BALLATA DEGLI INESISTENTI

Potrei tentare di narrarvi

al suono della mia tastiera

come Baasima morì di lebbra

senza mai raggiunger la frontiera,

o come l’armeno Méroujan

sotto uno sventolio di mezzelune

sentì svanire l’aria dai suoi occhi

buttati via in una fossa comune;

Charlee, che travasata a Brisbane

in cerca di un mondo migliore,

concluse il viaggio

dentro le fauci di un alligatore,

o Aurélio, chiamato Bruna

che dopo otto mesi d’ospedale

morì di aidiesse contratto

a battere su una tangenziale.

Nessuno si ricorderà di Yehoudith,

delle sue labbra rosse carminio,

finite a bere veleni tossici

in un campo di sterminio,

o di Eerikki, dalla barba rossa, che,

sconfitto dalla smania di navigare,

dorme, raschiato dalle orche,

sui fondi d’un qualche mare;

la testa di Sandrine, duchessa

di Borgogna, udì rumor di festa

cadendo dalla lama d’una ghigliottina

in una cesta,

e Daisuke, moderno samurai,

del motore d’un aereo contava i giri

trasumanando un gesto da kamikaze

in harakiri.

Potrei starvi a raccontare

nell’afa d’una notte d’estate

come Iris ed Anthia, bimbe spartane

dacché deformi furono abbandonate,

o come Deendayal schiattò di stenti

imputabile dell’unico reato

di vivere una vita da intoccabile

senza mai essersi ribellato;

Ituha, ragazza indiana,

che, minacciata da un coltello,

finì a danzare con Manitou

nelle anticamere di un bordello,

e Luther, nato nel Lancashire,

che, liberato dal mestiere d’accattone,

fu messo a morire da sua maestà britannica

nelle miniere di carbone.

Chi si ricorderà di Itzayana,

e della sua famiglia massacrata

in un villaggio ai margini del Messico

dall’esercito di Carranza in ritirata,

e chi di Idris, africano ribelle,

tramortito dallo shock e dalle ustioni

mentre, indomito al dominio coloniale,

cercava di rubare un camion di munizioni;

Shahdi, volò alta nel cielo

sulle aste della verde rivoluzione,

atterrando a Teheran, le ali dilaniate

da un colpo di cannone,

e Tikhomir, muratore ceceno,

che rovinò tra i volti indifferenti

a terra dal tetto del Mausoleo

di Lenin, senza commenti.

Questi miei oggetti di racconto 

fratti a frammenti di inesistenza

trasmettano suoni distanti

di resistenza.

BALLAD OF THE NON-EXISTENT

I could try to tell you

with the sound of my keyboard

how Baasima died of leprosy

without ever reaching the border,

or how the Armenian Meroujan

under a flutter of half-moons

felt the air in his eyes vanish

thrown into a mass grave;

Charlee, who moved to Brisbane

in search of a better world,

ends the journey

in the mouth of an alligator,

or Aurelio, named Bruna

who, after eight months in hospital

died of AIDS contracted

to hit a ring road.

Nobody will remember Yehoudith,

her lips carmine red,

erased by drinking toxic poisons

in an extermination camp,

or Eerikki, with his red beard, 

defeated by the turbulence of the waves,

who sleeps, scoured by orcas,

on the bottom of some sea;

the head of Sandrine, Duchess

of Burgundy heard the rumour of the feast

as it fell from the blade of a guillotine

into a basket

and Daisuke, modern samurai,

counted the revolutions of a plane’s engine 

transhumanizing a kamikaze gesture into harakiri.

I could go on and on

in the stifling heat of a summer night

how Iris and Anthia, deformed Spartan children

were abandoned,

or how Deendayal died of deprivation

attributable to the single crime

of living the life of an outcast

without ever having rebelled;

Ituha, an Indian girl,

threatened with a knife,

who ends up dancing with Manitou

in the anteroom of a brothel

and Luther, born in Lancashire

freed from the profession of beggar

and forced to die by His Britannic Majesty

in the coal mines.

Who will remember Itzayana

and her family massacred

in a village on the outskirts of Mexico

by Carranza’s retreating army,

and what of Idris, the African rebel,

stunned by shocks and burns

while untamed by colonial domination,

he tried to steal an ammunition truck;

Shahdi flew high into the sky

above the flagpoles of the Green Revolution,

landing in Tehran with his wings torn apart

by a cannon shot,

and Tikhomir, a Chechen bricklayer,

that fell among the indifferent faces

to the ground from the roof of Lenin’s Mausoleum,

without comment.

From objects of narrative

fractured into fragments of non-existence

transmits distant sounds

of resistance.

