Limpezirea cearcănelor din cache memory
nitam nisamsara
nitam nisam visam
coseam boleam boolean
veneam din RAM
în rapapapam
hălăduiam miam miam
înjuram de mam
ăăiam piracetam emilian
ne dileam într un lighean
mă hlizeam la hram
cu ochii de hrean
muream in instagram
deveneam varan
mă contraziceam
Ginghis han urlam
nimic nimceam
Hăpăiam mărgean
The arctic siamese oedipal twins couple Cole & Tina love to write binaural poems with middle-sized lipsticks on Ikea catalogs. During their career as Manichean artists, they allowed few details of their early life or family background to be known to the public. they even refused to acknowledge that they ever had a name. their father was an ironic electrician named herbison gasdrax and after the birth of the twins, he welded them together with a Russian welding machine – the trotzki feather.
my gender is quantum (MUPoetry Press, 2017) is the latest book published by hazard in a November afternoon after ingesting some dried ink from an old notebook that belongs to their witch grandmother, a well-known tarot and decaf coffee reader.
As we take a brief look at cole & tina poetry one could find transgressive poems like this I am the verso/ of lobotomy/ paralytic culture/stuffed with vodka and Xanax/this beautiful corpse/of hesitation/purged by a random/cow/called/medusa. (threesome trisomic fuck metaphysics! post dadaist hobby) . Another poem oh no! I had to pee on a ghost last night after the escaping matrix. it speaks about how people survived depression and the suffering of missing depressive thoughts. as hungry as a suicide note / my laundry worships the stains/ It could have eaten me / as I walked through / the streets of motherboard/ Pac man for philosophers/ let me be as inclusive as a white black hole/ policore / pubic shores of Mexico/ a fleeting resentment/for the next life/ when they will accomplish nihilism .
say hello to this
blind octopus
its mind fills in the blanks
It creates everything around
the table the chair the window
the sun the fast-food the streets
they are all in its mind
if I change the meaning of words
so-called reality will follow
shit does happen so often
it takes a lot of furies to be kind
filth is my religion
there are no gods in here
but some creepy paper liver
I cannot choose which story
fits with this unstoppable
melancholia
of funny funeral stores
and beauty saloons
here take this dark burger
for your holy gluttony
you love your meat
for the sake of synesthesia
drink your tears get drunk
you filthy raccoon
disguised as a petunia
I can feel the perpetual softness
of my glossolalia –
poetry of doom
like
the impotent luxury of
a good memory
I am craving for emotions
at the bottom of the ocean
sometimes
all hell is breaking loose
also drinking magenta sperm
from a Klein bottle
to understand
bottomology
my gender
is quantum
I deceived my
ancestors
with my cyberness
my death is
a lovely animal
walking
through my
laughs
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
Ugo Fogi is well-known for his book We are all in a post-hypnotic trance induced in early infancy a collection of psychiatric poems written in his youth when visited a schizophrenic institution for artists. LSD consumption and mystic book reading turned Ugo Fogi into a rusty non-human entity named sam-sarah. he was also an enthusiast of multiple worlds theory according to our world is one of innumerable possible worlds. I wrote a poem / in every possible world/so every possible/ reader / could feel/this deep sadness/that rules my life/like a leech. he died in a allegorical car accident in a august afternoon when he returned from supermarket where he looked for a floral bio hazard.
the goat quizzically replies
I use your mind
too loosely
then
a new type of pain
and vulnerability
arise
in this uncertain
territory
– an anemones field
where headless horses
eats our nails
ephemeral machines
smells our fears
and turned them
into believes
try to talk
to your door
try to touch her gently
like an hermit caresses
a dead frog
she will open
like a grave
and then you
will find
that when your mind
is broken
the shreads
will follow
you
at your meetings
in your dreams
at shopping
and of course
in the toilet
a cringe poetry is like
what happens to the rabbits
once out of the hat?
they are devouring themselves
–happy eschaton !
