"This"
The arms dealer licks his lips
"Is our latest munition,"
He explains to his customers,
As they sip
On expensive Brandy.
"G.P.S. or laser-guided,
Thermobaric bomb,
It explodes in a climax
Of white phosphorus,
A chemical that burns Underwater.
It's sticky!"
He says the word
With glee,
Like a little girl
Dreaming of candy.
A Turquoise lollipop,
To turn her tongue blue,
As she plays in
The schoolyard,
She doesn't even see
The airstrike coming.
YOU ARE READING
Scribblings
PoetryWords arranged in a funny order. Poems about my view of reality and how my inner fantasy world colours it with strange tinges. I love discussions about concepts and ideas so please feel free to comment. © 2018 Brian Lynch
