Free entry only to queer parties

The night hides your face like you’re a thief

You steal my hugs and kisses all night

You’re horny and we don’t limit ourselves to jerking each other off

Your marble eyes close

You fall asleep on the snow-white sheet of my chest

A couple of days later you leave for another city to join your wife and children

You save to buy them all gifts

I’m forced to save my feelings again

Free entry only to queer parties  

***

We fucked loudly all night while nuclear power plants mushroomed

We swallowed sperm so greedily that it started to rain and the air bombs got wet

We kissed so passionately that flowers began to grow outside the cemetery

We jerked off for so long that during this time the neighbor’s children grew up

Basements are dark, so it’s easier to have sex there

But it’s too early for children to have sex, so they just sit silently in bomb shelters

The gun’s erection bursts out of screaming throats

Severed heads continue to give blowjobs

Trigger of cardiac atavism

Something exploded in a bright jet and splashed the walls of the bomb shelter:

Gun or strap-on?

Blood or sperm?

***

cover man

stubble on the face

press on the stomach

in strong hands he holds a sword

there is a dragon tattooed on his hand that is about to devour me

in my childhood, models from glossy magazines looked a little stereotypical, but even then they seemed sexy to me in a sense

the dragon swallowed me

no sword will cut my pupils now

all the people around me look stereotypically like the same man from the cover of a magazine

did everyone really look at gloss in childhood?

Is it really true that everyone in adulthood loves stubble and six-pack abs?

I’m walking along an empty subway car

the wind of the underground blows traces of the past

the heat of the dungeon melts the flesh of the future

I’m nowhere and I don’t have stubble or abs

I’m nobody by the standards of glossy magazines

no one needs my body, not even myself

my body doesn’t even want to fuck because in reality fucking is not as glossy as in porn films

It’s surprising that glossy magazines are still quite popular

a cute boy with a beautiful butt is going down the escalator

his eyes are lowered to the phone screen

the heat and wind of time are blowing up our sandy footprints that never existed

***

I want you to tear my ass with your dick but you are no longer there

Your body is locked with the key of the night

My dick is forever locked in a chastity belt

Nobody knows what it means to die from love for a dead person

Everyone knows what death is, love and the dead

However time attaches no importance to anything and drowns everything in its water

I would like to drown in sperm and not in the water of lonely days

I wish atomic bombs wouldn’t grow instead of mushrooms

I want to drink your cum in the secret compartment of a nuclear power plant

Your grave is flooded after a hydroelectric explosion

Your body is shot through by a senseless war

(Another war that looks like dust dye)

You always loved flowers and didn’t like khaki

Plastic flowers are now with you forever

I’m now forever alone with time

I dream of being killed by a bomb and after that no one ever dies anywhere

I’m drowning in the water of a blown up hydroelectric station and I’m drowning in the lonely time that you gave me

Death is your first gift to me

(You were deliberately cold towards me because you knew about my love feelings)

This is your last gift

Death lights up on the horizon like a box with an unknown surprise

Instead of a strap-on there are still rifles

Instead of me people who thirst for life still die

But I’m not comfortable and I feel stolen at birth

Who and why brought me to the world of water and sand

Sand castles still await the tide

I’m always late (for dates and cemeteries)

I can not swim

The birthday that even time forgot

What is this subterfuge, this deceit,

this falsehood? Is it the meat defrosting 

on the countertop or a clap of thunder

on a stormy night?

My mother reaches out for a Gemini, 

a sister
(and  not the Greek, not the Stoic,

not the philosopher, not the poet)

gripped by the clay hands of Europe

My mother turns (albeit clandestine) into a 

statue in her bed

(my mother and father sleep in separate beds)

While I am masked by discontent

I give but there is no one to receive my love

Except the broodvraers and the children,

the pale niece and academically gifted nephew

I reach for the sun and wait for it to 

burn me up

                  Birthday, you are nothing

but a worm, a stubborn ventricle. The years,

they pass me by solemnly. My mother 

comes with breakthroughs, intent and 

intelligence, the frailties of life that I

inherited from her, cosmic dust under 

her feet, and so she comes

to life. Without acknowledging me, she 

floats into the bathroom to do her ablutions,

and put her mascara on. There is no food 

in the house

There is no mother-love. There is no 

birthday cake, no jubilation. There is 

only sadness. Sadness and oranges in a basket 

in the sitting room that I am not allowed

 to touch because it is for show. My sister, 

oh, well, does not wish me.

