My dad 

The one who loves me more than anyone

My father is my mountain

When anxiety comes, it passes 

There is nothing in this world, father 

I could not tell when the time came

I love you dad 

This name is in my heart

My dear dear father 

He thought about our future

My father worked without rest 

He did not eat himself but fed us

Father, I have no prayers

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

DUSK PATROL

It’s been dusk on these highlands

for countless days,

stuck between noon’s visibility

and night’s exposed underbelly.

It took me a while

to accept what I can’t see:

I have a clone somewhere out there

dreaming this suspended hell’s persistence

into actuality.

I won’t be outdrawn when I find him

now that I sense

what’s invisible to my present eye,

like the nearly forgotten warmth

        of a dawn’s blood orange sky.

Paul Edward Costa (He/Him)                                                                                                                                                                

THE LEGEND OF THE GRAND INTERLOPER

The Grand Interloper,

        summoned from a sunless crevasse,

crawls over my shoulders,

says

they’d love some time to pick my brain,

says,

        If swung sweetly,

        toothpicks and icepicks fit the same,

says

        maybe I should lie down

        on account of all this bleeding,

later says, with a straight face,

        No one ever stood in this place.

Empty hills and yards

emit unconditionally effusive,

        brain-deranged praises

        in their name,

as The Grand Interloper

steps over paupers

to pose with princes of philanthropy,

advocates for free democracy

if candidates are vetted

           and pre-selected,

funds community construction projects

instantly abandoned

once their top floor touches heaven,

wears one-way glasses

with irises painted on the lenses,

        avoiding both eye contact

                               and accountability.

The Grand Interloper

raids therapy’s lexicon

for new sets of verbal weaponry,

absconds to Avalon

without facing a final battle’s fury,

and so, never knows

            the dignity in escaping

            enchanted prison towers’

            immaterial enclosures,

and the real, resultant empathy I feel

for cases of that same struggle striking others.

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.

On Earth

We are quiet

we are calm

we are word hunters

we are labors

we are cookers

we are timekeepers-

of our stars

with the sun warm stars

with the moon our resting heart

with the days we become strong

We sometimes sing a song

when we are happy in life’s psalm.

LADY LIBERTY CHANGES HER TUNE *

The “tired” and “poor” now fleeing to our borders

can just turn back. Go home. It’s not my problem.

If they face massacre—Scrooge said it best:

“Decrease the surplus population.”   Yes!

These “homeless,” “tempest-tossed” are welfare pests.

Let “huddled masses” huddle somewhere else—

not in my backyard. Or in my country.

We’re not averse to proper immigration.

We spread a welcome mat for white-skinned Aryans—

rich, well-fed, well-heeled—like Musk and Murdock.

Let’s face it—God’s another sticky problem.

Those who call God “Allah” or Jehovah”

are heretic, like brown-skinned Papists; those

whose culture sees God through a different lens

should just convert, be born again, conform.

It’s time for Christian nationalists to rule.  

I lift my lamp and sneer at shithole countries.

We don’t need “wretched refuse” eating cats.

A golden door for some; for most, a wall–

with tariffs on all imports. Brave new world!

                       *  THE NEW COLOSSUS

                        Give me your tired, your poor,

                             Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free.

                             The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.

                             Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me.

                             I lift my lamp beside the golden door.

                                                          –Emma Lazarus, 1883

Copyright 11/2024                Patricia Doyne

Zebra Stripes Mark Out My Life

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