LA BALLATA DI PEGGY E PEDRO

La ballata di Peggy e Pedro è latrata dai punkabbestia

di Ponte Garibaldi, con un misto d’odio e disperazione,

insegnandoci, intimi nessi tra geometria ed amore,

ad amare come fossimo matematici circondati da cani randagi.

Peggy eri ubriaca, stato d’animo normale,

nelle baraccopoli lungo l’alveo del Tevere,

e l’alcool, nelle sere d’Agosto, non riscalda,

obnubilando ogni senso in sogni annichilenti,

trasformando ogni frase biascicata in fucilate nella schiena

contro corazze disciolte dalla calura estiva.

Sdraiata sui bordi del muraglione del ponte,

tra i drop out della Roma città aperta,

apristi il tuo cuore all’insulto gratuito di Pedro,

tuo amante, e, basculandoti, cadesti nel vuoto,

disegnando traiettorie gravitazionali dal cielo al cemento.

Pedro, non eri ubriaco, ad un giorno di distanza,

non eri ubriaco, stato d’animo anormale,

nelle baraccopoli lungo l’alveo del Tevere,

o nelle serate vuote della movida milanese,

essendo intento a spiegare a cani e barboni

una curiosa lezione di geometria non euclidea.

Salito sui bordi del muraglione del ponte,

nell’indifferenza abulica dei tuoi scolari distratti,

saltasti, in cerca della stessa traiettoria d’amore,

dello stesso tragitto fatale alla tua Peggy,

atterrando, sul cemento, nello stesso istante.

I punkabbestia di Ponte Garibaldi, sgomberati dall’autorità locale,

diffonderanno in ogni baraccopoli del mondo la lezione surreale

imperniata sulla sbalorditiva idea

che l’amore sia un affare di geometria non euclidea.

THE BALLAD OF PEGGY AND PEDRO

The ballad of Peggy and Pedro barked out by the punkbestials

of the Garibaldi Bridge, with a mixture of hatred and despair,

teaches us the intimate relationship between geometry and love,

to love as if we were maths surrounded by stray dogs.

Peggy you were drunk, normal mood,

in the slums along the bed of the Tiber

and alcohol, on August evenings, doesn’t warm you up,

clouding every sense in annihilating dreams,

transforming every chewed-up sentence into a gunfight in the back

on armour dissolved by the summer heat.

Lying on the edges of the bridge’s ledges,

among the drop-outs of the Rome open city,

you opened your heart to the gratuitous insult of Pedro,

your lover, and toppled over, falling into the void,

drawing gravitational trajectories from the sky to the cement.

Pedro wasn’t drunk, a day’s journey away,

you weren’t drunk, abnormal state of mind,

in the slums along the bed of the Tiber,

or in the empty parties of Milan’s movida,

with the intention of explaining to dogs and tramps

a curious lesson of non-Euclidean geometry.

Mounted on the edge of the bridge,

in the apathetic indifference of your distracted pupils,

you jumped, in the same trajectory of love,

along the same fatal path as your Peggy,

landing on the cement at the same instant.

The punkbestials of the Garibaldi Bridge, cleared by the local authority,

will spread a surreal lesson to every slum in the world

centred on the astonishing idea

that love is a matter of non-Euclidean geometry.

NON RIESCO AD INTEGRARMI

Non riesco a integrarmi, ho un disturbo borderline

distribuisco gomitate tipo Greg “The Hammer” Valentine,

nemmeno se mi impegno riuscirò a aspirare al Nobel

deutoplasma irriducibile tra vacche nere d’Hegel.

Non riesco a integrarmi, ho un delirio schizofrenico

rifuggo dalle masse e intingo biro nell’arsenico,

canto, fuori dal coro, come un mitomane a X Factor

disinnescando bombe, spaccio col metal-detector.

Non riesco a integrarmi, ho attitudini da killer,

deambulo tra zombie, stile King of Pop in Thriller,

volando a bassa quota quoto quote di quozienti,

costretto a impacchettare sottotitoli per non-utenti.

Non riesco a integrarmi, ho ogni sorta di fobia

in coda appetisco il verde, come un virtuoso in dendrofilia,

mettendo a fuoco il mondo e sfuocati i tempi con lo zoom,

mi arrendo alla desuetudine della consecutio temporum.

I DON’T FIT IN

I don’t fit in, I have a borderline personality disorder

I give out elbows like Greg ‘The Hammer’ Valentine,

if I don’t apply myself I’ll never be able to aspire to the Nobel Prize

irreducible deutoplasma among Hegel’s black cows.