She does not say the words I long  to hear,

the words that will make me forgive her 

long silences. Happy  Birthday. She has no reason 

to speak to me and then, just then, a rhizoid

forms in my heart. This rhizoid is made of

dark matter. 

The same matter the universe is made

of (dark matter). The church grows in 

my spirit man, at the seat of Gary 

Zukav’s soul, and while I turn into a 

silhouette 

of the past, I think of my childhood, and my inner

child waving goodbye to me. I think of 

Goethe, Rilke, Thomas Mann. I think 

of the Freedom Fighters in Gaza, I think

of the brain rot of my clinical depression 

 and regain 

my strength, and the language of breath 

is slowly returned to me.

WHEN AUTUMN CARRIES HER NAME

At this very moment, you’re in the city, where traffic bustles all around. You wander through the book street, a little lost, stopping now and then to chat aimlessly with a young university student who, just seconds earlier, was staring out the window, perhaps counting raindrops or lost in thoughts that weighed on her heart. It’s autumn in Saigon, though you can’t tell where summer ends or winter begins. All you feel is a mess of emotions, a flood of memories, longing, and affection threading through every bone, aching like winter cold.

To you, she was all four seasons. But you liked to call her Pandora, yours alone. She was Saigon’s rainy and sunny days, tender green, the scent of lotus. She could be Saigon’s fall, Hue’s winter, Dalat’s pine forest, or a foreign ocean shore, you never tried to pinpoint her. All you needed to know was that somewhere, you lived in her heart, and she always reigned in the left chamber of yours. She was a realm of your thoughts, a blooming golden lily, a small alley, and Saigon in autumn.

You closed your eyes, and you were somewhere inside a fairytale garden. Dewdrops sparkled purple and crimson on the grass, reflecting the sunlight filtering through the sky. You wandered around the garden, the sunflowers drooped while the last asters stretched upward, clinging to bloom.

“You’re late,” her voice was soft and warm, like a breath of autumn, like a leaf fluttering gently. Music drifted through the chill air. She was right there, beside you, yet loneliness still lingered in the wide-open space.

She whispered something about music you didn’t fully grasp, but you listened anyway, drawn to the fragrance in her gentle voice. She spoke of rock and pop tinged with wistful chimes, of bittersweet ballads strummed by a distant guitar, of unrequited love, of death beneath decaying trees, and of mournful melodies. The leaves turned golden, and the morning air was brisk and clear. You watched her, so vibrant in a pastoral scene full of allure. Through her voice, music became innocent and luminous. Somewhere, a violin solo began to rise, just a bit more skilful, a bit more joyful and the crisp late-autumn air pulled you deeper into her presence. Her voice, its softness and seduction, merged with the crackle of leaves underfoot. At times, her eyes lit up with a radiant smile.

She wore pale brown boots, a grey knit sweater, a delicate scarf, and a silky A-line skirt. Around her fair wrist, a glittering bracelet fastened with Pandora’s iconic clasp and sparkling stones. In a tender moment, she removed it, handing you a single silver Pandora Moments charm, an emerald star. They said nothing more. Just listened to music playing softly from her tiny phone. You were overwhelmed by a serene intimacy, a sweet romance. The sound was like a soul-deep embrace, one you never wanted to end. You felt a deep, almost aching familiarity, as if nothing in life could surpass this. Listening to heartfelt music, sitting beside a graceful, intelligent woman, you knew then that this was the one you wanted to spend your life with.

When the song ended, all you wanted was to tell her how much you wanted her, needed her, loved her. You wanted to open your arms, pull her close, and place a warm, earnest, and pure kiss on her lips, a kiss of that perfect morning, of youth. Some melodies seem powerful enough to change everything. And yet, you couldn’t move. You just stood there, frozen, until her footsteps faded and only the light rustle of falling leaves remained in the air.

Back in the city, you couldn’t forgive your own hesitation. A block of ice had formed in the middle of that floating autumn. The discomfort lingered for weeks, then months. Every time you woke up, every afternoon after work, every night before sleep, she was there. Her image filled Saigon’s streets, radiant, clear, confident. Autumn passed. Winter came. Seasons changed. Encounters came and went, but your fear never left. You feared shattering the fragile autumn clouds, feared a gust of wind blowing in the wrong direction, feared her scarf wrinkling when the music hit its climax.

