A poem about Aliens

Here is a terrible poem that I wrote about Aliens. Please feel free to peruse my other terrible poetry about zombies and Alfred the butler.

“The Meaning of Love”

In truth, I was often homesick
Though I never left home
And I was often lonesome
In crowds
Inside me some key that could never be turned
A spring unwinding slowly unto death
I thought, but maybe everyone feels like this
This is what it means to be alive

When I saw her I knew she was the answer
To the question for which I had never found words
Iron and salt and sweet stench of home
Inside me, the vestigial twitched to life
And a small, secret mouth opened to sing

I could fit into you
Like clockwork
Coiled helplessly
Barbs sheathed
by your lullaby croon
Every heartbeat
Every pulse of your veins
Things shared by only us

Inside my heart
There is a box
There is a machine
That ticks like anything
That hums like the universe
Expanding
Like the breath in your lungs,
And the lymph in your throat
And my teeth, and my claws, my acid blood

The black box will fail; it always does
But I remember you
This is what it means to be in love.

I had a dream last night that the alien facehugger eggs were in the room with me. I kept running through scenarios, trying to avoid being impregnated and subsequently undergoing the whole chestbursting thing. Considered pre-chestbursting suicide as in Alien3, more to avert being violently ripped apart from the inside out than to save the human race. Sadly, we do not keep tanks of molten metal in the apartment. I suppose I could drink a lot of gin.

Oh, and I can’t actually see any of your comments on this blog – I can read them as they’re e-mailed, but the actual “comments” page keeps showing up blank, or weird. I can probably figure a way around this on my own, but I am lazy.