My motherland

Mother, Motherland!
Father, Motherland!
My protective castle,
Spilled umbilical cord blood. 
Beautiful Uzbekistan!

Sunshine, my dear, 
My fruit, beautiful garden.
My life and my breath, 
Hot nonsense my motherland!

My flower, spring,
You are the sky. 
You are the  green,
You are my paradise on earth.
Freedom Uzbekistan!!!

✍Ilyosova Fatimakhan

Book

The best thing is the book, 
You can't read. 
Word of the sun,
Teach us manners. 

When pleasure reads,
When you learn and read. 
When knitting or knitting, 
Get the book in your hands.

Good friend to you, 
Grow up with it.
You don't stumble in life,
You won't fall with it!

Different content tales,  
 You will be blind.
Don't forget it is a sun, 
Get a neighbor book!

✍ Ilyosova Fatimakhon

DREAM 💫

I will be an artist known to the world,
Arrogance will be my enemy at that time
Listen to me sing beautiful songs,
If I give in to the praise, tell me to go back.


Eating the bread of art is not for everyone.
I ask the Creator for patience.
I have you dears on my shoulder,
I sing for you, I live with you.


Be happy and never get hurt.
Do not let the tyrant, pain and sorrow come to you.
Keep the smile on your face,
We will never be less than anyone.

  ✍ Sarvinozkhon  Olimova 


Truth 

The only truth is that every word is true ,
They say, even if a sword comes to your head .
Never deny the word true, O friend ,
Even bitter taste when the tongue does not feel.

The truth of the word, only everywhere ,
This is the moment the Creator will be with you .
The truth lives only if yooou know ,
All be surprised, wonder for your courage.

✍️Sarvinozkhon  Olimova



Sarvinozkhon Olimova, was born on January 21, 2007 in Fergana region. She is a laureate of several republican competitions in the field of traditional music and traditional singing. In addition, she is the author of two books entitled "Miracle" and "Wonderful feelings".

My beauty

The captive who won my heart,
The secret in his eyes,
The prisoner built in the heart,
My beauty, my beauty.

My heart is in the opposite eye,
Sweet - in the word sugar,
On the most beautiful face,
My beauty, my beauty.

One soul in my chest,
Missed of my mum,
What, I do this bad,
My beauty, my beauty.

Caesar, stubborn bad girl,
I fell to your feet, knee,
I can't live, you,
My beauty, my beauty

✍Mokhinur Askarova




You will never find me

You can never find me,
If I head away.
Maybe then, my dear,
If I go to your soul.

Miss of my parents too,
A person looking forward to my ways.
To my childhood,
You know how bad it is to look.

You can't stop me,
Your dreams say definitely .
You're looking for my smile,
You can't even make me friend .

Without asking me to moon ,
Shame on you for looking at the ground.
I told you, dears,
You will never find me

✍Mokhinur Askarova


Mohinur Askarova was born on May 13, 2006 in Jizzakh city.
She won the III place in "World Talents" with her poems. In addition, she won the first place in the city and regional contests.

Cheap obituary

Shot nerves clasp
undue cause 
wrested from the brain.

They put to press
makeshift scrawls
their ill-bred worth.

A sick greed for more
knows which god
trite errors played
when night curtailed 
this conjurer’s show—
some revolt four-squared
slow to touch
if matriarchy approves

a loveless life 
indelicately owed 
this one
fought for hinting trysts
plausibly taled 
if funeraled loose.

It breaks that fast
naked words
shape of etiquette outdone.


Leave 

To wed these blithe earth plumbs—
their end before they start.

Now they shelter their wombs
for fear they should be got

un-groomed from shot-out fields
civilization took, playing each
in games their worth
small lives little understood.

Through dirt and sludge
of needs made real
they take these in
duplicates of what enthrals
if done as work forgives

to come returned 
in left behind
lost time their broke youth bid.




