be seen as a word that has got to be coming from GOD. Whenever a word is found, it is bound to be around a word and, of course, the Word that was… February 2021
Paul Edward Costa is an award-winning poet, spoken word artist, organiser, and teacher. He is a former Poet Laureate for the City of Mississauga and has published many poems in journals such as NoD Magazine, DarkWinter Literary Magazine, and Blank Spaces Magazine. He’s released a book of poetry, “The Long Train of Chaos” (Kung Fu Treachery Press – 2019) and a book of flash fiction, “God Damned Avalon” (Mosaic Press – 2021). As a spoken word artist, he’s featured at many poetry series across Canada. He currently organises the monthly Outer Haven Poetry Series in Toronto’s Imperial Pub.
zebra skips over river and crocodile jumps and takes a bite out of his belly underside. zebra kicks croc away and lands on other side of clough ravine of river. his cherry-blossom innards ribboning out in mountains. he kicks instinctually, hoofing around. and kicks out entrails on loop.
gunshot wound to the head, explodes one-half of cranium. and it slops away like melted ice cream, with small pork chops in the whipped cream dropping, cow-milked, to the bare ankles and staining them with fresh blood hues.
unlike that, entrails remain in a cohesive snake. the zebra’s fluctuating between albino boiled chicken and red as red as red. the straight highway that runs from top to bottom. the croc was ad-lib but will eat up the ugly business. zebra stands still, glib, as the meat is torn away.
there is no embarrassment outside of man. even if this was Take The Piss Thursday and W. C. Fields used his day in charge from beyond the grave to orchestrate the zebra’s demise. we were all meant to laugh I guess. And I can hear him still cackling from heaven.
drought has burned up the river and equally it makes the innards taste defective and the croc surfaces to spit them up. and they float on the surface like red bits of cogs. the croc stays up feigning slapstick vomitous disgust. W. C. on vermouth, makes another play at a masterstroke.
sickly ICU lights in San Tropez. was problematical when I tried to murder my stepfather and he survived. I used an undergrad’s computer to fake my alibi and was disheartened when they pumped the blood back into him like there was no tomorrow and like there was no limit to the blood in the world.
zebra at last falls dead and the innards just lie there. no one wants them. except Alistair Cowley who takes them in a handbag of alligator leather and keeps his bare feet away from the lurching croc. he’s ill in the head but good at train hopping.
witches made good use of entrails on a constant basis. they plied them with frog’s legs and brandy spilling down their hinges and maybe some of that vermouth, Mr W. C. and maybe some of that sweat beer-knifed off your skinhead Mr Cowley. And oh it was just wonderful.
And let’s not forget Myanmar where the hundreds backed into deaths their safari park purgatorial deaths. And the crocs take their legs off each other, popping off muscles, they will eat each other, and show no pain on their hateful death masks.
Rumbling Machine rumbling machine is an Egyptian jungle a set of spots that spring up endlessly bluebells blaze on cold heathland mornings the dishes of the earth are washed and dried out over jumping hearths the droning malaise, it is a rumbling machine a deeper layer to your lives a football chant croaked with a strange voice wavering the windmills are growing in church-like seabeds the jerk off is hot hot creamy bilge a python mouth dripping between fangs and defeated and nibbled at and snarling he wakes and the snake, knowing, drinks from his aqueducts on the farm, where my dad and I knew each other very well as parents and sons do the horses were bloody and dark eagles landed on their backs or their flat parts which were stained with cherry blossom or so we thought but we later found out it was just blood white blood cells cascaded down the carob tree boughs and they took me out of the school paper after my arrest for what the snake provoked out of me militarily the water-troughs around the farm are touchstone ornaments they bounce light between themselves assorted silver medallions of field sweat, spit for the creatures of the field under the blue mountain in their stables, clad in blood and red pent up anger like leaking apple orchards unfurling green spaced, rank and file, moss cold with blueberries and bluebells and lazuli in the Scottish land gets lonely even in summer when the grass yellows and crows flight and the green flows out – open-mouthed – cyber friends block me arbitrarily pornography is a rumbling picture of background, a brain bleed the bodies are prismatic vibrations yoga and coves, tights, lips they are hot under the collar like the horses the bodies wash back and back, lick and rubbish the silence with wedding bells rumbling just as an afterthought over undulating anti-Nazi-glider fields the loneliness of stroking yourself under white table cloth and the memory, pictorial, of the snake weighing on your skull the poison of the trough melting out the floor of your mouth the football chorus is a chorus for life these fields are a wasteland where we make urban legend and pain and pen in those creatures of the field the bulls have their death sentence and their sterile penises, venomed, their bodies need to be rinsed their bowels leak and flies stick spliced together into one on their swooping batting-away, congealed tails the blood mills of the factories turn in or out and rat race or rat race clambering over and under nets held by steel railings and scraps your dad picked up from plate-steel shipyards closed and pumped with English exit wounds self-redundant and fetishised and clean the stone in your garden is cold, is bird-like, iguana-like, dog dream the jagged edges of your loins look perfect rested on the fence posts – cowboyed – you look like a man and you have become a good one and it’s a shame no one will touch you on account of all you did roofied, serumed and invaded by something eldritch in the spaces in that decadent orchard you entered the enclaves of thinking you would like a wife or maybe just a smoke or might change your name to Hume or Hubbard or Billy and play on rocks like you were just a kid a kid out in the cold getting smeared in black getting laced in black-white and so cold out in Scotland it’s like drowning in a bog, the lawyer can see that this is Hell stomping over it that child killers have buried not just bodies but less obviously their perverted instruments under the hardened soil his rubber boots walk over insulin pens discarded the Budget comes and goes and you’re no better or worse off you go to the lake far beyond your home you try to drown yourself hidden by the trees weigh down your pockets with stones and everything will go under except your head you are treading and your head stays up looking at blue, happy times, summer, no dead dog moaning and no pigeon-holing into something you weren’t meant for and you pivot more vertical and see another horse watching you all fill with secreted blossom the vibrational pornified eyes of death
