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Fireflies and Parasites

Artificial fireflies hang from black strings in the night –


Space carved out of an urban jungle –

Park in its place.

Two young lovers attached by the hip

Sit on a bench under the trees,

Which are under the faint industrial film,

Which conceal the stars.

But the canine’s moon is palatable;

And Venus stands unwavering in all her beauty…

The parasites feed off each other,

While feeding one another,

In their eternal commitment.

Lips locked and shifting,

Absorbing and perpetuating the moist essence of their lives,

With its tasteless euphoria.

Eyes closed as they stare into their counterpart’s soul.

A hand

On a cheek –

Serving as their totem.

A reminder of reality,

Tangiblizing hell on earth,

And all its sinful glory.

A cathedral and its aesthetic purity

Under god’s luminous pupil.

Its wounds a result of his battles –

All for a place in the night sky,

Just to watch in his incestual perversion…



Your First Time

You sit in the classroom surrounded by strangers.

Ironically this is not the classroom it should be.

You’re a month out of school,

even though there is a month left.

You are easily a decade younger than everyone in the class,

do not work,

are not actually paying for the class,

have never written fiction,

and are a burden to the others who realize they are short a person with feedback.

You acknowledged your (in)sanity weeks prior,

but you did it anyway.

Yet now trapped between the manic and your avatar;

thinking as always.

You then realize how much time you have:

You still have a decade-plus to get where these people are with their writing,

And you already see a few who you think you’re better than.

But then you think,

“Shit what about when I AM thirty?”

And you leap to fifty.

Then seventy.

And it goes dark…

Your heart and lungs implode with the presence of a black hole in your chest cavity.

And you re-awake with a defibrillator like shock

Of consciousness.

You never want to go back there again

The existentialist is Pure.

Pure from distortion,

Pure from delusion,

Pure from false hope.

Well not necessarily the last one.

You see,

The existentialists know

There is no answer.

The existentialist understands the human delusion.

The existentialist knows the truth —

About the lie.

The existentialist is a witness of the wizardry of the mind.


But what am I suggesting?


There is no meaning my friend –

No purpose.

We are merely along for this ride from Somewhere…

To Nowhere…

With our evolving ability to delve into our artificial hubs,

We discovered that with the foundation of our minds

Came a mechanism,

To handle the Devil’s side of the deal;

The Devil gave us the ability to think/rationalize/calculate.

The Devil did not anticipate the power of the gift he gave us though;

To combat the exact thing he came away from the table with.

The Devil made us ask Why?

The Devil made us ask other questions,

But we figured out a lot of the how/what/when/where.

But we have no answer to Why –


We HAD no answer –

So we made one.

The Devil gave us the abilities that gave birth to the life we have.

The sadist he is…

And we made something(s) else to give the credit to!


Normally this would be funny,

But for those who actually know “the joke” –

It is them who bare The Devil’s burden…


But back to why the existentialist is not necessarily always Pure of false-hope.

You see,


In the early stages of existential development,

An existentialile may procure there “own” meaning(s),

For life and such.


In instances as such,

A false-hope is developed,

In which the existentile believes they have found peace.


Excuse me,

(Clears Throat)

Eventually the existentile comes to,

And realizes the existential singular truth –

The existential torture…

Not to worry though Truth Seekers.

Existentialists can reach some sort of enlightenment.

(Other than the first time they raise the blinds –

To see its dark out.)

The existential enlightenment is the epiphany that all life is reduced –

To a series of infinite Distractions;

For the believer or the negligent,

And intermittent ones

For the existentialist –

With valleys of darkness in-between…