science fiction, bizarre, poem, poetry

HUGO

He wore his
Hugo award around his neck
to show to the world
(all worlds, possible
worlds)
his profound imagination

so much cross-pollination
in this stupendous endeavour

it is perhaps best to imagine
an entire new biosphere
suddenly sprung into existence
genres feeding genres
begetting subgenres

Frankenstein children of a
barrier crossing, boundary
breaking father
at the heart of which that
forever philosophical
distinction
between self and text, self and
world, text
and world, which
might not even
be distinctions at all

and there he is
to be found, by nature, if
not always

hand in hand
with some gorgeous alien
or spectacularly equipped
android woman

or chatting away in the low oxygen
toxic atmosphere cloud space
of some seedy
Los Angeles bar
talking to Philip K Dick clones
and replicant versions
of Bukowski
the poet

each with unsettling flash-backs
and incomplete memory
luckily, in the not yet
wholesome availability of
science fiction style
psychotropics
and psychotics

enough raw rough and ready
brain-killing grain alcohol
to go
(sweet irony of the adverb) splendidly
around.