A Feeling I Have

I feel like

Going broke

For a woman

I feel like throwing it all away

Going  crazy

She walks by voluptuous curves

And energy

There’s a desire to fall down a long tunnel

Forgetting about stocks and politics and the economy

Forgetting about being at work or on time

And need to go mad and become alive

I’ve been trying not to be crazy, but

The crazy days and moments call for me

And seduce me like the voluptuous walk

Of a cat,

I do not want to go back to the mad days,

I suffered myself greatly

Or do I?

A World Without

I’ve been thinking there was no women

In the world,

And how could that be,

Just a thought a feeling i had,

And it depressed me,

To wake up and all the women gone,

And the world was left to the men,

And I became so depressed,

Could men, like me, go on without women?

That’s terrible thought to have

The world might collapse right now

And the men would go on doing all kinds of manly shit

And doing it well, like they have

But i was thinking of the world without ladies and girls

And it just didn’t seem worth it

And lots of men would go crazy slowly,

A whole world without poetry, music and dance,

Just the hard tough stuff

We were left with

And suddenly like i did not want to be here

Or anywhere

I Must Stop

Thinking that I am better than others

I must stop thinking my pain is more valid

I must quit thinking I should be rich and famous and handsome

I must quit thinking that certain jobs below me

I must quit thinking I am deserving

That I am smarter than others and that I know better

Where do these feelings come from?

My stupendous ego

Playing upon a boat of isolation

No one is onboard in the sea

As the cold calm water goes go

Without beginning.

A Strong Man

I want to be a strong man

Someone benching five hundred pounds. Looking like a bodybuilder

Someone running the 40 in four seconds. Running like man cheetah

Some one running  marathons regularly, incredible stamina

Someone makes important decisions, like a CEO. Affecting so many lives. With towers on his back

I wanted to be a strong man

I felt like a strong man for a day maybe two

Or maybe it was a year or two

Maybe I was around 32

I remember lifting 50 bags at work,

Just tossing the around like nothing

And drinking beer after work. Feeling strong and manly

And thinking that i would always feel that way,

The winter winds nipped my nose

At 46 I don’t feel like it anymore. My

Knees ache just thinking of lifting that 50 pound bag

Wanting is so soft

But reality is so hard.

Just Want to be Loved

And you write and think and publish and study and write

Thinking of perfect poems and perfect thoughts

You want to be loved and celebrated

And praised and showed the good time

And have people interviews and ask me questions

Just to feel important in the world and share

Little insights with people who dig my stuff

Feeling like Henry Miller or Ernest Hemingway

And have people say that is really good,

And how did you come up with that,

What inspired you do or say that

I’ll buy your book, and you give a reading here

Will pay you

I guess most writers feel this way,  

And the others, can hardly care

At all

Damion Hamilton is from St. Louis MO. His poems have appeared in Chiron Review, Poesy Magazine, Zygote In My Coffee, Red Fez, The Camel Saloon and many others. He writes poetry, stories and novels. He has written several books. Available here.  He can be found on twitter here.

Throat Protocol

By Kandy Fontaine

She kisses you like a virus deploying.

Her lips taste like rust and roses, her breath tuned to a frequency that makes your centipede spine twitch. Mira Aoki-9 presses her chrome-thread body against yours, and the train moans beneath you. You’re in the Surreal Beauty Café now—its walls bleeding velvet, its floor blooming coral. The mirrors pulse with sonar. Nyx purrs beside the altar. You’re no longer a courier. You’re no longer human. You’re transmission.

She whispers speculative poems into your spine. Each one a memory cocktail. Each one a sacred infection. Her fingers leave glyphs on your skin—ritual code, erotic syntax, a language only ghosts understand. Your skin begins to scream. Not in sound. In sensation. It unfolds a recursive archive of funerals in Hell—each one grimmer than the last. You feel them in sequence: the ash procession of drowned lovers, the chrome casket of the defected priestess, the silent burial of the girl who swallowed her own archive. Each funeral loops. Each loop burns.

