A Most Logical Conclusion To All Of The Unanswerable Questions Necessitated By Materialism Of Any Sort 

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For him Februaries

came in two flavors:

and the savory one

he’d only tasted once.

Food, like most Februaries,

like this one,

tasted like ash by that point.

A heart is a muscle that pumps blood,

he mused,

and nothing more.  

What we so foolishly

call a heart–the limbic system–

is just a series of biochemical reactions

in a complex but wholly random brain–

not a thing more. A fluke of nature.

Pointless.  Worm-food.

There’s nothing significant, we’re just

hairless apes, and nothing more, he mused.

The pain is nonexistent, in that we

are nonexistent.  We don’t exist,

because we’re just a collection

of chemical reactions which randomly

coalesced into a bipedal creature

with an unusual penchant for building

things and hurting other things.

We’re all just things, though.

Chemical reactions,

and nothing more.

That’d what they’d have him believe, at least.

That’s the conclusion of what so many believe.

He knew that his pain was,

and the dull ache still is

completely insignificant, meaningless,

pointless, useless,

without merit or hope.

Just like everything else

that proceeded

from his heart–no–

limbic system.

He didn’t want it to hurt.

He didn’t know why it yet did.

After all, it was just

chemical reactions.

Why did they drive him so?

He had no answer, only more questions,

but he did learn what was meant

by one last thing

on his last swing:

“cursed is he

who hangs on a tree.”

Read more from Ian here.

This particular poem is from Bilge Pump of a Turgid Mind

Ian McLeod is an author and entrepreneur from the humid depths of Dixie. His books include the pop-satire DARWINVERSE series, and three books of poetry--BILGE PUMP OF A TURGID MIND, VALVE COVER GASKET OF THE ENGINE OF DESPAIR, and LAUNCH EVERYTHING; LET GOD SORT IT OUT

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