I don’t fit in, i have a schizophrenic delusion

i hate the people and dip my pen in arsenic,

i sing, outside the choir, like an X Factor mythomaniac

defusing bombs and dealing with a metal detector.

I don’t fit in, i’ve got a killer’s disposition,

i wander between the zombies, style King of Pop in Thriller,

flying at low altitude I quote quotes of quotients,

forced to pack subtitles for non-users.

I don’t fit in, i have all sorts of phobias,

in the queue i crave the green, like a virtuous dendrophile,

setting the world on fire, blurring time with the zoom,

i surrender myself to the obsolescence of consecutio temporum.

Ivan Pozzoni è nato a Monza nel 1976. Ha introdotto in Italia la materia della Law and Literature. Ha diffuso saggi su filosofi italiani e su etica e teoria del diritto del mondo antico; ha collaborato con con numerose riviste italiane e internazionali. Tra 2007 e 2018 sono uscite varie sue raccolte di versi: Underground e Riserva Indiana, con A&B Editrice, Versi Introversi, Mostri, Galata morente, Carmina non dant damen, Scarti di magazzino, Qui gli austriaci sono più severi dei Borboni, Cherchez la troika e La malattia invettiva con Limina Mentis, Lame da rasoi, con Joker, Il Guastatore, con Cleup, Patroclo non deve morire, con deComporre Edizioni. È stato fondatore e direttore della rivista letteraria Il Guastatore – Quaderni «neon»-avanguardisti; è stato fondatore e direttore della rivista letteraria L’Arrivista; è stato direttore esecutivo della rivista filosofica internazionale Información Filosófica; è, o è stato, direttore delle collane Esprit (Limina Mentis), Nidaba (Gilgamesh Edizioni) e Fuzzy (deComporre). Ha fondato una quindicina di case editrici socialiste autogestite. Ha scritto/curato 150 volumi, scritto 1000 saggi, fondato un movimento d’avanguardia (NeoN-avanguardismo, approvato da Zygmunt Bauman), con mille movimentisti, e steso un Anti-Manifesto NeoN-Avanguardista, È menzionato nei maggiori manuali universitari di storia della letteratura, storiografia filosofica e nei maggiori volumi di critica letteraria.Il suo volume La malattia invettiva vince Raduga, menzione della critica al Montano e allo Strega. Viene inserito nell’Atlante dei poeti italiani contemporanei dell’Università di Bologna ed è inserito molteplici volte nella maggiore rivista internazionale di letteratura, Gradiva.I suoi versi sono tradotti in francese, inglese e spagnolo. Nel 2024, dopo sei anni di ritiro totale allo studio accademico, rientra nel mondo artistico italiano e fonda il collettivo NSEAE (Nuova socio/etno/antropologia estetica).

Ivan Pozzoni was born in Monza in 1976. He introduced Law and Literature in Italy and the publication of essays on Italian philosophers and on the ethics and juridical theory of the ancient world; He collaborated with several Italian and international magazines. Between 2007 and 2018, different versions of the books were published: Underground and Riserva Indiana, with A&B Editrice, Versi Introversi, Mostri, Galata morente, Carmina non dant damen, Scarti di magazzino, Here the Austrians are more severe than the Bourbons, Cherchez the troika. et The Invective Disease with Limina Mentis,Lame da rasoi, with Joker, Il Guastatore, with Cleup, Patroclo non deve morire, with deComporre Edizioni. He was the founder and director of the literary magazine Il Guastatore – «neon»-avant-garde notebooks; he was the founder and director of the literary magazine L’Arrivista; he is the editor and chef of the international philosophical magazine Información Filosófica; he is, or has been, creator of the series Esprit (Limina Mentis), Nidaba (Gilgamesh Edizioni) and Fuzzy (deComporre). It contains a fortnight of autogérées socialistes edition houses. He wrote 150 volumes, wrote 1000 essays, founded an avant-garde movement (NéoN-avant-gardisme, approved by Zygmunt Bauman), with a millier of movements, and wrote an Anti-manifesto NéoN-Avant-gardiste. This is mentioned in the main university manuals of literature history, philosophical history and in the main volumes of literary criticism. His book La malattia invettiva wins Raduga, mention of the critique of Montano et Strega. He is included in the Atlas of contemporary Italian poets of the University of Bologne and figures à plusieurs reprized in the great international literature review of Gradiva. His verses are translated into French, English and Spanish. In 2024, after six years of total retrait of academic studies, he return to the Italian artistic world and melts the NSEAE Kolektivne (New socio/ethno/aesthetic anthropology).