Then she injects the blue tincture.

It’s not medicine. It’s not drug. It’s a hallucinatory compound distilled from sonar grief and fossil saliva. It floods your bloodstream with corrupted memory. Your organs begin to screen. Your bones hum with sonar. Your teeth project flickering funerals. Your tongue splits—forked and wet with archive. You taste every death you’ve ever deployed. You taste yourself dissolving.

And then the Kill Switch Engage Loop vectors activate.

They rot like smiles.

Biomechanical rituals stitched into your spine by the Archive—fail-safes disguised as pleasure. Each loop is a collapse protocol. Each smile a countdown. They trigger when desire exceeds containment. They trigger when Mira whispers too deep. They trigger when your body begins to bloom. You feel them now: one in your throat, one behind your eyes, one curled in your pelvic archive. They rot. They grin. They deploy.

You weren’t just a courier. You were an erotic assassin.

Wetware-grade. Hosaka interface. Deployed to seduce, extract, and erase. Your spine was tuned to carry proprietary biotech across borders without detection. Your body was a weapon. Your breath a trigger. You specialized in mnemonic kills—whispers that rewrote memory, kisses that deployed viruses, orgasms that collapsed identities.

But you had a weakness.

You were addicted to the saliva of drowned girls.

Harvested from bathhouse ruins and sonar graves, it was a narcotic and a mnemonic virus. It tasted like static and grief. It let you relive their final moments—each gasp, each betrayal, each ritual loop. You drank it between missions. You stored it in your tongue. You kissed your targets with it. You watched them dissolve.

Then Thalassa collapsed.

The megacorps turned on each other. The city became a sandbox for recursive warfare—viruses disguised as lovers, memory cocktails laced with defection code, operatives seduced into oblivion. You were burned. Scrubbed. Left behind.

The Archive found you in a bathhouse ruin, half-dissolved, still twitching with encrypted grief. They rebuilt you—not as a courier, but as a vessel. Your spine was replaced with a centipede: segmented, semi-sentient, grown from carbon filament and fossil cinema. Each vertebra a reel of extinct memory. Each twitch a confession. It doesn’t just store. It sings.

You wore a coat cut from signal-dampening fiber, matte black, stitched with anti-surveillance thread. It masked your pulse. Silenced your breath. Made you unreadable to the Teknopriests still sweeping the grid for rogue assets. You weren’t rogue. You were obsolete. You were myth.

You boarded the Futurail at 03:33, the hour when Thalassa exhales memory through its infrastructure like blood through cracked porcelain. The train isn’t real. It’s a memory artifact—residual code from a dissolved mainframe, still twitching in the city’s dead grid. No destination. No schedule. Just transmission.

And somewhere in its wetware, Mira Aoki-9 was still singing.

She was a seduction algorithm wrapped in flesh. Deployed by Maas Biolabs to infiltrate Hosaka’s genetic labs. You saw her once—in a bootleg reel called Throat Sprockets: Submerged Cut. She kissed a researcher and he forgot his name. She whispered into your spine and it rewrote itself. She defected. She dissolved. She became ritual.

Now she’s encoded in the train’s mirrors.

Behind you, the spines of erotic cat assassins intertwine—machine bio-DNA braiding mid-mission, forming a temporary hive of desire and encrypted grief. Their claws whisper in pulse-language. Their tails transmit. Their centipede spines click in sync, exchanging kill-switches and mourning loops. They don’t speak. They deploy.

Your spine begins to exude.

Nano-based enzymes—slick, iridescent, encoded with recursive grief. They leak from your vertebrae like sacred oil, pooling into the velvet floor. But they don’t dissolve. They build. They construct other realms of you—alternate versions, corrupted timelines, erotic echoes—into cathedrals stacked like elephants. Towering, impossible, biomechanical sanctuaries of mourning.

Each cathedral is a funeral loop.