Concert at Palestrina

Light climbs the ground 
relic poises.
It bribes in gain
of loved one’s devotion
pursed lips speak from,
loud their faith enticing.

Now it’s a truant kiss combative
the notions flesh scrapes of
unharnessed ambition
patriots adore.

Still, there is no mark here
save that which chants freedom,
our paled superstition
restless becoming 
the postwar world.

It’s the subtle involvement
of a heart’s notes love gives to
so that what she comprises
are the scales of justice
we hope for
a concert outlining.





Coma

Our love formed of passion
thrown to fevered pitch.

It was of secret devotion,
that surabundance involved
prelude to a cause

where bonds were just such purchase
trite notions bled,
exchanged for remission
governance hid
along our boredoms at death.

Now to marrow it goes
and quick along
what traces each judgement
slight errors trend
of a séance attending
we neat grow from—

these, some mere throng contestant
the peace against your bed,
hand-held and endeavoured
wishing you’d contort in.

Our love formed of passion
and this, here in end.

Andrew Cyril Macdonald considers the role of inter-subjectivity in poetic encounter. He celebrates the confrontations between self and Other and the challenges that occur in moments of injustice. He is founding editor of Version (9) Magazine, a poetry journal that implicates all things theoretic. You can find his words in such places as A Long Story Short, Blaze VOX, Cavity Magazine, Experiential-Experimental Literature, Fevers of the Mind, Green Ink Poetry, Lothlorien, Nauseated Drive, Otoliths, Synchronized Chaos, Unlikely Stories and more. When not writing he is busy caring for seven rescued cats and teaching a next generation of poets.

                THE MAN WHO THREW TANTRUMS

		Catsup bleeding down the wall,
		shattered lunch plate on the rug…
		The old man’s angry.
		
		Sometimes he throws glassware.
		Sometimes, yanks a tablecloth.
		Meals spiral to the floor--
		a sodden mess of fries and gravy,
		cracked cups, pasta-coated flowers,
		and one lone ice cube rolling to a halt.
		Take that, you wimps!

		That old man’s anger is fierce.
		Smash!  Crush!  Crucify!
		Call my lawyers!  Sue the bastards!
		Get revenge.
		Like a child, he can be distracted,
		but he holds a smoldering grudge.

		Barr, the Attorney General 
		who hushed up Muller’s report
		won’t knuckle under this time.
		Finds no evidence of election fraud,
		and tells the world on prime time.
		Damn the man!  You’re fired!
		Firing’s not enough—
		flings crockery
		while minions cower.

		This angry man refuses to lose.
		Calls a mob to D.C.,
		winds them up with lies,
		ignites them with his thirst for revenge.
		But the crowd’s not big enough,
		not yet bragging-sized.

		So he tells Secret Service to ditch weapons-              
                detectors, let everyone in. 
		“They’re not here to hurt me.”


		The volatile man unleashes his mob,
		says he’ll join them at the Capitol.
		Plans a speech on the steps,
		or perhaps in Congressional chambers
		where Pence is receiving electoral votes.
		But the Secret Service driver has orders.
		Can’t guarantee safety amid an armed riot.
		So the angry man lunges.
		One hand grabs the steering wheel;
		the other, the driver’s throat.
		Furious.  Desperate.
		He needs to be there at the Capitol
		to browbeat Pence,  threaten Senators,
		make them all submit to his army of thugs.
		They need to see his power.

		Driven home instead, he sends an angry text
		naming Pence as enemy.
		Rioters broadcast the text,
		erect a scaffold,
		go hunting.
		Aides send many panicked phone calls.
		Says the angry man, “Maybe he deserves it.” 

		This is the man with a nuclear button.
		Hey—
		
               that would yank the rug out from under those            
               traitors!
		Then they’d be sorry.
		This man is ready to explode.
		Crazy-angry.

                CARTOON OF THE WEEK

		Behind the barricade, a crowd heats up;
		seethes with fury, eager to lash out.
		The young suit on the safe side feels their vibes:
		tense—like an aimed bow, ready to fire.