You saw her again and again, in that garden, on crowded streets. Each time, you wanted to say something, but the words collapsed inside, your limbs trembled like you had a fever. Each afternoon after work, you wandered aimlessly, mind blank, staring at your coffee cup and a bare wall, ignoring every phone call, never logging into Facebook.

Until one day at the end of August, what strange force gave you the courage to finally hold a girl’s hand, to kiss her cheek softly, scented with purple flowers? That girl, with fair wrists, a gleaming silver bracelet, high heels, and a floral dress. And at that moment, a familiar tune echoed, a gentle fragrance lingered. You were overwhelmed; your heart throbbed as if struck by a sudden storm.

She stood there, watching you and the girl, or maybe lost in Vivaldi’s Four Seasons. The horizon opened before you in shades, but what lingered deepest was the brown of fallen leaves and the gray of her knitted sweater. The scene was pristine, canopied in green, sky scattered with clouds. It deepened your view of things. And now, every time you return to the city, you ask yourself: Who am I in this life? Why does the Pandora charm in your left coat pocket still glow with warmth? And when will you ever forget her, especially when autumn returns to Saigon?

Võ Thị Như Mai is a Vietnamese-Australian poet, translator, and cultural contributor currently living in Western Australia. Her writing explores themes of memory, identity, diaspora, and the quiet power of everyday life. With a deep love for both Vietnamese and English literature, she often bridges the two through translation and creative expression. Như Mai’s poems have been featured in various literary platforms, and she actively participates in international poetry and cultural exchange events. Her work is marked by sensitivity, lyrical grace, and a strong connection to her cultural roots. Her work was featured in BRUSHSTROKE WA 2023 and in recognition of her contributions to cultural and literary exchange, she was recently honoured by the Consulate General of Vietnam in Australia for promoting Vietnamese literature and arts abroad

……

Nothing 

Nothing belongs to us

We are free

We are the captain of our soul..

Nobody can say this or that  and you must execute.

Nobody belongs to us

We are choosing according our feelings

Our thoughts

Our beliefs

Our stomach

The most a person make you laugh

The more u want to be with

We are nobody

We are nothing

More than the butterfly

Than the bee…

We are no creators but small ants

Or cigals

Or wolf

Show respect

Kindness

But no trust

Trust your instinct

Trust your heart

We are nothing more than a fly

We are nothing more than a bird

Laugh to your heart

Love your inner soul

And put your frequency high

Touch the stars

Make a wish

Stay a happy child

I Thought I Heard

I remember a whisper I heard when I
was seven; a uniformed policeman was
addressing my aunt, with whom I lived.
“Your brother, Mrs. Allen, was killed in
an automobile accident last night.”
Aunt Livy’s only brother was my dad, Tom
Lewis, Jr.  I was named after him, which
made me Tom Lewis, III.

I heard a sharp intake of breath and then
screaming.  I remember worrying about
how Aunt Livy was taking the news, but
then I realized that the heavy breathing
and screaming was coming not from my
aunt but from me.  But nobody else could
hear it.  They paid me no mind.

“His body was taken directly to the mor-
gue, Ma’am,” said the cop.  “There was
just no hope.  I’m sorry.”  She said some-
thing like, “Yes, that’s probably for the best;
I’ll phone the funeral home this afternoon.”
What I thought I heard was:  “Yes, indeed,
Tom should bring around $1.49 per pound
at the butcher’s; and I’ll see to it that Mr.
Lindsey doesn’t put his thumb on the
scale this time!”  

I startled, stared disbelievingly at Aunt
Livy but her face was the same as always.
The conversation between the policeman
and my aunt continued for several more
minutes with no further surprises.  I took a
deep breath.

“I’ll get out of your hair now, Mrs. Allen; I
know you must have just skads of people to
contact.”  What my aunt then said was,
“That’s correct, Officer:  his ex-wife, our
parents, his work, there’s just a hundred
things to do!”  

But, what I thought I heard was:   “That’s
correct, Officer, I have calls to make, invi-
tations to send out, caterers to call, for the
huge party we’re giving in celebration of my
brother’s passing.  You and the misses
should come, too.”  I didn’t hear his re-
sponse but she added, “Don’t bring a thing;
we’ll have noise-makers, balloons.  I think
we’ll even have fireworks.”  

As he turned to leave, the policeman
swiveled round to me and said, “Take care,
Young Man, things are going to be alright.”  
Then he smiled and left.  But, what I thought
I heard him say was, “You little shit!  If I catch
you out after curfew, for any reason, I’ll tear
your heart out!”  Then he grinned grotesquely
and left.

