Sara Deniz Akant's HYPERPHANTASIA explodes the sonnet's sonic and imaginative capabilities via infestation dreams, open tabs, and other disruptive forms of longing and (dis)belonging: the epistolary, epic, ballad, or just some oracle shit (history). Phanta--our AI BFF, echoing troll, or spiritual center--sweetly sings a nekromantic soundtrack into the reader's ear through the holographic nonplace of doverobots, sleeping boyfriends, murderous grooms, and empty code. In these broken songs, the women haunt themselves through the quotidian trappings of daily routine: unanswered letters, dreamscapes, and ritualized obsessions. And yet, Akant's celebratory second collection refuses to make precious bores of gender, grief, lust, or life. Just like the eponymous hero and prismatic villain of Phanta herself, the trash in these poems not only sucks our hunger dry but also multiplies in an attempt to reclaim the (often damning) myths that surround the culturally mixed, feminized body.Drawing from tropes of the abject feminine in vintage horror and confessional poetry, Sara Deniz Akant's poems move between epistolary and diary in letters and confessions to and from Phanta--a mechanical hydra, a spider, a sequential selfattracting manysexed organism, an artificial intelligence, a 'broken device filled with children.' Phanta has been the ringtone on the selfhelp hotline and the footnote in the DSM case study and the author of herself. This is a book made of milk, blood, cum, sap, piss, yolk, and sweat--like being, suddenly, the living part of a Kiki Smith installation. Akant writes: 'unpacking Phanta / is like: poem, poem, poem, porn.' It really is.--Divya VictorThere's a stubborn beauty in these pieces; the poems erupt the same moment they're read. Akant's HYPERPHANTASIA does something akin to excavation in its preoccupation with fragments and how they dialogue together: names, houses, bodies, cities, machines. The self, the narrator, is kaleidoscopically scattered, threaded throughout with the persistently honest chatter of Phanta: the observereffect put on full display.--Hala AlyanWith sonic reverberations of Turkish, phone mistranslations and 'garbage texts, ' Akant's haunting work captures the strangest moments at the end of the world--a wedding where the groom looks to the crowd and asks 'what's the fucking point?' as the speaker searches his pockets for drugs. In these dazzling poems, the self is a mask making new worlds from the dead--a ghost crawling out of