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Its impossible

for me not to see their parasitism

By S R GurneyPublished 4 years ago 4 min read
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Its impossible
Photo by Salmen Bejaoui on Unsplash

It's impossible for me not to see their parasitism, lining the streets like lice, crawling their lifelines.

Hauling exhausted commercialised emptiness, the chasm that exists within pockets of the heart, soul and wallet.

Desperately trudging alongside tendril hair-strand buildings, strutting from an invacant celestial body.

Cities are amass, where, instectoids as they are, instinctually desire to clamber to the very highest levels of those modern monoliths, jutting into the skies.

An inescapable bleakness; of cloying ant-ish grabbers at natural and humanistic decor.

It doesn't matter if it's sunny, cold or wet, they still wear the fruits of other beings without a thought for more than its meat.

They are rigid as the sharp edges of a brittle slate; even the small ones are naive and petulant, able to laugh and cry inconsolable, semi-vacuous of the complex paradigm we call living.

Demanding themselves cycling hot water that pumps through intricate centralized systems, advanced brick hovel's with electric power and flames that instantaneously spew from hobs.

It's a dangerous realisation to know that we're all just meaningless antsy specks clinging to existence, one by one, returning to the earthly blackened void.

Living this cycle is burnt toast, sulphur, ashen debts to a volcanoes ventricle warmth that oozes forcefully from the molten core of our planets dynamism, the ever churning smelting furnace of life.

And it seems abstract to think anything could begin here, but it is the building block of the ant and land and life alike.

It's a common defect, born from the unknown, staring back at existence with questions and ingratitude, glistening in the quantifiable sun rises we can expect to endure.

It's plump with worrying you will die alone, getting shampoo caught in the eye, paying irreverent parking fines, always washing the same eight dishes, the same weak blows of air which fill these walls with an informal langour.

It's replenished somewhat with skipping stones over boundless bodies of water, visiting grandparents, wearing pretty clothes and adorning life with placid trinkets.

Stamping our past to continual presentations of meta-physical-objectivity; a consequential but harmless impressionism of cultures assimilation to identity.

And much like most disappointing truths, existence is its own relentless parasite, eternally earning itself, dancing to symmetrical rhythms, independently the same.

Sometimes it barks from a dogs mouth, other times it is a fly bashing the window trying to escape, often it is silent like a plant but no less living.

The Sensorial stimulation of loudness instinctually warns their ears like a strong prickle, an alarm within the consciousness, possessing a muscle spasm, as the fear of dying.

Meaningful of generative harms and we feel it as if lifes overwhelming presence is an omnipotent force, as if we are tethered through wires to a network of hegemony here on earth.

It falls to the sink like shaven hair with a deft monotony, an inevitable dissection of recurrence, as it returns thicker than before, but ever more numb.

These bugs of the scrape-sky mega-structures splutter mindlessness through the cracks of irredemption, etching morosely an unnatural adeptness onto the black chalk boards of space.

Inhale, exhale, the fumes are mild on a Sunday.

Weirdly it's their colourless incoordination, uninspired and barely functional architectural stylism of stone, marble, glass and concrete, surrounded by tendentious roadways which are holey, lumpy and beaten, with paint smeared and rubbed from the cars toes.

It's the imprecision of infrastructure which leaves gentle imprints on sand, a clear message for those future livers; all dynastic eras become just seconds in retrospect of mothers rocks age.

I like to think they'll be looking back like historians and archaeologists do at the great monoliths of Giza, and I wonder what they will ascribe to the millennia of secrets hidden as the stylings of our estately conformed residentials.

Ant-hill slums of informidable attribution. Its their pointed fingers of dribbling blood, drawn in rouge filth, the monkey in man; his bright pink arse hole hidden beneath levis jeans.

The screaming wails of animosity that are embroidered in its warring history; a snake eating its own tail.

It's fiendish similarity, not by ethos or religion, but the raging fiend of a morish commonality, quaffing the pauper his own king.

But no one knows it like this, for we look both left and right for guidance.

It's a fear of the self and others which dances like clouds in the wind of our economically inept nakedness and socio-belittling.

It's an imperative judgment, you must, or you should, carried by an endless post-positive beckoning to a hyper-sensitive modelic symbolicism; a world purposed for the meek and offended.

It's a competition lost by all, for even those too despicable to name, get more of a placeholder than they should.

It's a tireless semiotic struggle, captured momentously by a gram or tweeting belligerent incivility, a world unto its own marvels.

It's an itch that creeps through the skin like a scarring eczema, a proverbial rash on the body of time which erodes and defines the authenticity of living.

surreal poetry
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About the Creator

S R Gurney

25.

Graduate. Author. Director.

Inspirer to noone.

Compulsive Hypochondriac.

Elusive Dreamer.

Thought Hallucinator.

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