When the cop had gone, Aunt Livy, who had
been my guardian all my life, since even
before my mom and dad split up, said, “Well, I
guess you heard most of that, Tommy.  I know
it’s not easy to lose a parent–or a brother–but
we’ll manage somehow.”  She smiled sweetly
at me.

But, what I thought I heard her say was, “Now
I’m stuck with you, you little parasite!” She drew
her finger to her chin, thinking.  “But it might
not be all bad:  I could get his house!”  And she
smiled sweetly.  It was at about that time that I
began in earnest my life-long love affair with
Lithium and Quaaludes.

Family

I live among the trees

The lush greenery of global earth

Moonstone of glowing night

Monsoon is spreading its wings

The Mayflower of seasonal changes

God is among us

Watching the children grow

The Godspeed of everything

Poetry music nature of dappled earth

Family of flora and fauna.

As I sip my morning June

With coveted rain and blessing.

There’s burden in the smiling

Like raindrops it flinches

Like yesterday the ghosts come true

My flickering plastic summer days

The yellow bird is near me

The shortness of the very minute

The roses of short summer afternoon

Afterwards it was the darling summer

The garlands of birdsong days

My glory of new edged sorrow

A pink promise of cut throat spring

As the memories cut open the morning sun

Why Are Study Abroad Semesters Valuable for Students?

Meaning of These Programs – What Are They?

A study abroad semester is a life-changing experience – but how exactly?

Costs, Challenges, and Requirements

Nowadays, there are many foreign citizens in my country. Are they just tourists? Not quite. Today we see young people coming from abroad to various parts of our country. The reason is the global student exchange program. This program has a long history and began to develop in the 20th century. It was created to promote cultural and scientific cooperation between countries. A student exchange program allows students to temporarily study at a different university abroad. Through it, students gain knowledge and experience.

Historically, the United States was one of the first countries where such programs became popular, beginning with the Fulbright Program. One of the most well-known is the ERASMUS program – the oldest student exchange program in Europe, launched in 1987. Germany later developed its own version, with the DAAD program starting in 1925. These programs are highly popular among young people.

Experiences of Students:

Many students report positive experiences with exchange programs. Jabboraliev O., who studies at Kuala Lumpur University in Malaysia, said: “I expanded my professional experience through the exchange program. That’s why I’ve worked in many areas of my field.” This shows that exchange programs offer career benefits too.

Dilafruz, a student who studied in Japan, said: “My verbal communication improved significantly.” In particular, her ability to express herself in Japanese grew. This proves students can also benefit linguistically from exchange programs.

Advantages of Student Exchange Programs:

Exchange programs offer many benefits. Students gain new knowledge and boost their academic progress. But that’s not all. Studying abroad helps develop important personal skills, such as:

– Intercultural Competence: Students learn to understand and respect cultural differences by engaging directly with people from diverse backgrounds.

– Independence: Living in a foreign country forces students to organize daily life independently – from housing to daily routines.

– Language Skills: Constant exposure to a foreign language helps students improve their language proficiency.

– Better Career Opportunities: Employers value international experience, which signals flexibility and adaptability.

Challenges:

Of course, there are also difficulties. Many students face the following challenges when moving abroad:

– Financial Issues: Living abroad can be expensive. Students often need scholarships or part-time jobs.

– Different Education Systems: Learning methods may differ from those in the home country, requiring students to adapt.

– Cultural Differences: Adapting to new customs and traditions can be tough in a foreign country.

Conclusion:

In conclusion, student exchange programs are an excellent opportunity for young people to gain international experience, explore other cultures, and improve both academically and professionally. They help students adjust to new environments and foster mutual understanding between cultures.

During the program, students learn how to navigate life in a foreign country, speak new languages, and enhance communication skills. These experiences are valuable in today’s world and can improve future career prospects. Additionally, students form international connections that may benefit them later.

Despite the challenges, such as financial burdens, housing issues, or differences in education systems, these very obstacles help students become more independent and adaptable.

Overall, exchange programs are a key component of global education. They not only help young people expand their knowledge but also support personal growth. International exchange strengthens relationships between countries and universities. Therefore, such programs should continue to be supported so more students can benefit.

Oyatillo Jabboraliev was born in Fergana region. He is a student at Xiamen University in Malaysia.