		Walking towards the Capitol doors, 
		he raises high a fist--a sign:  I’m with you.
		You’re Trump’s army, but you’re also mine. 
		And our side has the power. We will win.

		The mob responds with shouts, and starts to push.
		
                The doors, now closed and locked, hide dire      
                change—
		a nation’s ballots have deposed their idol.
		This cannot be allowed. Trump says he won,

		and he speaks as a man chosen by God,
		a golden man who favors billionaires,
		is praised by evangelicals, and those
		who trust his words and never ask for proof.

		The outraged crowd becomes a forward surge—
		smashing windows, clubbing cops, a rout…
		They swarm inside, checking floorplan maps,
		looking for Pence and Pelosi, armed and grim.

		Congressmen who gathered to do their job
		fear and flee.  But look—down one long hall,
		a suited figure sprints, hell-bent for safety.
		Now they’re not his mates. They lust for blood.

		The man who raised his fist to these rough troops
		is running for his life. A video clip
		preserves his panic for posterity--
		with sound track.  Lilting music cheers him on. 





		

looping

sun swallow tailpipe         imagine
                                     if
                   you will             (dis)engage
     enough                                          the
                         wheel had            inspired
then blanched

                               waves thrust     (had to)
         (could                     not                        once
have)                          you                   still
                   if                      hollow
                        then
(mis)applied                             spot     checking

            wings to beating lids
            overwhelm               sun
swallow




numb & flickering combos

friction
        fumes

ghosts casting plumage
trouble catching spores

of magazine dramedy
merging ratio cynic
worm hello empty

verbal plights fringe

         an inherited zebra

transformational
anytime

think

            free
            feet

plain zapping wrapper
doubled
             etc.

smoke
& smell
         & confab
    & twigs

son
thought
sorrow
slob
leveled
digging
doubt

that larval tongue
             disposed
                      sharpened
        in
          come
heavier sword

yorn pencil
adverbs
            twitch 

damp
   pitch
      pretense

making coral slump
thin invested dowel 
swear an elbow swoon

rubble
       rabble

fading pretense align
dewy rolled naps
left cigarette soaked

                          hurry
                  fit             a
bowl.



archive mint

gone long
femur flush
fresh park
trenched symptom
          overwhelmed
     chief      |      portal      |
joke store evangelical
             conversation
             piece,
     stiff upper
bridge,
          insulin
    gap [tape
                me
aghast          spun
]. beam
   tower [change
of l,i,f,e
        function
    , crumbs ,
lust , calendar
.           finish bu
z           z          e          s
  a           w        ,
link meta
    Jaw [sold
enough recent
    verbiage in
toward t
       o     o     k
]. bolt blister
s      a       haste
.


Busted Structures

Repossessive nomenclatures 
             ; The Machine
               That Kills
               Bad Breath
; (restless on the verge of
   sickening zero gravity /
         windswept gym
         floating like
         a NaKeD
         trash isLAND).

Frontier
           plastic
       umbilical skin
; TaG      ,     You
                  ’     Re
          It.    Ooooooh
,   had
       met amphibious
un,
   plumed (tidal
                 germinating
          asphyxiation
cross
roads).

Taught crossing
          angelic STRUM
   , BoMb   ,  tonnage
s
ew
  er housing complex
romance.

Joshua Martin is a Philadelphia based writer and filmmaker, who currently works in a library. He is the author of the books automatic message (Free Lines Press), combustible panoramic twists (Trainwreck Press), Pointillistic Venetian Blinds (Alien Buddha Press) and Vagabond fragments of a hole (Schism Neuronics). He has had numerous pieces published in various journals including Otoliths, Synchronized Chaos, M58, Don’t Submit!, BlazeVOX, RASPUTIN, Ink Pantry, Nauseated Drive, and experiential-experimental-literature. You can find links to his published work at joshuamartinwriting.blogspot.com