by hugo brucciani
april 2020
[Editor’s note: at this stage of his life, Brucciani, apparently embittered by failure and given to extensive substance abuse, now opens and closes his poems by arguing with an imaginary critic. He also has a product-placement deal with Nando’s.]
you say my poems are
the stoned ramblings of a
half-baked moron?
well, fuck you
dear reader, please
add a short
pause after each
line
think of it as
the rhythm
here in the garden in an
infinity recliner, i wonder
how does it feel to
be a bird? hey, bird
does your tiny mind
bliss out when
you soar?
you soar like
a metaphor on
the wings of
my imagination
but
your wings are
real enough to
transcend any
metaphor
but
it’s hard to
acknowledge feeling in
others
people
birds
we have
advanced awareness but
can’t control it
for some, its
shininess is too
reflective
they live in
shiny bubbles
pretending to
connect and
hoping it works
to a point at least
(what shiny beast
saunters towards Nando’s
to be born again
as a chicken?)
others connect better yet but
it’s still not enough
think of us as
an evolutionary dead end
nice while it lasts
apart from when it’s not, like
now
it feels like it’s the end of the world
the end of the road
for us and our one thing after another
farewell cruel world
it’s all your fault
your human nature failed
its epic test
failed to fulfil its
promise
got so far, only
couldn’t connect with
the, you know, thing
couldn’t connect, so
couldn’t relate, so
we’re self-destructing and fuck it
if we’re going down we’re going to
take a lot of other life forms
with us
to whatever is
supervising
good try, and
better luck next time
the multiverse will
carry on evolving but not
with us and not with
life as
we know it
Jim (lucky to be
worried about by
Mrs Dale)
so we’ll never know
how the multiverse evolves
we’ll never see
the bigger picture
that’s the worst thing
here in my bubble
still, could be worse
my worst thing
never knowing
could be a third-world problem
the one we made
could be a pile of shit but
it’s not that bad or sad
it’s OK. it’s fine
it’s only love, and
that is all
love of my life
love of it all
fuck some universal purpose
let’s live for the future
the one that’s got people in it
and birds
and bees
fuck the self-destruction
let’s kiss it better
love it better yet
save ourselves
save our souls
are we saved? not yet
Save
a shallow epiphany, you say?
well, fuck you
Editor’s note: In this poem, Brucciani seems to see humanity as a failed experiment in multiversal connectedness. For an alternative (if equally bleak) view – of life as a crop – see his poem, God the farmer?
soothfairy 