The Immoralists Next Door








The Immoralists Next Door




There is/was a struggle

The scuffle of symbolists

Dreaming of Succor

Masturbation & Comfort

Left & Right, Neither Right nor Wrong—

Scary Stuff

psychological scary stuff

really can mess you up

Author's Notes/Comments: 

watching a creepy horror movie on Netflix called Friend Request...can't recommend it cuz I didn't think it was that great but it was very creepy...and inspired this poem...

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The Globalist - Oscar AHS

In a car, rolling on a strange deserted highway, the heat absorbed by the skin of the two cousins inside. Only silence and the tires going at 100km/h could be heard, and sometimes the poor insects splashing like a paintball against the car’s front. The driver decided to put Spotify on with a random weird playlist named “I’m a cyborg but that’s ok”.


After a few random unorganized songs, The Globalist by Muse came on. “Oh! Hey, listen to this,” said the driver while increasing the volume “I heard this song the other day, it made me think in a short story that fits well with the song.”


“Sure, hit it.” Said the cousin.

“Alright,” he prepared himself with his shaky right hand “imagine a man struggling in a deserted highway, he looks messed up, like if a gang of people beat him up to the blink of death. Black eye, blood sliding down like sweat on the forehead, he even lost two complete fingernails with dirt as a substitute. His mind is white, he is not sure what to expect next, but suddenly, a strike of motivation hit him. ‘Screw it, I’ll do it’ he whispered to himself.” The intense part of the song began at this exact moment.


“Do what?” his cousin asked.

“Nobody knows, he just decided to do it. He walked in the endless desert, and then he found it. An abandoned cabin in the middle of the desert. He went down the hill and reached the door, he seemed to know the place, and he seemed anxiously angry, collecting weapons that were hidden everywhere in it. Ropes, guns, knives, grenades, a map, water, mustard gas, molotovs and a lot more. Focused and agitated his heart stopped for a second leaving a tight feeling in his chest. He saw a picture laying on the ground, face down, he picked it up and looked at it, he then smirked while having deep thoughts: his childhood friendships, his family hanging out at the local hamburgers store, hanging out with his girlfriend, the day he got married, the day he lost a thousand dollars in the casino, the day he got that thousand bucks back, the year he was on drugs, everything that had impacted his life was flashing on his eyes—‘bang!’ he shoot a bullet on the head of a guy.” The epic-ness of the song turned off.


“Wait, what? He was remembering positive things of his life and suddenly all that was cut by a gunshot? Who did he kill?” The music resumed with a resolution feeling on the air.


“I don’t know, nobody does. But just imagine it, be in his shoes.”


After that, silence was again prevailing, until the driver stopped the car in the middle of nowhere. “Well, this is your stop. I guess, I will see you soon?” said the driver, while looking away. His cousin opened his door, got out of the car, turned back to close the door. “Stop chasing yourself for what you did” he said. The driver looked down, nodded and didn’t said another word. He drove ahead, and he took a glimpse on the front mirror to see the reflection of nothing but an empty road and an endless desert.

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