Eight fifteen, sunbeams.
Hiroshima on a monday.
Foreplay for the warmonger,
a quick fumble, then it was over.
Mushrooms grow in nuclear glow.
Vaporised bodies. Man's first taste
of demons breathe, floating on the dust blown.
Little boy in fiery demise.
The sky blooms and angels’ cry
in a blink of a sunburnt eye.
The buzz of plane engines
overhead. One look,
then their world ended.
A blaze of anger and flame.
Warlike orgasm, mankind's shame.
A moment of pleasure
for those who adore pain
then leave never to be seen again.
Manhattan project. Desert madness
Just because we can
doesn't mean we should.
Mushroom heads,
death bringers fingering the trigger.
An involuntary jerk. An evolutionary quirk.
Ringing storm surging through
It feels so good.
Mankind loves to make people hurt.
The gasps of pleasure as he applies the pressure.
Then release.
Fat man penetrates the clouds.
Eleven on that Thursday Nagasaki morning.
Howls of delight
as the instant of madness draws closer.
Not a care for people's plight
Nor their mourning.
Blind to the threat they swept
Along on the waves of the day.
A blinding light climax under peaceful skies.
So many lost lives.
The screams of pleasure
in the desert many miles away
could be felt reverberating around the world
and can still be felt today.
Playing God for a day,
humanities demon for eternity.
Thanks for reading
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