In science class we pinned a butterfly
to a card. Nietzsche said he was our God.
In dead misapprehension I dissected
fearful love of you, and called it my soul,
declared all such emotions chemical;
analyzed that thought, found it electric.
The aching sentence, life, rising within,
nothing, sticking a pin into quicksand.
Rushing the process, I desire cremation,
giving the lie to all my principles,
cheating the maggots, to starve the plankton.
They’ll scatter me over Pacific waves.
It’s either that, or play zombie dress-up;
no peace, and no place to go, but the wind.
© Ben Pincus