post apocalyptic settings for a confused mind by deluz phosphena

a poem from the compendium dissimulate my reality – some nonlocal junk poetry – 23 nonpoems from the point of view of a black hole condensed in an orange  – a collection of made up poets who live inside a shadow

deluz phosphena is a pink AI jellyfish human who loves wasting time on counting flies trapped in her purse. she was born in bucovina and she refuses to eat until she was 10. at this age she discovered the pleasure of spinning around a random word until she gets so dizzy until she forgets her name, address, gender or parents. it was her first step in the weird world of poetry. she self-published her first poetry book at 17 going ghost with my cerebral limax.my timeline is a trauma/ like a silk goat/ I ate the lipstick/gift from a satyr/ I met last winter. idiots are fucking idiots/ context-free/ dark smiles is what I get/ being such a delicate / ghost.’ (how I became a cannibal fairy) . Intuitive and fueled with cvasi-dadaist visions, she studied gnostic scriptures and counter-culture writers and she considers herself a naughty post-structuralist Discordian hoax. her poetry is an ugly and terrible howl against any form of social constructs that obliterate our perception. You should not be glued to gender, to age, to race; those things should not define you. we are self-centered flying lasagnas and and we hope for an afterlife freed from suffering. and all we do is eating each other minds projecting the dissatisfaction the frustrations and empty-calories wisdom words of self-betterment and the mirage of happiness. this is the foreword of her last poetry book ephemeralization of eschaton: how to be happy and other miserable poems.

counter-intuitive rehearsal for

a delayed prayer:

milky and noble

darkness

counting for joy

void is a torus

reverse is putting in the right place

soul is also a void but filled with

eyes

space is bent around us like a parasite

I dreamed a headless toad

in my coffee mug

a visionary toad

encrypted for a safe transcendence

(a propaganda deity)

and this blue toad

was narrating me another dream

with adds included

about thousands of iron herons

boycotting the on line shops

I rather cut my finger than pointing it to

the false moon of sadness

my empathy is pure emptiness

emotions are cut and pasted

they call em exquisite paraphernalia

for poetry

I brought rotten cherries defending

my hilarious techno-narcolepsy

realizing that

the object of perception is entwined

with my feminist gnostic ideology

I add to cart

my depressive ruminations

the end of the word

finds me

singing together

with the junk

klouds

the map is not the meal

Reclame

hyper-leaves rotting in high weirdness – poee off-the-greed by ubik feynman

a poem from the compendium dissimulate my reality – some nonlocal junk poetry – 23 nonpoems from the point of view of a black hole condensed in an orange  – a collection of made up poets who live inside a shadow

ubik is a non-non-delusional monk who holds meditation sessions in supermarkets. you can meet him through the zanzibar shops levitating at the eye level between the toilet paper racks or above the counter. ubik had not childhood because his parents had no money to raise him. so he sat in a library drawer until the age of 23 when he came out with his only lyrics book – danger of blindnessthe poetry of masturbation between narcisus, dogen and miley cyrus . he was beaten to death by some obscure malware in bucharest downtown where night and day were not distinguished due to graffiti.

silently,

as the beloved bones of my mother,

we observe

this erratic and intense fragility of

the leftovers

dancing on our dead tongues

a woman god with jaguar tail

spoke to us

earlier

but we shall hear her words

only tomorrow

(the toilet: ‘toylet’:

not near

not far)

a hallucination written on our mind map:

this stupid morning

is temporary unavailable

like a suicide note:

notpoetry :

all news are fake

all poetry fake

all memories fake

somebunal!

I will end

learning from my inner spoiled child

more!again!more!again! (blup, blup/flash, flash/flash, flash) by ix tab ular asa

a poem from the compendium dissimulate my reality – some nonlocal junk poetry – 23 nonpoems from the point of view of a black hole condensed in an orange  – a collection of made up poets who live inside a shadow] 

 ix tab ular asa is a Maya non-gender poet generated by a deep lazy learning machine from tulum, mexico. ix enjoys playing, toddling and dirtying nappies. ix writes poetry with a flamingo head from a bird that used to visit ix inside the womb. after the main code of ix generation returned a fatal error – named kairos-, it was abandoned in a recycle bin in a Mayan pyramid. an iguana homeless female – called ortensia found ix and thought it to write stupid poems. ix first poetry book – enjoying human waste was published on tobacco sheets so people could both smoke and laugh. ix was facing a deep depression learning that life and Sudoku have nothing in common but suffering. this state of mindless mindfulness encouraged ix to publish the second poetry book – lacanian nirvana and other triggers for enchanted bots. the poem selected for this compendium yields for kindness in a world consumed by slow decay.

