Moon Without Language The moon doesn't just shine Burns the darkness of the night Fire burns in the eyes Flowers bloom in the flesh of fire In the midst of emptiness brings infinite fullness Build the construction. Even if everyone disappoints, the moon does not The emotion of the first letter is in his skandha Breakfast radiates love Like the unspoken eye language of a girl Waiting at an open window with a tower in her hair Or like a long-enveloped rose petal Lover's hands will be dyed Or as unknown letters on the pages of the heart. I touched the body of the naked moon Touched day after day I saw the mystery of the fingers of the ancient scholars Shaking, shaking my life line There is a river of voices in fear Saw delirium delusion smell of cinnamon From start to finish.
Category Archives: CHAOS
Poetry from Czarina Daltiles
simple things it’s the quiet, the space of air between us that we both take in it’s the looks, the way your eyes catch mine like some sort of secret, an inside joke it’s the gravity, the external force that draws us together, whether we want it to or not it’s the history, the knowledge that no one else can understand you as much as I do it’s these simple things I miss, staring at my ceiling in the dark, thinking of you, thinking of us, thinking of what we could have been if we cherished these moments a little more
the stars in the sky what’s desired is deprived of and the acquired forgets it has been bestowed by a star’s end; constant sprinting down a road as some inaugural physics law whereas we all could just accept our place what is first when a sphere is our race? what’s envied is what I contend, fixed to a conjecture as yellow is to the love of a friend, admonished for breeding bias; the very archetype of Midas is what we’ve all been taught to chase what is first when a sphere is our race? what’s in the stars, I can’t comprehend born for the sky, “lift us, Atlas” skill needs talent; though wisdom transcends even those with an eye for a canvas for A’s have been favored for eras tradition is not simply erased what is first when a sphere is our race? what’s in being top of the class? what’s in taking all of the space? why want more than what one has? what is first when a sphere is our race?
and their shine coated in hologram film, by way of its reflection in my gaze, the stars in our sky are beautiful tonight, alighting the twelfth stroke with a mystical haze wonder strikes me at the beat of our time how can wisdom be but a lie? when the twinkles delight and assurance seems right, only those who know how can fly you may cry and you may complain, yet it is i who is left to look up, rooted by inadequacy, cursed unimaginably, you are confined with the stars so, isn’t the universe enough? harder to rise than it is to maintain harder to disprove than it is to accept when i try, it’s my best in my best, i’m still less compared to whatever i hope to be when i stand below your step surely the stars don’t mean to bewitch surely you’ll see if our souls were to switch
Czarina Datiles is an eighteen-year-old Filipino writer and poet from San Diego, California. A national medalist in the 2023 Scholastic Art and Writing Awards, her works have been recognized by The New York Times and published in The Weight Journal. She loves rainy days, fantasy novels, and boba drinks.
Poetry from Mykyta Ryzhykh
the faucet is clogged as if after the verse of death like the winged word of a wingless crane like the erection phase of an automatic gun faucet is clogged but leaking such a strange dream had a dungeon dispatcher while the subway cars crashed into each other at an inexplicable speed what can god know about the dungeon if even his only son did not descend to us below the earth's surface *** silent weapons shoot louder a blind butterfly shines brighter the wingless man flies further the sky falls on everyone's head the same way the birds of hell have come to gouge out the eyes with their claws and I look at them without eyes without a mouth without wings living corpse along the river flowing into the pipes of war my late grandfather always told me about the importance of wings in childhood my grandfather didn't tell me anything about guns and sky bridle in prayer in prayer hello grandpa give me paradise apples in this hell of a grave in this hell of a live *** the cash register of the store is the door to narnia near the rack with comics the cashier sleeps behind the back of the cashier there is a cupboard from which kafka comes out leading to the path the path leads to the forest with butterflies in the belly of nature seminal lobes rush with atoms molecules fight in love the chocolate hare jumps to the cotton candy stream the stream by which we will die of thirst with sugar on our lips *** body in a sheet of cold snow dead man in sky-colored robe newborn in naked silence child in the name as if in religion teen with dildo like god adult with childhood in the auricles old man with body reaching for the sky *** heart torture chamber dwarfs of minutes scatter birds fly like jet planes wait those are not birds they are jet planes the fish plays suicide on the dream shore the bird on the back of the survival stub screams: hangman here hangman *** niche industry of porn magazine a lump with a deity inside the stomach indigestion of sadness flowing through the veins myopia of approaching my love every time i try to touch you every time i try every time you leave soulless beer can niche industry niche industry of disappointment in people used can of beer and emptiness on the pages of a porn magazine *** neural network is called intelligence I call myself a neural network I'm just an ant, fill my chest with reflexes I'm not human anymore I'm artificial intelligence I'm artificial i'm not smart i am a walking reflex I am a walking disappointment - and then I woke up and went to clean up the shit after the cat *** manna from heaven falls from the sky directly into the mouth another day of eating wealth from which nothing will be born (Reprint by BarBar) *** cotton candy smothers us with sugar a stream of blood and tears of the dead flows near the house we have nothing to eat and drink (Reprint by BarBar) *** fire does not give rise to perspective the birds don't sing autumn does not come autumn from now on without legs without god without man (Reprint by BarBar)
Short story from Gustavo M. Galliano
ÚLTIMA GRAN PANDEMIA
Por Gustavo M. GALLIANO
Nadie supo cómo, donde o porqué surgió. Bastó su génesis para que se propagara por todo el desprevenido planeta, y ya no hubo retorno. Contagio total, sin tiempo de medicinas.
Me ha contado en secreto mi amigo imaginario Xerafín que el huésped primario fue un humano. Que decidió abrir su pecho y exclamar, en sincero frenesí, las tres fantásticas palabras: “¡Solidaridad, Resiliencia y Paz!”.
