poem, poetry, Solaris, Aliens, anger, argument, satire

FOR BLOOD

asking for trouble
telling me I’m
not allowed to, supposed
to think
like that

as if I’m dead in the apotheosis
of Solaris
            Chris
Kelvin           about to be absorbed
by massive
              alien love

and so
I throw philosophy, or its
kitchen sink equivalent at you
hoping to
shift your
tectonic plate

Nietzsche warning about the abyss
but here you
go falling
into it

silly me, silly person

must be
a horrible species of
xenomorphic extraterrestrial alien

having
thick satirical acid for blood