Hirosimizing,
Nagasaki impacts,
Atomic bombing pejors.
Scary scabs began,
Debris of recoil doomsday,
Fetus fleets on their way out.
Mushroom cloud embeds,
Tympanic torn by air blast,
This atrocity noted.
Sky Flames
The general loved missiles.
He got a tattoo of one.
A big super-duper boom stick.
Boeing MX Peacekeeper ICBM.
Ten MIRV'd 335 kiloton warheads.
City killers on our heathen commie enemies.
The inker moaned like a boiler.
Huffing and puffing.
You represent evil.
You're the military industrial complex.
You're gonna wipe us all out.
And a dozen more rants.
The general sat there.
Listening and getting his tat.
Why didn't you say no, son?
You never had to do my tattoo?
What you represent is madness.
All that firepower, aimed at Russia.
Well son, that's the way the world works.
They aim their SS20s at us.
It's all madness.
Nice tattoo by the way.
I'll remember you when Reagan orders me
to order my boys to push the red button.
Straight, direct meaning,
No ambiguity or question,
Of relationship or hearing,
Only malicious attestation.
Seventy-five thousand,
Killed by the 15 kiloton bomb,
In one there was no pasture land,
For the innocent overthrown.
Red fluid permeated,
Scolded the lungs of the fit,
No reactions competed,
With that rupture that lit.
Never again should war,
Take the lives of so many,
Because lifted is the bar,
On freedom and autonomy.
What hides beneath the busting red-tide waves, what wains?
Have you seen the Fat-white, would-be Samurai that lives 'round these parts?
To him you see, the
warrior code is the word of the fiery gods, and he
follows it to the letter:
Two minutes and 11 seconds on high, heat only
when thawed for best results.
A divine wind guides his every move, blossoms and bombs are his
orations, his
deeds are explosions over many oceans, an amalgam of
light and splendor, interracial
hues and shades of color illuminated by the bare bulb above his head.
Pin pricks dot his thumbs, shinto values are not the order of the day. Outside of
his house, we see his vista; a rising sun
shining through blackened thorns and smog.
The burrito is irradiated, ready
for consumption, a victim of the .00005 kiloton explosion within the off-brand microwave.
Our feudal soldier draws his fork from it's sheath, a
tsuba well worn and scarred.
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