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