could we say that

death is what

makes a barbecue emotive?

don’t believe my bullshit

it’s a a delusional therapeutic game

stuff generates more stuff

outside the frame

of antisocial media

meanwhile

a dead ouroboros smiles

in my kitchen sink

I bought it from market

thinking to cook him

in my zanussi athanor

with soy sauce

ginger

bell peppers

brown sugar

lime juice

despite the lingering

questions though

I killed my parents

and love them after

fishbots with fake blood

swimming in my eyes

dissolving systems

pathological traps

hands are ATMs of dadaist

gestures

my stupid-phone is drinking

the violet milk of

sunsets

then a two headed bird

rests upon my digital hippocampus

in odious delight

yinsecticid

gymnaziul locul te arati gol

vad oameno pe strafa zqmbond

ma ntreb pe ce pastilw sunt

luna miroase

a gem

si are gust de nisip

ochii mei din cauciuc

asculta cum

putrezesc norii

intins pe o saltea

tastez

degete

cu unghii

de plumb

pietrele honei

s au incins de

la tigari

vine zeul

pe furis

si isi mangaie

penisul

de ceafa mea

de carton

la intrare

în neocortex

s au strìns

furnici

ca nißte condensatori

arßi

limba pe care

o vorbesc

este la fel de veche

precum

seringile

zeeul îşi şterge

nasul

cu o.cutie

de televizor

în care

se ascunsese

în prealabil

identicul

pseudopeşti

în papuci din plastic

latřà la papucii din plastic

apa care îi acoperă

e migrenă

zeeul stã în chiloți

şi îşi scarpinã

gonadele

din cupru

ca pe nişte

vase tibetane

în care s au

strîns

ojogu şi muufiul

domnului

minga

cel care trece deasupra

WARNING: Trains may be hiding trains! by emagdalena kabat

[a poem from the compendium dissimulate my reality – some nonlocal junk poetry – 23 nonpoems from the point of view of a black hole condensed in an orange  – a collection of made up poets who live inside a shadow] 

emagdalena kabat

emagdalena kabat is a 130-year-old poet and former personal trainer who enjoys spiderwatching, snakes and ladders and duck herding. She is pious and anarchist, but can also be very joyous and a bit ironic.

She is babylonian who defines herself as gay. She has a post-graduate degree in sports science. She is allergic to turtle eggs. She is obsessed with donald trump and marx.

Physically, emagdalena is in pretty good shape. she is average-height with bronze skin, copper hair and blue eyes. she has one or two distinguishing features including a mole on the end of her nose, buck teeth and a tattoo of athanasius kircher on her left shoulder.

She grew up in a working class neighbourhood. After her father died when she was young, she was raised by her mother – a magenta flamingo.

She is currently single. her most recent romance was with a woman called blake myrtle howe, who was the same age as her. blake died in 2002.The papers reported the cause of death: ‘infection with surrealism’

emagdalena has four children with late girlfriend dasmine jevill: deadillon aged 88, lillith aged 89, Betty aged 92 and Christy aged 95.

she wrote 1245 poetry books, some best sellers : god for dummies reloaded, the puppet wife of alchemy, the caves with schizophrenia. the poem WARNING: Trains may be hiding trains! was published in her 994th book

unless you squint very hard indeed .

WARNING: Trains may be hiding trains!

the bombardment of pseudo-realities begins to produce inauthentic humans very quickly, spurious humans …

the so-called I

is a wave hidden in a plastic bag

the so called I fears of ubiquitous surveillance

Slowly the mind darkens from thoughts

into an instantstory


When that grows deeper

dies as a ubu-persistance

the dirt is so clean

inside

a dreamstate logic

reveals the non contradictory absurdIty of a

flower

that, as the brain does,

is trying to reduce surprise

you the robot

you are the other me(me)

you the very mind

of the moon

you the mirror of a mirror:

trains maybe be hiding trains!:

future is not what it used to be

ekht – electronic kolaps of high timidity

to break into your dreams

to feel expelled from conclusions

a later functionality of a spotless gaze

under no sky

a man with one foot on the bottom of the lunar sea

and other floating in an ashtray

to regain the natural sadness of teenage

a stereotype of passive agresive visions

an epitome of darkened fantasies

to slide on the top of god’s mind

to redefine the distances between

your melting neurons

a libidouroboros

swimming in the hollow of incomprehensible tears

to unfind myself

in this deserted maze of pacman

no promise land –

the failure of maternal blessings

to drink holy water from a klein bottle

to wait the perfect icon to be released from

my scrotum

to be swallowed by the machine

to reborn in a digital nirvana

to achieve nothing

but verbatimmortality

count the seconds it takes to stop thinking about this poem by joshu mandelb

[a poem from the compendium dissimulate my reality – some nonlocal junk poetry – 23 nonpoems from the point of view of a black hole condensed in an orange  – a collection of made up poets who live inside a shadow] 