Al instante, el virus se propago por el aire, pandémico, vinculando cuerpos, mentes y almas, en cada rincón. El planeta muto, sus habitantes no volvimos a ser los mismos.
Y ese día fue hoy.-
LAST GREAT PANDEMIC
By Gustavo M. GALLIANO
No one knew how, where or why it arose. Its genesis was enough for it to spread throughout the unsuspecting planet, and there was no return. Total contagion, no time for medicines.
I have been secretly told by my imaginary friend Xerafin that the primary host was a human. That he decided to open his chest and exclaim, in sincere frenzy, the three fantastic words: "Solidarity, Resilience and Peace!".
Instantly, the virus spread through the air, pandemic, linking bodies, minds and souls, in every corner. The planet mutated, its inhabitants were never the same again.
And that day was today.-
BREVE BIOGRAFÍA de:
Prof. Gustavo Marcelo GALLIANO.
Nacido en Gödeken, Santa Fe, República Argentina. Escritor, poeta, Jurado en certámenes literarios Internacionales. Periodismo digital. Docente Universitario de la Facultad de Derecho de la UNR, en la asignatura Historia Constitucional Argentina. Miembro del CICSO (Centro de investigaciones en Ciencias Sociales). Secretario Técnico de REDIM.
Se ha desempeñado como Corresponsal Especial en diversas revistas internacionales de Arte y Literatura (Cañ@santa, Sinalefa, ViceVersa, Long Island al Día, RosannaMúsica, etc).
Integra la Red de Escritores en Español (REMES), Poetas de Mundo, Unión Hispano-Mundial de Escritores (UHE), la Fundación César Égido Serrano, Naciones Unidas de las Letras (Ave Viajera y Proyecto Mundial Semillas de Juventud), entre otras. Actualmente es colaborador especial de Revista Poética AZAHAR (España), Revista Literaria-artístico PLUMA y TINTERO (España), Revista Literaria KENAVÒ (Italia) y Revista OFRANDA LITERARA (Rumania) donde también integra el Colegio Editorial.
Ha obtenido distinciones y premios en certámenes y concursos internacionales de cuentos, narrativa, micro relato y poesía. Publicó libros (LA CITA, 5 AUTORES) y participe de antologías y revistas publicadas y traducidas en más de 100 países.
Ha sido designado como Embajador de la Palabra y la Paz por diversas instituciones: WWPO (USA), Círculo de Embajadores Universales de la Paz (Francia / Suiza), Fundación César Égido Serrano y Museo de la Palabra (España).
Reside en Rosario, Santa Fe, República Argentina.
BRIEF BIOGRAPHY of:
Prof. Gustavo Marcelo GALLIANO
Born in Gödeken, Santa Fe, Argentine Republic. Writer, poet, jury in international literary contests. Digital journalism. University Professor at the Faculty of Law of the UNR, in the subject Argentine Constitutional History. Member of CICSO (Social Sciences Research Center). REDIM Technical Secretary.
He has worked as a Special Correspondent for various international Art and Literature magazines (Cañ @ santa, Sinalefa, ViceVersa, Long Island al Día, RosannaMúsica, etc).
He is a member of the Red de Escritores en Español (REMES), Poetas de Mundo, Union Hispano-Mundial de Escritores (UHE), the César Égido Serrano Foundation, the United Nations of Letters (Ave Viajera and the World Seeds of Youth Project), among others. Currently he is a special contributor to AZAHAR Poetic Magazine (Spain), PLUMA and TINTERO Literary-artistic Magazine (Spain), KENAVÒ Literary Magazine (Italy) and OFRANDA LITERARA Magazine (Romania) where he is also a member of the Editorial College.
He has obtained distinctions and prizes in international contests and contests for short stories, narrative, short story and poetry. He published books (LA CITA, 5 AUTORES) and participated in anthologies and magazines published and translated in more than 100 countries.
He has been designated as Ambassador of the Word and Peace by various institutions: WWPO (USA), Circle of Universal Ambassadors of Peace (France / Switzerland), César Égido Serrano Foundation and Museum of the Word (Spain).
He resides in Rosario, Santa Fe, Argentine Republic.
Poetry from Henry Bladon
The Sweet Smell of Chaos The frantic fizzle-frazzle fanatic, pounding the sidewalk proposing splintered logic and energised by hypertrophic rhythm. Pulsating patterns propound a maelstrom mindset, a confused calibration housed in a chocolate-stained cabinet. The metallic clang from a spoonful of sympathy is mixed in a sunlit side room. Sudden alchemy from a cobalt portal. The succulent sound of ozone. The taste of psychic salvation. Someone crunches on a red apple and starts to cough. Dark Matter There was a hippy unreality in my dream. I was in an online echo chamber where thoughts queued for attention and words were bending into a black hole. The background was populated with pixelated memories of the 90s rave scene and pieces of leftover pizza. There was anxiety when conversational voids appeared in a debate concerning early climate change warnings. The galactic rulers filled the space with free streaming particles and announced that cosmic microwaves would be available in all new-build cosmic houses. In the corner of a park, a man was standing on a box and yelling into a broken megaphone, asking: if we can’t see it, does dark matter really matter?
Photography from Isabel Gomez de Diego
Poetry from Noah Berlatsky
Get Out of the Water Jellyfish float like lungs in the sea and lungs float like jellyfish in a different sea. Everything is breathing with life and ick. That is the kind of pantheism we are talking about. Every beach is on the edge of another beach and you can walk there on the jellyfish. They pulse with the transparency of borders. Our lungs yearn to mate and evolve in the jellylike sea. We will never stop evolving. The jellyfish are going to kick your ass, God with their universal love that stings.