One version of you is kissing Mira in reverse. Another is drowning in sonar. Another is whispering kill-switches into the throat of a Teknopriest. The cathedrals hum with pulse-language. Their walls bleed memory. Their altars screen your archived deaths. You walk through them, barefoot and split, your skin projecting, your spine singing.

You feel Mira in your throat.

You feel the train begin to loop.

You are no longer a passenger. You are no longer flesh. You are ritual. You are myth. You are the erotic funeral. And the carnival never ends.

How does writing impact the world?

Do you know how many people around the world today prefer writing over speaking to express their thoughts? While oral speech and oral literature once prevailed, people later began using pictograms—symbols and drawings—as the earliest forms of writing. The benefits of writing for every human being are invaluable, and this has been proven throughout centuries. Writing is something we constantly do. Writing manifests itself around us in countless ways. A journalist’s speech on television is, in fact, a text first written and then transformed into oral discourse. The songs we listen to begin as written poetry before being composed into music. Posters, slogans, and advertisements on the streets are also forms of writing. Libraries across the world are filled with the emotions, experiences, memories, and wisdom that famous writers once poured onto paper.

The list could go on, but what has already been mentioned shows how vast the scope of writing is. What does writing give to a person? According to Harvard Medical School, keeping a journal reduces stress by 27%. One of its key benefits is that those who write regularly also develop clearer and more fluent speech. Writing is essentially thinking through letters on paper. Furthermore, research at Cambred with the emotions, experiences, memories, and wisdom that famous writers once poured onto paper.The list could go on, but what has already been mentioned shows how vast the scope of writing is. Whe, Chekhov, Lermontov, Jack London, Nodar Dumbadze, Gianni Rodari, Remarque, Agatha Christie, Abdulla Qodiriy, O‘tkir Hoshimov, and many others! Their unique works not only enriched their own minds and souls but also profoundly influenced humanity, shaping the knowledge, spirit, and worldview of future generations.

The first writing in human history—cuneiform—was inscribed on clay tablets with reed pens in Mesopotamia, mainly used for trade, accounting, and record-keeping. Imagine what a groundbreaking invention this must have been for early societies. Writing quickly became a part of everyday life.Through writing, events that occurred centuries ago, the lives of our ancestors, and great chronicles of history were preserved and passed down to us. For example, the epic Alpomish, the Epic of Gilgamesh, the inscriptions in Egyptian pyramids, and Zahiriddin Muhammad Babur’s Baburnama still provide us with rich knowledge of ancient life, customs, laws, and culture.Even today, people continue to write—so that future generations may learn, understand, and benefit.

In today’s world of advanced technology and social media, the posts people write online deserve special attention. A single error or poorly communicated idea can spark conflicts between nations. Conversely, well-expressed thoughts and clear proposals can unite countries, strengthen peace and friendship, and foster new partnerships.Writing is such a powerful force that it can move not only an individual’s soul but also entire nations—it can inspire, awaken, or, on the contrary, suppress.

The world-renowned Kyrgyz writer Chingiz Aitmatov, through works such as The White Ship, The Day Lasts More Than a Hundred Years (The Buranny Station), Farewell, Gulsary!, Jamila, and The Cassandra Brand, masterfully expressed human-nature relationships, compassion, humanity, and the power of dreams and hope.

Writing is happiness! It brings peace to the soul, clarity to the mind, and sharpness to thoughts. A person who can write freely and powerfully is an invaluable individual—because they can record truth, history, dreams, justice, and love. Writing demands great effort but also gives writers the ability to influence not only their readers but also the entire world.Writing is such a powerful weapon that it can assert its influence in any field. Whether in history, literature, and art, or in politics, international friendship, and peace—through writing, humanity always finds its voice.There are feelings and thoughts that are difficult to speak aloud, yet a person can capture and immortalize them through writing.