joshu mandelb is a NPC poet from titan satellite of saturn. he is made from 90 percents of nitrogen. he writes about the beautiful methane clouds of his hometown – nekyiavile. his first volume ‘panspermia hypothesis’ is a nonmaterial collection of lyrics and sounds that mandelb wrote while listening to the rotation of titan.  I am the slow and smooth/ resonance/of this chaotic / approach/ – my ethereal hands/ the nomenclature of sandness. the flash is flooding/ the nondual equinoxes/I found a dead horse in my mouth and I named him hyperion.   The poem count the seconds it takes to stop thinking about this poem is on the opening page of his 23rd volume ‘ammonia cantos’. (mu poetry press 2018).

ammonia cantos

I just found my mind

as a hair in this dark soup

I’m dining with few machine elves

I met offline

they live only in paradoxes

they replace the center to the periphery

a mitochondrial chain of wordless thinking

they are at the bottom of my poetry

this unbelievable fragility of my human shape

a mist of mixed feelings and fractals

my inner immoral shit is so smooth

I became invisible enough to speak to you

my cell phone, my clothes, my wallet

the weird dance of myness

on this sad october afterlife  afternoon

then  I met this prophet king kong

and he looked me in the depths of my digestive tract

and he moans

like my pheromones moan

like sermons moan

he said ‘the weedy bones are already rotten’

and then disappeared in a market

I saw on TV another tv and it was watching me

all I could think all the time is how strange

how strange these letters

how strange the fingers

how strange the whole of the body

how strange the movements of the mind

how strange the music from youtube

how strange the world

the recycled joy of empty pockets

an epitome of anxiety

and bless

is flooding me

metaadvices for my future corpse – copy/paste poetry and shit by tenzo fierăstrău

[a poem from the compendium dissimulate my reality – some nonlocal junk poetry – 23 nonpoems from the point of view of a black hole condensed in an orange  – a collection of made up poets who live inside a shadow] 

Tenzo Fierăstrău is a zen monk from oltenia. He used to sit and meditate in uncommon places like a shopping mall, a far-left convention, a central square, a public toilet, a brothel. he started to write poems when he saw for the first time a dead man elected as a major in his native town. his first book ‘the garlic is a penis without depression’ was a collection of handwritten words on toilet paper and drugs prospects. the opening poem  ‘yesterday I found my inner monkey and I raped her like a holy baboon’ is a fake prayer to a stupid god called mr. minga : I saw my self in a mirror and I can’t stop laughing/ there is my tail missing and it would be a perfect portrait of my mother’s god/ she fed the worms now with the mescaline of her smile/ a perfect drama for a monster like me/who live in an ashtray/ no goodnight kiss for the saints at the windows ’98/mr. minga, please  burn this poem I feel guilty for your nekyia. the selected poem for this compendium – meta-advice for my future corpse – copy/paste poetry and shit was written near a morgue while drinking the last coffee with his dead mother.

echt

the sprite bottle is blooming

my corpse is an attractive decoy

I used to eat while

I worshiped my wounds

those flexible photos of  hidden

emotions

the sick perceptions of alteredness

in a cup of coffee

nothing but – awaiting the winter

the blink of the black snow

a little bit o karmic residuals

on my hands

every scrap of dirt disappears when persil’s special

oxygen bubble get going

I am proud of my social decay

a flamingo-shaped gossip imagery

I love the Rushmore effect  of my  sunglasses

they say harvest comes early this year

the departure of the ghosts made you a 

happy martyr. it is purple poetry 

being closer to clouds with my tv head

avoiding the family circus

my burial is an open bar event

you could connect with my cute corpse

via Bluetooth

enjoy psychosis

my father breasts feeding the moles

with warm memories that

tear me apart

my therapist taught me

to cry

too late

self-hybridization is my

religion

 

