at thirty-five, the bard observed
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
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
want more life? well tough, too bad
your lust for life’s a bit obscene
death is coming – let it come
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
now you’re past the age of mating
so what comes next? you might well ask
to pass the time of waiting
say the practical mystic
the unbelievable believer
and this crass imagineer
i don’t know
says the smug agnostic
no one really knows
which should put nothing in the lead
but many near-death daytrippers say
there’s something coming next
consciousness being the producer
not the product
my money’s on something to win
if there’s something after death
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
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
it might be dreaming
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
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
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
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 according to
the karmic algorithm
it’s for my own good
apparently
alternatively
after a (short) while
i join a rebel group
and we escape from Heaven
in a scifi-action-movie kind of way
pursued by an avenging angel
(whom we ambush and convert to our cause)
we roam the quantum multiverse
on our quest for cosmic justice
like Roy Batty and Gilgamesh
we’re going to meet our maker
and demand an explanation
whoopee!
(replicant Batty killed his maker
because of his limited lifespan
humans have the same grievance
but that might be going too far)
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.
Cosmic architect Yin was in bad mood. Something had gone wrong. Yin had picked a universe, found a suitable planet, added a moon, seeded life, guided evolution by wiping out the dinosaurs (with, Yin smugly recalled, a well-aimed asteroid), and now, after four billion planet years (no time at all, really) the sodding superconscious beings were about to destroy their environment!
Reason had replaced religion, so further intervention was out – free will was essential. It was tempting to smite that ‘drill, Baby, drill’ fool, but it was a free and fair election, so… The short life span didn’t help. Yin felt bad about that, but it was what happened with evolution. Apparently.
The angels would try to help, but it wasn’t looking good. Another singularity project down the drain, thought Yin. The same thing, or similar, was happening in innumerable universes. Oh well, fuck it, thought Yin. Plenty more fish in the sea.
In which Baby Jesus, Santa Claus and a pagan shaman debate the true meaning of Christmas.
Image by Alsopinion
Once upon a time, dear Reader – last year, actually – in the nearby dimension where mythical beings live, the house called Christmas had an unexpected visitor.
In the house called Christmas, Baby Jesus lived in the attic with his mother. Santa Claus lived in the main part with Mrs Claus and some elves. A pagan shaman lived in the cellar.
(The absentee landlord, God, lived in a mansion on a nearby mountain. Mother Nature lived next door.)
Many of the beings in that dimension had chosen human form – for the craic. That included the residents of the house called Christmas.
It was a big house, with grounds, paddocks, stables, and outhouses. The residents had their own appartments but there was a shared ground-floor kitchen-diner.
One day, shortly before Christmas, a human called Helen tripped through a gap in the continuum and found herself outside the house.
It was snowing, and the snow lay deep, crisp and even. A sign on the door said “Christmas”. Helen rang the bell – a sleigh bell.
An elf opened the door. “Come in”, he said. “They’re all in the kitchen.” The elf gestured down the hallway, went into a side room and shut the door behind him.
Helen stared after the elf. She heard shouting coming from down the hall and walked towards the sound. A gruff voice shouted, “Fuck you, you fuckin’ little bastard!” She opened the door.
AI illustration by me/Canva
Baby Jesus, with his halo, and Santa Claus, with his red suit, were sitting at a large kitchen island. Baby Jesus was in a high chair. They each had a glass of red wine. There were two empty wine bottles in front of them. A speaker was playing Jingle Bells on the Multiversal Matrix station.
Baby Jesus looked like a baby, but he thought, spoke and drank like an adult. He was drunk, as was Santa.
“Fuck you, yer fucking fat twat!” Jesus slurred angrily at Santa. “You don’ even know where yer from. Is it Greece? Or fuckin’ whatsit, Anatolia? Or the fuckin’ North fuckin’ Pole?!”
Helen, standing in the doorway, cleared her throat. They both looked at her. “Hello,” she said. “Sorry to barge in. I was lost, so I rang the bell. An elf let me in. I’m Helen.”
“Hi,” said Jesus. “Hullo,” said Santa.
Helen looked around. Mary, Baby Jesus’s teenage mother, was slumped in an armchair with a cigarette and a glass of wine.
AI illustration by me/Microsoft Generator
“‘Twat’ isn’t a nice word, darling,” Mary said to Jesus. She waved at Helen.