2nd stage student of Samarkand State University named after Sharof Rashidov

Printed book or an e-book. Which one is better? 

Today, the Internet has become a part of life. Even without phones and social media, people feel sick. This situation is observed all over the world. Unfortunately, this is a bad habit. Because sitting on the phone and computer for a long time in the same position damages the back and other organs of a person. If a person does not take his eyes off mobile devices for three days, his sleep pattern will be disturbed. And the production of necessary hormones in the body slows down and leads a person to dangerous situations. The light emitted from the phone screen causes eye diseases.

As with the other side of the coin, the Internet has several advantages. For example, we can read the book we want sitting at home. It is always with us in our pocket. And publishing a printed book requires a lot of trees. If trees are cut down, the ecology and environment will be damaged. These are the advantages of electronic forms of reading.

But we must not forget that the book is the secret of man, the solution to all problems. The book serves as a blueprint for what we want to do. So, don’t forget about the book. Since ancient times, scientists have not achieved knowledge, goodness, wisdom through this book, many sources are hidden in the depths of books. So… Who can reach this treasure? Of course, this is us young people.

(Central Asian teen girl with dark hair in a white sweater with black objects. She’s at a wooden desk in an office holding a pen over a newspaper).

One Night in Bombay, India

One wild night in Bombay, India

I walked into an evil bar 20 drinks too sober

On the wicked wrong end of a Friday night booze run.

On the bad side of the Moon over by where the Martian dudes

Sat drinking their Martian whisky, ogling the Venus maidens.

Leering at the earth women who were walking by

Wearing skin-tight pants made their eyeballs hurt.

I gave in to the spirit and went over to the Martian dudes

And got drunk on the Martian madness, shot after shot

Smoking some good old-fashioned Mars dust.

And flew off to the planet Jupiter

Just to have me some fun with a lady

Who said she was from Saturn?

I did not know she was from the planet Pluto.

Until I woke up the next day, naked, under the alien Sun

In jail on the Planet Alpha Centura, light-years from home,

A million miles away, a thousand years in the future

And I had no money, no honey, no way home.

Still 20 drinks too sober, I just sat down in that jail

And started drinking away my time

Drinking fine cold assed Centurion wine

and Pluto Whisky.

One day I woke up

 and found me back in Bombay

Standing outside that evil bar

in the miasmic mist

Over by the Martian whorehouse,

 down by the Gate of India

And I walked up to

the Saturn-Pluto babe

And said,

“Man, that was some bad shit

Bad craziness.”

Let’s do it again someday,

she smiled, and I had my way

Knew the day would come again.

When I would be drinking with the Martians

And something wicked my way would come

Just another night of wicked fun

On the wrong side of the Moon

On the right night

in the mean streets of Bombay.

I SOLD

If they say I’m bad, I’m sorry

I wished you the best.

I worked hard to create my beautiful garden,

I put it on my wrist.

If a weak servant goes astray and loses his way,

Shaking my heart, I walked down the aisle without answering.

They made me cry from pain,

I put the stone in the brass.

Dilbar is happy, and he is unhappy with malicious hearts.

I put my dignity in walking straight as a bow.

CREATIVE GIRL

       Dilbar Koldoshova Nuraliyevna was born on March 5, 2007 in the Karshi district of the Kashkadarya region.

   She is currently the 10th “B” student of the 43rd school. 

      Dilbarhan is the queen of poetry, the owner of creativity, a singer with a beautiful voice, and a ghazal girl.

      She came first in the “Leader of the Year” competition.

        1st prize in the regional stage of the “Hundred Gazelles and Hundred Gems” competition.

         She took part in the “Children’s Forum” category and won first place in many competitions.

          She is currently the coordinator of the training department of Tallikuron MFY in Karshi district.

          Kamalak captain of the opposite district.

          Head captain of the “Girls There” club at school 43. 

         The articles titled “Memory is immortal and precious”, “Our School” and “Mother” were published three times in Kenya Times International magazine in 2024.

     In 2023, the first poems were published in the poetry collection “Yulduzlar Yogdusi” of the creative youth of the Kashkadarya region.

      In 2024, ghazals of the creative youth of the Republic were published in the poetry collection “Youth of Uzbekistan”.

dollar store kimono clown me a second jeff

—

anonymous rice a little bird’s elbow

—

the chef won’t cook it faint green glass

—

bio/graf

J. D. Nelson is the author of eleven print chapbooks and e-books of poetry, including *purgatorio* (wlovolw, 2024). His first full-length collection is *in ghostly onehead* (Post-Asemic Press, 2022). Visit his website, MadVerse.com, for more information and links to his published work. Nelson lives in Boulder, Colorado, USA.

