iar străzile se vor întoarce în pădure

cineva va căra pe umeri un sfinx din plastic

care se va găinăța pe cerul mort

iar mașinile de pompieri vor cînta bach

toți le vor mîngîia sînii

nu apăsați enter

nu scrolați

nu

oile plîng corpurile lor cerești

drăguțe

în visele erotice ale androizilor

selfboții din cînepă

traversează

nesfîrșitele cîmpuri excel

mă abuzez pentru a

înflori

copacii virtuali

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

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

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

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

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

 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