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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


my gender is quantum (the laptop’s LAZY heart is a candid alien) by COLE & TINA VACHE KAAPA

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 stainsIt 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


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


the impotent luxury of

a good memory

I am craving for emotions

at the bottom of the ocean


all hell is breaking loose

also drinking magenta sperm

from a Klein bottle

to understand


my gender

is quantum

I deceived my


with my cyberness

my death is

a lovely animal


through my


reality breaks down once we get past our surface perceptions of it – how to produce alternative forms of readability by UGO FOGI

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


a new type of pain

and vulnerability


in this uncertain


– 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


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 !

no title: a brief chistory of sadness: why kant used to keep his penis in his mouth in the double-slit moral experiment: hypocrisy of otherness unseen in a wildflower: all mental issues now available: the bots are walking disciplined and relaxed in the valley of my shadows by KANTIGONA LUREX (sICOFANTA Koatli)

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

imposed by canonimath by thanathol lorenz

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


from the rotten sandwich

as I lay on the procust’s bed in my therapist room

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

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 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


counting for joy

void is a torus

reverse is putting in the right place

soul is also a void but filled with


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


the map is not the meal

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.


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


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


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


a dead ouroboros smiles

in my kitchen sink

I bought it from market

thinking to cook him

in my zanussi athanor

with soy sauce


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


my stupid-phone is drinking

the violet milk of


then a two headed bird

rests upon my digital hippocampus

in odious delight

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


a dreamstate logic

reveals the non contradictory absurdIty of a


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.


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


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



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


și  construim








mă excavez

de dragul


mă  dezinvestesc


cîntă mi ceva

de ctrlaltesc

cu vin bistericesc

sorii zac în iaurturi

alături de fluturi


mucuri de țigară


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


pe geam

nitam nesam

deschide -te

eu te

în partea cealaltă

de oraș

care dă în cîmp

își are sălaș

zeul tîmp


cubismul knorr

acord parental

putred în athanor

e pomenit

la meteoștiri

cu neuroni cu tot

pentru țicniri

de toamnă


în cheie


după nekyia

după neckermann

în ikeea









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. ‘


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