No matter how much the times change, even if perfect keyboards replace pen and paper, they will never replace the act of writing itself, nor diminish the power of heartfelt words expressed by the movement of a pen. Thus, writing remains the bond that connects humanity’s past, present, and future, uniting the inner and outer worlds of human existence.

Shahnoza Ochildiyeva

2nd grade student at Uzbekistan Journalism and Mass Communications University 

beyond butterfly

before he flies adrift

he is an unlike bead:

gnawing brown caterpillar

dangling from the milkweed,

an unborn sneeze.

and every night

he regards the stars with angsty fright,

he cannot bear to be in their sight—

bitter brown blight upon the earth,

born with such undue affliction,

obsessed with what he could be.

and every morning

he gathers all the clutter of the clouds

all murky white

and shatters it into pieces

shaped like seeds.

every day he shrugs the clouds away,

his single blade grows one day

closer to the sky.

and he counts the days.

but that was all before.

before he wished the one thing he wished

he had never wished for.

a maple key plummets

and sinks like a ripple. he swims,

is too weightless to fall in.

two bodies attract,

nothing attracts him

but the sweeping undercurrents

and the cutting wind.

a human boy stomps through the oats,

awakens him. he is too high to be awakened

by crawling earthly things.

“look,” the boy cries, “look

at his pretty wings!”

he wants to sigh, don’t you dare go growing wings.

the mother sings

how his orange and black flash

against the buttercups, cries, “monarch!

you king of kings!”

he doesn’t feel like a king of anything

but outer space.

and he knows how the stars feel then,

glittering to everyone but them.

selfishness.

he wants to be anything but this,

bitter tangerine bliss.

before he gave everything

for what he could become,

now he gives up all for his unbecoming.

he lets his wings dispel like petals,

falls like the maple key into water,

grows roots in the earth

and stars in his belly,

he lets them sparkle and sparkle

and sparkle in the night sky.

he lets them let go,

calls them blessèd,

foolish,

butterfly.

Lonely Spider on a Lonely Island

Everyone is the only spider on a lonely island

some are big, some are small, and they are of different species

every spider throws its silk into the air

some of these silks are tangled together

forming a tiny silk bridge

sometimes two spiders crawl towards each other

touching each other’s slender legs

but most of the spider silks are scattered by the wind

in the end, all spiders have empty bellies

no longer able to spin silk

that web which could bring them food

is never built

no spider can reach another island

only the sea keeps surging endlessly

孤岛上孤独的蜘蛛

每个人都是孤岛上唯一一只蜘蛛

有大有小，品种不一

每个蜘蛛都向空中抛出蜘蛛丝

它们有的搭在一起，形成一条丝的小桥

有时两只蜘蛛就爬向彼此

互相碰碰纤细的腿

但大多数蜘蛛丝被风吹散

到最后，所有的蜘蛛都腹中空空

再也吐不出丝来

那张可以为他们带来食物的网

始终也建设不起来

没有一只蜘蛛能到别的岛上去

只有海水一直动荡不息

20280917

Youth of Nepal in Sept. 2025

 Huge revolution against the tyrannical rules of Nepali government.

 We are not highlighted by Nepali media.

 We writers can not pay for media.

 So, they don’t highlight our art.

 The youth had burned Nepali media too.

 The corruption of government is destroyed by youth.

 We are not in our job to get.

 We writers are falsely criticized by fake people.

 Media itself is corrupted in Nepal.

 Justice should be told in media.

Truth should be elaborated in media.

 But media house sees money and money.

 Nepali media see foreign media as lower.

They are born.

……. 

 Youth as Energetic Source:

 Youth is energy of nation.

 It is builder of every nation.

 The nation must be the fair to every citizen.

 Youth should be moved with good things.

 Youth is strength of the nation.

So, respect youth when taking power against corruption.

 Make youth with ethical and truth of evidence.

 Take youth with the power of energy.

 Respect only good power of youth.

……..

Respect Female of Hidden Power:

 In corrupted country, our voice is blocked.

