for the over 70s
a poem by hugo brucciani
rhyming starter
at fifty-five, Larkin leaked
his early-morning fear of death
at thirty-three, Thomas told
his dying dad to rage
both too young for the animal dread –
and the need to act your age
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
and whatever life is, you want more
to stem the fear you feel
well tough, too bad, you greedy old git
your lust for life’s a bit obscene
death is coming – let it come
you can blame the selfish gene
act your age, turn the page
do some meditation
follow your breath, accept that Death
will need no invitation
Mother Nature doesn’t care
now 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, say devout atheists
something, say practical mystics and
unbelievable believers
i don’t know, say we wishy-washy agnostics
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 unexplained
and perhaps in a separate field
my money’s on something to win
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
for meaning after death
but Great God Om is silent
he’s on a toilet break, the total fake
my unanswered prayer
goes drifting into space
i can only speculate
something scenario 1: dreaming
dreaming after death
the scariest scenario
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
something scenario 2: judgement
on the day of judgement at the crossroads
with St Peter, the Devil
and Robert Johnson watching on
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
something scenario 3: quantum reality
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?
quantum scenario 1: 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
(preferably as a human for fuck’s sake)
hello again!
additional souls for the increasing population are presumably made from scratch
quantum scenario 2: reabsorption
after a (different) while,
in the reabsorption unit
(watched again by loved ones and angels)
i dissolve into the ocean of quant
bye bye!
quantum scenario 3: freedom!
after a (short) while
i join a rebel group
we escape from Heaven
in a scifi-action-movie kind of way
and roam the quantum multiverse
on a quest for cosmic justice
like Roy Batty and Gilgamesh
we’re going to meet our maker
whoopee!
other quantum scenarios may be available
or there’s nothing
brain shuts down, mind fades fast
never mind, i think
it was never going to…
desert
sweet dreams
Editors’s note: This poem was smuggled out of a high-security asylum for the insane somewhere in the Austrian Alps. Brucciani is thought to have overdosed on scopolamine whilst serving as poet in residence at the Sigmund Freud Museum. The Society of Poets is said to be organising a rescue mission.
soothfairy 