Poetry: Heath Brougher

Heath Brougher
Built to Scumble


Social scumbling. An entire gallery  

of creatures blowing their brains out.  

Entire hallways decorated in fringe death. 

This is not Deathtalk for Suicidefans 

That’s a different book. Wrote it when I was 20. 

Back before I knew the True depths of death. 


Do not put your hands out 

for I have nothing to give you.  




The Multiverse Cracks the Window

This Multiverse has always been impersonal,

                      angering us by never becoming

the personified version we demanded of it

                       as we made feeble attempts to change it to fit our perceptions.

Understanding the secret of the Multiverse

                        would bring upon Epiphany-riddled rain

and transcendental tuffs of wind would revel in the sky.


Such triumphant truth would be the epitome and we would

                      cut it into a trillion tiny pieces,

place them in small palm-sized boxes

                       and spread them across the Earth

for the safety of such severely sought after information,

                        we would protect at all costs,

similar to an Individual’s Intellect.


The thing - our minds have natural tendencies toward "making sense". It is an element of a survival instinct that after generations of comforting was left to its own devices and got beyond blatantly bored that it jumps/flicks/jolts on every opportunity to do its thing - to make sense out of something no matter what. This poem gives the mind a chance to run wild a bit only to realize at some point that at times there is no thing to make sense of. 


Meditative Medicinals

A healing and galactic hand reached forth containing a Multiversal medicine in the form of a pill to ensure the health of a perfectly pure luminiferous sentience into the safety of a vibrantly pulsating celebration and suchness of this limitless Multidimensional Existence. 



Soul War

The tiniest of people can spark the biggest flames. 

Even the dullest, yet honest, man can burn it all down if he wishes 

to see charms and political angels plummet to the ground

as the fat and happy idiotic sultans living

in an invisible kingdom they call Freedom

have their spirits crushed in a sudden panic attack—

every last one of them with some degree of blood on their hands. 


They can all be jarred, wrecked, destroyed

by a simplistic act committed by a magnanimous army of one. 


The Simultaneous River

A canvas of emptiness, of infinite space,

a river of the golden—

of the great spiral—

of Infinitude—   

of nothing more than another one of God’s dreams— 

of nothing but the Simultanium of existence and nonexistence. 


Bio: Heath Brougher is the Editor-in-Chief of Concrete Mist Press and co-poetry editor of Into the Void, winner of the 2017 and 2018 Saboteur Awards for Best Magazine. He received Taj Mahal Review’s 2018 Poet of the Year Award and is a multiple Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee. In 2020, he was awarded the Wakefield Prize for Poetry. He has published 11 books and, after spending over three years editing the work of others, is ready to get back into the creative driver seat for a bit. He has four books forthcoming in 2022 and 2023.

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