A Central-Asian-looking man, the shaman, sat at one end of the island, chopping mushrooms. He said, “What about ‘fucking’? Is that a nice word?” Jesus grunted. The shaman winked at Helen.
Mrs Claus sat at a large dining table, rolling a joint.
As supernatural beings, they didn’t need food or drink – or intoxicants. But in their human form, they’d got into the habit. The elves supplied their groceries and dope.
“Hello, dear. Don’t mind them,” said Mrs Claus to Helen. “They’re always like this at Christmas. Come in, have a seat. We get the odd human visitor every now and then.”
AI illustration by me/Craiyon – sorry about the hands
Helen stared at Baby Jesus. He hiccuped. “So,” said Helen to Mrs Claus, “you’re not … human?”
“No dear,” said Mrs Claus. “You’ve strayed into a different world. We’re mythical beings. But don’t you worry,” she added, “Our visitors usually get back – somehow or other.”
“The elves do it,” said the shaman to Helen. “Get you back.”
Helen sat down next to Mrs Claus. “Have a glass of wine, dear,” said Mrs Claus to Helen. She poured one. Helen took a gulp. “Thanks,” she said.
“I’m sorry,” said Helen to Jesus. “I interrupted you. Do please continue.”
“Yeah, well,” said Jesus. He drank some wine. “Thing is,” he added, “Christmas is mine!”
He pointed at Santa and shouted, “He fuckin’ stole it!“.
“Actually, it’s mine,” said the shaman to Jesus. “Your church stole it. Yule.”
“Well, yer’ve still got yer fuckin’ yule log,” sneered Jesus. “Anyway,” he muttered, “I never wanted the fuckin’ church in the first place.”
“But the point,” he went on, “the fucking point is, it’s s’posed to be about my fuckin’ birthday!”
“The clue’s in the fuckin’ name!” he shouted.
“Ah, but,” said Santa. “They don’t say ‘Christ-mas’, with the ‘t’, do they. They say ‘Chris-mas’. Tha’s me – Chris. Chris Kringle.”
Jesus snorted. “Bollocks!” he said. “Tha’s from the German, whatsit, Christkindl. Means Christ child. Me!”
“Yeah, well, it’s me they go on about,” Santa said to Jesus. “Me. It’s Santa this an’ Santa that, innit. Not you. An’ cert’nly not you, Mr fuckin’ Yule.”
“I have my followers,” said the shaman.
“Yeah, a few new-age, sandal-wearin’, tofu-eatin’ hippies. Bless ’em.” said Santa. “Hardly mainstream like me, is it.”
“Mind you,” Santa said to Jesus, “they like your carols, I’ll give you that.”
“They used to be mine too,” said the shaman, sadly. “Kind of. The Holly and the Ivy still is.”
And,” said the shaman to Santa, “you got your red and white and the flying reindeer from me.”
“Matrix,” said the shaman. “Show it.” An image of a Siberian shaman feeding a reindeer appeared on a large wall screen.
Image: unknown
“We flew, tripping on magic mushrooms,” said the shaman.
“Wharever,” said Santa. “Christmas is mine now. So you can both fuck off.”
“You – yer’ve got too big fer yer… stupid fuckin’ boots!” shouted Jesus at Santa. He slumped back in his high chair. He sighed.
“I know,” said Jesus. “I know it’s yours. An’ I’m not gettin’ it back. But I’m better than you. People know that.”
Santa busied himself opening another bottle. The speaker played All I want For Christmas Is You by Mariah Carey. “I like this one,” said Mary.
Mrs Claus lit her joint, took a big hit and passed it to Helen. “Go on, dear,” she said. “It’ll take the edge off.”
Helen took a hit, coughed and passed the spliff back to Mrs Claus. She cleared her throat. “So, Jesus,” she said. He glared at her. “I mean, if you don’t mind me asking. Are you really the Baby Jesus?”
“Hah!” said Jesus to Santa, pointing at him. “She’s not asking you if you’re really Santa, is she?” Santa shrugged.
“‘S complicated,” Jesus said to Helen, “the mythical thing. But basically, yes. I’m a, er, a manifestation. Of the Son of God.”
“So what about Joseph?” asked Helen.
“Not here,” said Jesus. “Not mythical enough.”