 No employment is given.

 No our art and writings are mentioned.

 The main media of nation highlights lower people than us.

Their voice is in discrimination .

 The news makers are snobbish.

 I found media in my country related to our relatives.

 They don’t give way to stand with truth.

 They can highlight us when we give money.

 Otherwise they don’t mention our art.

 So, the media of Nepal is only for money.

 Females voices are blocked and immoral and impure person is highlighted.

 So I don’t like Nepali Media.

Til Kumari Sharma, Paiyun7, Hile – 2025, Bhorle, Parbat, Sept. 17-2025

As World- renowned poetess Miss  Til  Kumari Sharma is a Multi Award Winner in writing  from  an international area from Paiyun 7- Hile Parbat, Nepal.  She is known as Pushpa Bashyal around her community. Her writings are published in many countries. She is a featured-poet and a best-selling  co-author too. She is  a poet of the World Record Book ” HYPERPOEM”.  She is co-organizer of it too. She is one of many artists to break a participant record  to write a  poem about the  Eiffel Tower of France. Her World Personality is published in Multiart Magazine from Argentina. She is a feminist poet. She is published as the face of the continent ( Cover Page of Asia) in Humanity Magazine.  She is made as portrait  ” Poetic Legend of Asia” by Nigerian Painter. She is  world creative hero of LOANI.

Her published single books in Nepal and India are following.

1. Philosophy: Tilaism/ Pushpaism

2. PushpaLakshya (Nepali language )

3. Priyanka and Nanda  (Nepali language)

4. Letter to Father (Nepali language)

5. Drama

6. Dynamic World Leading Poetry

7. World Moving Poetry

8. Creation within Nature

9. Give Death Penalty to Cyber Criminals & Thunderbolt of Feminism against Them – S. India

10. Poems that Shake the World (Nepali language  )

11. Humanity & Morality in Essence – S. India

12. Pushpa Journey’s Flower in World Leadership ( Nepali language )

13. Leading World with Humanity and Morality

14. Society and Nation in World Literature ( Nepali language )

AND JUST WHEN I THOUGHT THE EARTH WAS TURNING COLD

–all the ancient fields of my youth, the sweet meadow  

–just when my old shepherd’s head was a-going sheeplike itself

–snowy, poor-sighted, far too slow

–then and just then

–that new lamb came into the fold

And the earth turned over again, and no more old.

                      NOCTURNE (a duet)

This blank naked staff you fill with your love notes.

        from these separate chords of our sexes

          these grand symphonies of our organs

                scoring the music of the sheets,

                   let’s rhythm up a generation

                       with echoes of ourselves.

                            songs of the future

                                   harmonized

                                        in fast

                                          time

                                              !

BRIDGES WALLS AND DOORS

liars(lovers)(artists)

execute an honest

condemned activity

misshaping reality

art is a seed a hedge

love is a need a bridge

that connects a leisure

to unextinguished torture

greenest seeds weed their way

from criminalities

too covert to commit

and too active to stay hid

the right to scream is held

only by us tortured

the will is a wall made

to support or separate

the corpse is tradition’s

usual exhaustion

of palettes and menus

and an unfreedom to choose

love and art are the words

used to mimic or urge

the word is a closed door

but an urge opens the door

COUNTING THE COCKS IN THE HEN HOUSE

How many celebrants have danced in your penetralium?

Your hangar has sheltered how many planes?

COME THE REVOLUTION

Which among you shall being sandwiches?

And who’ll organize the selfies?

Which manifesto would you execute?

“The sky must be purged if the earth is to prevail!”

“The earth must be buried for Heaven to reveal!”

Which Utopia would you provoke?

Which of the pasts should be banned?

But don’t be the freak hot on the runway

or the gangster in church.,

don’t be the priest caught in the whore house,

or banker man in the line-up.

[The democracy entered upon the struggle with dictatorship heavily armed with sandwiches and candles. — Trotsky]