NUCLEAR SUSHI MUSEUM

 

The taste that fell on Tibbets' tongue was fresh to the crew of the Fukuryu Maru nine years later netting fish for sushi, suddenly crying old leaden tears back into the food chain.

we can't eat without swallowing Hiroshima, Nagasaki,
a poisonous tincture of Bikini Lagoon.

"Unclassified nuclear weapon shapes" displayed like trophies curated of context, emasculating history with laser taxonomy mirrored in shaded eyes...

where a Snark is still "handy for striking a light" for a Minuteman missile blowing smoke rings, sun wears a hostile black coat, each generation cloaking the next in metaphors no longer fitting:

In the dark closet,
A kimono tries on
It's own shape...

it's knot's path tied behind, kimono and obi the pride of straight lines, like missile designs.

 

Heaven itself cooks on thermonuclear heat, sauteing St. George's dragon with balls of vinegared rice served with sole of charcoaled sailor and eyes of skeletal fish.

 

 

 

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