Tears of the Clouds

Clouds blanket the sky's wide embrace,
Shielding the sun's glowing face.
A gentle breeze whispers soft and light,
Stroking the clouds in its flight.
The world feels draped in sorrow's shroud,
Veiled completely by the cloud.
The wind, at times, takes clouds away,
To distant lands, they sway and stray.
Moisture glistens in the clouds' eyes,
Perhaps the wind has paused its sighs.
Tears known to all as gentle rain,
Fall and soothe the earth again.


Umida Jonibekova was born on December 18, 2002, in Arnasoy district, Jizzakh region. Currently a fourth-year student at Jizzakh State Pedagogical University. Has published several articles on methods of teaching English as a foreign language in international journals and is an active participant in international conferences. Additionally, one of the top 10 participants in the United Kingdom's "National Poetry Competition."

That Rotten Kid


There once was a boy named Eddie. And

clearly there was something very wrong

with this nine-year-old. Ask anybody: they'd

tell you, with an eye roll, that Eddie was

disruptive, distracted, and inattentive in the

classroom. It was 1962 and Eddie had just

been enrolled in the third grade.

 

He was forever shouting out non-sequiturs,

throwing his pencils and erasers across the

room and striking other students and

teachers; constantly making his unwelcome

presence felt.

 

No one knew quite what to do with Eddie.

He had been held back in school and so was

bigger and stronger--and more destructive--

that his fellow students.

 

Though it was suspected by some school

officials that he was, deep-down, quite

intelligent, Eddie was unable--or, they

thought, unwilling--to work with other

children or to complete an assignment. 

Rarely could he finish a single written

sentence before his attention wandered

again.

 

Other children tried to ignore him, as

they were instructed, but he was a

handful, always out of his seat, in

everybody's business and fighting with

the class bully, who couldn't quite

grapple with Eddie's size and manic

strength.

 

Teachers washed their hands of him. He

was sequestered to a far corner of the

room, but kept dragging his desk, like a

security blanket, back amongst the rest

of the students, on the other side of the

room. He got lonely. Teaching him, they

discovered, was impossible; he was

admonished to "just sit and be quiet." For

Eddie, however, that too was impossible.

 

After the third grade, Eddie ceased being

a student; once again he had failed and

been held back. No one I knew ever saw

the young man again.  Word had it that he

was declared "unteachable" and "incorrigible"

and institutionalized. One teacher was heard

muttering about "That rotten kid..." Eddie's

departure came as a relief to the

teachers and the other students, but in a

sad way.

 

ADHD was not officially inscribed into

the Diagnostic Manual of The American

Psychological Association until 1987.

Today there are more than 6 million

children diagnosed as affected by this

condition.

 



Incorrigible

 

Bob sat at his desk in the 1st grade classroom,

blinking his eyes and rolling his head to first

one shoulder and then the next.  This drew

the unwanted attention of his teacher, Miss

Edison.  She stepped briskly down the aisle.

 

"Robert, I've told you before to cut out the

antics. You know you're disturbing the other

children."  Bob sneaked a glance at the boys

and girls in his class, saw their happy grins;

at the moment, they were happy not to be

him.

 

Bob coughed nervously.  "And that cough,"

said Miss Edison.  "I've sent you to  the school

nurse a dozen times but there doesn't seem

to be anything physically wrong with you." She

laid heavy emphasis on the word "physically,"

which set the other children off laughing. "So,"

she concluded unfeelingly, "if you're trying to

get out of class, you can just forget about it."

 

Bob's face grew hot, his skin a bright pink.

He stared down at his desk.  He wished he

could sink through the floor.  "Now, you sit

there and don't move a muscle for the rest

of the day or you're going to be in big

trouble. 

 

Bob laid his hands flat on his desktop and

tried to hold himself still.  Miss Edison

hovered over him and everyone was watching

expectantly.  Suddenly Bob's head turned to

the left. his arm shot out straight and he

coughed hoarsely.  Once again the children

exploded in gales of laughter.

 

Miss Edison blew out a disgusted breath and

told the class to be silent, that this wasn't

funny.  The teacher intoned somberly, "A class

cut-up did no one favors." The classroom  

settled down, listening to every delicious word.

This was how delinquency and a life of crime

began, she added fiercely.

 

Bob stole another look at his classmates, again

saw their derisive, toothy grins.  "You can just

stay in class for recess and when the rest of us

go to lunch!" proclaimed the teacher.  "I wash

my hans of you.  You are, Robert, truly

incorrigible"  And she stalked back to her desk.

 

Little was known of Tourette's Syndrome in the

1950s.