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
Kantigona Lurex is not a person nor an avatar but it could eat 3 tones of flax at breakfast. it has a bad reputation because of its long hairy hands – five – it uses to climb on advertising trees and howls long stupid poems about car crashes, how to repair a washing machine, burned moths, little muddy glass shards, future nails design, appendix art, environment eschaton and IKEA prospects. Kantigona Lurex describes 23 entities that emerged from a bottle of mescal that a cyclop from holbox island accidentally broke in the head of a tiburon ballena. one of entities named sicofanta koatli shares with an human form three noses fixed on a wood head of an underground snake. koatli writes poetry helped by a porn star plumber made from burgers and goat cheese. its last book – serenade for a dying napkin (2017 MUpress) is a grotesque manifesto against social media martyrs and their impact on poetry. the book also deals with proxenetism in the insects’ world, the industry of clothes made from snake dead skins or the semantics of crickets songs vs. climate changes. (‘do not wash/dry clean/ do not dry clean/do not wring/dry in shade/make up your mind / this is not a joke/ this is a joke/ do not iron/ you are just a scared scarecrow / and your mind is slowly devoured by commercials – how to charge your phone at the bottom of the sea).
covered in textile cloud
an electric lark made up from lycra
he is barking like
a cotton slice of cake (cf. kkant)
a funny chorus of violence and ambiguity
that craves for the dark melancholy
and never satisfied
I jumped in the dead leaves pond
to find my genuinemotherboard
my techoanima
while harvesting this reluctant afternoon
thrash gods chilling in the neon lights of a drugstore
amused by the sober corporate zombies
rushing like petals
to their ikea graves
they found a psychotic transfer with their toads
like the fermentation of laundry
in late autumn nights
text-ill : traumantra:
mitochondria pride –
another loathing innocence
for the sake of re-searchers
even a FNORD in the middle of confusion
hazard suffering hazard suffering
the toy is hiding in the heart s void
a plastic butterfly :
a silent mechanism of stupidity
while the mind is burning
loopholes occur
I started writing and typing my neurosis
until this obscure burger
my sacred meal
is eaten
by a parkinson pigeon
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
thanathol lorenz is a neo-non-poet who dies every time after you read his short bio. he was raised in a lab near Sagittarius A with some onions and five black jaguars. he was not too much into mystical discipline but he could talk to the dead stars and comets. he wrote crappy lyrics on the walls of the motherboard about suicidal tendencies, cryptographic marxism, jealousy, bartenders, seashells and Photoshop metaphysics. the first book – neo-catharsis: cures for the itch was a stupid and abyssal manifesto of nonsensical poetry ‘clean the world magnetic dope! / elastic medium: grotesque/elastic punctuation / high diacritical mark/ fetus like / nigredo fleeting scars/ obscene is designed to avoid moral panic‘ ( baila baila braille brother) . for this compendium we choose a poem from his latest book concrete-ghost (2019 mupress) . the garbage magazine wrote about this book: ‘an outrageous and scandalous inquire of poetical cretinism. some poems are obvious deep shit literature: how to teach children to smoke in a toilet on Saturn or when I see a bug a feel the toothpaste void. there are also memorable verses like all we have/ are negative thoughts / a metallic snow / on your saints and barbies/ I shall vomit. (if you are invisible go more invisible). reading concrete ghost one would feel the retard-state of mind of an amoeba’.
we are not design to be happy. except the car sellers and sex dolls (eCHT Liber Vagi Discordia – cap. 3456 non-mind boggling issues)
– fmyu eium eium euim emiu emui eium um um
glyphosphate humeruseg
.pot pot erg ăek lmao lmau lmiu k; kollaps
.etherm etherm acojas lobsterilization
2. killmemanjaro posttraumanism
ngiyp gerkfa’d etc. plibios locked turma
..coffeen coffeefe crissypus is not dead
hemney giganicus lohn kollaps
damn gospodin da fuqqqqqqqqqq
REMOVE THE TOOTHPICK
from the rotten sandwich
I ‘m watching the magenta clouds and a church shited roof
go straight to the object of your desire yields a child
in a quantum tomb
consume this reality moans a corpse in the cradle
carne promovați afacerea pluguri libelule afazice
1.2 Consuming purified tryptophan 1.2
scratch the concrete to find the primary source
of your panic attacks
flowers smells like the end of the world
there is a wind that blows no mind
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
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 blindness – the 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
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
[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
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
stau într o stație de autobuz
nu aştept niciun autobuź
nu mă aşteaptă niciun autobuz
oamenii colapsează cu vrăbiile
tenişii galbeni sunt leneşi
[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).
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
[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.
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
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
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. ‘
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
eCHt 