for the over 70s
a poem by hugo brucciani
featuring Roy Batty as Gilgamesh
contents
too young | fear of death | acceptance | what comes next? | something after death | dreaming | judgement | quantumness | reincarnation | reabsorption | freedom! | nothing
<<
too young
at thirty-five, the bard observed
the dread of something after death
at thirty-three, Thomas told his
dying dad to rage
at fifty-five, Larkin leaked his
early-morning funk
all too young for the animal fear – and
the need to act your age
<<
fear of death
life’s a bowl of cherries
it’s also a bowl of crap
it’s a cabaret, a revolving door
a way marked on a map
but after threescore years and ten
the end is feeling real –
whatever life is, you just want more
to stem the fear you feel
<<
acceptance
well tough, too bad, you greedy git
your lust for life’s a bit obscene
death’s a comin’ – let it come
you can blame it on the selfish gene
act your age, turn the page
do some meditation
follow your breath, remember Death will
need no invitation
Mother Nature doesn’t care –
you’re past the age of mating
so – what comes next?
you might well ask
to pass the time of waiting
free-verse main
<<
what comes next?
nothing
-
says the devout atheist
something
-
says the practical mystic
the unbelievable believer
this crass imagineer
i don’t know
-
says the confidant agnostic
no one really knows
which should put nothing in the lead but
many near-death day-trippers say
there’s something coming next
consciousness being a producer
not a product
my money’s on something to win
<<
something after death
but will it be something good or
will it be something bad?
a Heaven of wonderful meaning or
a Hell of meaningless dreams?
i pray to Om for meaning
meaning after death
but Great God Om is silent
in his misty mountain mansion in
the land of manifest myths
he’s on a toilet break, the total fake
my unanswered prayer
goes drifting into space –
i can only speculate
<<
dreaming
if it’s like sleeping it might be
dreaming after death
there’s the rub – what dreams may come?
my living dreams are confused
unhappy and meaningless
i fear an eternity of that
i add to my my to-do list
practice lucid dreaming
as i lay me down to sleep
i pray my dreams be clear and sweet
<<
judgement
on my day of judgement at
the crossroads with
St Peter, the Devil and Robert Johnson
a ghostly AI does the dirty work
sifting swiftly through my life
the result isn’t great
what d’you say? says Johnson
in a kindly kind of way
i say i’m sorry for
not making the most of it and
being a shit sometimes
it wasn’t my fault, give me a break, i whine
then pulling what’s left of myself together
i say whatever, do it and
my judged afterlife begins
hey ho
<<
quantumness
so obviously the multiverse
being made of consciousness
and everything being an illusion, kind of, and
my consciousness being a durable
construct of quantum reality
i survive death with
a body made of quantum magic
mine but young and healthy
i see the light, dead friends and relatives
maybe Baby Jesus and Santa Claus
another illusion? perhaps but
it’s better than instant nothing
isn’t it?
<<
reincarnation
after a while,
in the reincarnation unit
surrounded by the spirits of
my surviving loved ones (if any) and
maybe an angel or two
my soul is stripped down to
its unique quantum core
and reborn as per the
karmic algorithm
it’s for my own good
apparently
goodbye!
hello! again
<<
reabsorption
after a (different) while,
in the reabsorption unit
(watched again by loved ones and angels)
i dissolve into the ocean of quant
fair enough, i suppose
bye bye! Bye…….
<<
freedom!
alternatively
after a (short) while
i join a rebel group and
we escape from Heaven in
a scifi-action-movie kind of way
we roam the quantum multiverse on
a quest for cosmic justice
like Roy Batty and Gilgamesh
we’re going to meet our maker and
demand an explanation
whoopee!
<<
or there’s nothing
brain shuts down, mind fades fast
never mind, i think
it was never going to …
desert
sweet dreams
(if available)
the end
Editors’s note: This poem was smuggled out of a high-security institute for the insane somewhere in the Austrian Alps. Brucciani is thought to have overdosed on scopolamine whilst poet in residence at the Sigmund Freud Museum. The Society of Poets is said to be organising a rescue mission.
soothfairy 