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
eCHt 