mendel e mendeleev

Ruminate, Amy Cutler

în caz că se cască

la citirea poeeleor

dați drumul la

cascada din cască

mințile noastre

cutii de conserve

le locuim

dezlocuim

și  construim

intimități

indiscrete

fabulații

concrete

mendeleevitez

deasupra

ombilicului

mă excavez

de dragul

circului

mă  dezinvestesc

burlesc

cîntă mi ceva

de ctrlaltesc

cu vin bistericesc

sorii zac în iaurturi

alături de fluturi

din

mucuri de țigară

disecate

ca hecate

scot de la spate

mănușile de porțelan

pline cu viermi de-un an

e ieri dimineață

sau niciodată

mi -e greață

de la prefață

deja devreme

în lene

au ieșit vulpi

din stupi

din neocortex

din goretex

să urineze

siameze

pe geam

nitam nesam

deschide -te

eu te

în partea cealaltă

de oraș

care dă în cîmp

își are sălaș

zeul tîmp

himereal

cubismul knorr

acord parental

putred în athanor

e pomenit

la meteoștiri

cu neuroni cu tot

pentru țicniri

de toamnă

endorfinică

în cheie

cinică

după nekyia

după neckermann

în ikeea

muream

visam

rampapam

 

 

 

 

 

sombunallism – a mu-theory of everything but not all by acmeduse hermma

by acmeduse hermma

[a poem from the compendium dissimulate my reality – some nonlocal junk poetry – 23 nonpoems from the point of view of a black hole condensed in an orange  – a collection of made up poets who live inside a shadow] 

Acmeduse Hermma  is a genuine trickster goddess who reincarnates as a transgender poet and spiritual seeker of the void in the middle of daily boredom states of mind. Somehow, she is snickering to herself by throwing self-made words to the reader.  Using the fake-mirror-of-alcohol technique she enters the batshit feral grabass territory of boredom where she finds the joyous demons of apathy and depression as well as the hideous angels of nothingness, absurd waiting, and prophecies. The first book laotsu in a green sports coat opens with these verses: mcf/ jki’u / efetelem lambada scoo / metempsychosis / gabri sequ vefim as a tenebrous message from the other part of the dark toilet where the poet blindly writes on a piece of used tp. it is sombunall part of the process like the feces, the rain, the butterflies or the cigarette. ‘I am bored with all this fake awareness that makes me desire to be in a chocolate coffin, waiting for some wiseass to reveal the secret of fun. ‘

psyfamily

sombunallism – a mu-theory of everything but not all

what is inside boredom but you can not see it?

the sky is red

the moon is a  square

the grass grows inside my heart

the streets descend into the void

this coffee is green like my lips

I can hear the planets around my house

the cats are barking at the lamp

I’m feeling depressed like an ashtray

oh mu! tadam!

hail for the shiny crap of your mind

narciissus is out of his tombgue

a cricket is his mirror

I don’t want to be awake

it is too late

the trap is smiling

the tv turns off by himself

I shit on my shadow

and there is nothing my therapist can do about it

(give me your last cigarette

I feel lied by your unconscious)

this life is some sort of buddha’s acting out

a compulsion of suffering

a meme of a ubiquitous metasource

a skilfull goose breathes through your brain

remember your navel hanging on

a tree

pouring vodka in your hand

for the sake of the dead ones

faith is some black cum on your lungs

a pepsi-like archetype

 

xanaxismundi sau cum să atunci cînd dacă nu am la sfîrșit fiind mu – poee de amiază de toamnă cu cartelă inversă

ahhhh

  • o dracule tu știi cel mai bine cum
  • stăm alienați pe peron la eroilor sau la victoriei
  • nu contează
  • precum omizile pe o mască de sudură antică
  • ne pipăim telefoanele
  • ne pipăim buzunarele
  • ne mîngîiem tîmplele
  • ne ies mușcate din genunchi
  • vinde cineva un flacon de transpirație
  • cade o mînecă peste chipul psihopatului cu plasă de lidl
  • o dracule tu lingi cel mai bine podelele trenului roz
  • și picioarele oarbe ale oamenilor fără iubire
  • migrenele încep odată cu mîntuirea
  • detergenții și au făcut treaba
  • mor și vatmanii toamna
  • li se scurg sosuri de chiefsi din nări
  • un copil își mănîncă tatăl pînă la urmă
  • ca să poată primi afecțiune
  • nimeni nu se uită la nimeni
  • și astfel apare consensul
  • o dracule ce frumos ești
  • ai copite cu sclipici
  • și porți costum din plastic cu mama ta
  • pictată trei de
  • altcineva poate eris deschide o fereastră
  • și intră un broscoi violet pe care îl cheamă
  • faust ghebaur
  • el cîntă la acordeonul din sticlă
  • hei macarena
  • și două adolescente dansează
  • una în cealaltă
  • ca niște himere ionatan
  • o dracule tu ții lumea asta să nu cadă
  • și ajustezi mereu hărțile empatiei
  • acest metrou de aur în care te ai născut
  • ai copilărit
  • și te-ai depravat după rețete sfinte
  • nu mai oprește în nicio stație
  • merge așa odată cu galaxia
  • pînă se întorc morții din țările calde

all dark matters. how to become a poem.