“Like me,” said Mrs Claus. “I shouldn’t be here, really. But he can’t manage on his own.”
“Hah!” said Santa. “Probably true.”
“The elves got her in.” said the shaman. “Obviously, I’m not personally mythical,” he added. “More representative. And I help with the reindeer.”
“So you see,” Jesus said. “Helen,” he added. He cleared his throat. “As the Baby Jesus,” he said, with the careful enunciation of the drunk, “I’m here in this house – we’re all here – because of bloody Christmas!”
“What about Easter?” asked Helen. The shaman snorted. “Another one stolen,” he said.
“Ostara,” he said to Helen. “Or Ēostre.”
“Moan, moan, moan,” said Jesus to the shaman. “Yer still got yer soddin’ eggs. An’ yer stupid bloody rabbit.” The shaman sniffed.
“Easter. ‘S a different house,” said Jesus to Helen. Mary sighed.
The room fell silent, apart from the speaker playing Merry Christmas Everyone by Shakin’ Stevens. An elf came in and finished preparing their meal.
AI illustration by me/Adobe Firefly
Helen accepted Mrs Claus’s invitation to join them for dinner. Baby Jesus picked at his food. He’d become maudlin. Helen wished she hadn’t mentioned Easter. The conversation was mainly small talk about yule logs, reindeer and Helen’s family.
Helen wanted to ask Mary about the virgin birth, but didn’t like to. The speaker played Last Christmas by Wham! “Ooh, I like this one,” said Mrs Claus. “Me too,” said Helen. They giggled.
“Still,” said the shaman to Jesus, “Cheer up. You rose from the dead, didn’t you?”
AI illustration by me/Microsoft Generator
“Tha’s right,” said Santa to Jesus. “‘S why my, er, ancestor was doin’ all those miracles. In Anatolia. In your name.”
“S’pose so,” said Jesus.
“Cheer up, dear,” said Mary to Jesus. “It’s Christmas.” Jesus sniffed.
“Always look on the bright side of life,” sang the shaman.
Jesus laughed. “Hah! Very funny,” he said. The elf gave them each a glass of arak. “Anyway,” said Jesus. “Cheers.”
The mood and the conversation lightened. The elf served coffee and then tapped Helen on the shoulder. “You can go back now if you like,” he said. “OK, thanks,” said Helen.
“Follow me,” said the elf. Helen stood up. The others looked at her. “Well, thanks,” she said. “For the lovely meal. And everything. It was really nice to meet you all.”
“You too, darling,” said Mrs Claus. “All the best.”
Helen started to follow the elf, and then she turned back. “Can I just say,” she said. They looked at her again.
“We … humans, most of us, we’re not very religious these days, are we,” she said. “But Christmas is what it is because of all of you.” The others nodded thoughtfully. “So,” said Helen, “Happy Christmas.”
“Yeah, Happy Christmas,” they said, raggedly but agreeably.
‘Time for your nap, dear,’ said Mary to Baby Jesus. He nodded. ‘You too,’ said Mrs Claus to Santa. He grunted.
Helen followed the elf out of the door. The speaker was playing Fairytale of New York by the Pogues and Kirsty MacColl.
Clip from video for Fairy Tale of New York | Image: YouTube
Helen got back safely – the elves had a portal in the living room – and, dear Reader, they all lived happily thereafter.
Helen didn’t tell anyone about her visit to the house called Christmas. She thought they wouldn’t believe her. She died aged 95 in a post-apocalypse commune. (That’s another story.)
The mythical beings had to move further away when their dimension was demolished by the Xogon empire to make way for a new interdimensional highway. (Fortunately, our nearby dimension was just off the route.)
The house called Christmas re-manifested. Baby Jesus, Santa Claus and the shaman continued to debate the real meaning of Christmas. They still got the occasional human visitor. Most of them got back safely.
Christmas continued to the end of time, which was sooner than everyone expected.
Mosaic: St Peter’s Basillica, Vatican, Rome | Photo: soothfairy
Is there an afterlife? How can there be? Life is life. Death is death. Or is our individual consciousness independent of our living body? If so, heaven/hell/whatever must be a crowded place. Except it wouldn’t be a ‘place’, of course. It’d be ‘outside’ space-time as we know it.
So, if there is a heaven, and you get past the gatekeeper, what would you do? I’d head for the library. Unless they’ve closed it.
soothfairy 