by MAGDALENA KOLAPS

[a poem from the compendium dissimulate my reality – some nonlocal junk poetry – 23 nonpoems from the point of view of a black hole condensed in an orange  – a collection of made up poets who live inside a shadow] 

magdalena kolaps a.k.a. persephone komma a.k.a. eris heralda is a quasipoet from mongolia. she loves to write poems about her ancestors as in her first book ulan bator is smooth as my vagina where we can find poems like a kiss for genghis or  shaman 1.0. the last book of magdalena kolaps – butter as a fly  is a ironic manifesto about the dualistic nature of reality in a vat. her short poems deals with the transient nature of washing machines, the impossible returning to childhood when she was an octopus, the exquisite relation with her ancestors – the guilty raiders on the moon they censored my twitter account, and the floating vision of the world through the eyes of a snail.

unwritten the reverse journey

NOSTALGIA

dark words with velvet dews

fuck the common speech

in the beginning it was the snail

then the gift (another skill)
from the left you have that synecdoche.

Example: I am less ironic around 23:23

with the  speed of nonprofit the cancer is moving through

be quiet

mother  is prepared for burial
sometimes she whispers me I wanted to  die in a different way
then the contradictions appears:
her breast is now only a mental form

the mourning is a device of literal destruction

like ideas of dysmorphism in this whool mindfountain.

( instead of pissing. I’m your Big Oxymoron,

I’m half of what they say)

a murmur. a chalice of regrets

A dead man;; ( Use the whole bag or none)

she died to understand the example: underestimating the mistress Eris

she worshiped the snail with its silver pennis

it would have been gentle;

it would have been balanced my private speech

reference stage: remotely;
A beautiful lead is flowering inside

further.

my guilt.

 

 

narcissism at the limit of poetry. the pivot of nothing. purge of confession. the future is flowing in the past. I am a cigar.

a poem from the compendium dissimulate my reality – some nonlocal junk poetry – 23 nonpoems from the point of view of a black hole condensed in an orange  – a collection of made up poets who live inside a shadow 

 

black hol.png

narcissism at the limit of poetry. the pivot of nothing. purge of confession. the future is flowing in the past. I am a cigar

by fushiryo torsten goddun 

[fushiryo torsten goddun is a shaman from jupiter which took a posthuman form after his first joint. He wrote poetry generated by his narrow arbitrary tentacles using a deep machine language borrowed from an printer. His first book –  shreds of alcohol in the afternoon – essays concerning human baseness is a stupid inquiry about poetry of quasilifeless forms. We publish a fragment form the second book –  how poems become sites for mourning – the feces core is damaged/empty like all the poetry books , a dysutopian manifesto for galactic punks. ]

the cat is present in the middle of her suffering. she is on the floor. later she is on the table. there is no link between these two states of affairs. no causality. it is the same with poetry. there is no causal relation between words or lyrics. stupid humans tend to simply all the holy shit they encounter every moment. they run away from death toward death. they never stand still their minds are like some mad engines triggered every second by all sorts of mental gods.  I puke on my self knowledge – this huge lie that I  found in the core of every thought-instant. plato was a trickster and his brains smells like rancid apples.

overthinking is the key. the source of genuine poetry. the mother of all distress and anxiety. I love my anxieties. I search for more and deep anxiety. I read a lot of mystics and personal columns. the message is the same. words are feces of our thoughts.

nothingnesslessly – the attic of  our emotions. some discordian goddess wants me to cum in her pocket. Is it perhaps a perverse form of indulgence? it is like an legist doctor who made himself autopsy while alive: this is the self knowledge.  you just can t separate free will from luck.

the ordinary, dusty, confining, sometimes joyous and sometimes ugly world invite us to restore the lost sense of immediacy

the violence, ugliness, anger, greed and clutching, divisive thoughts and frictions of the world invite us to restore the lost sense of immediacy

then if you start a fire at several random points  the entire field will burn

do nothing at all don’t fabricate any things  there is this full now and then there is this full nothing and then reiterate this experience ad infinitum 

we are invincible victims of our mind poetry narcissism  take a step back and you ll see the cosmic toilet paper