A time for imperialism
"Please draw the chains a little bit tighter," came the throaty demand, "squeeze the tears from his eyes!" They bulged like bellies of quivering, starving infants, tittered and teetered like a balloon on the brink of over-inflation, hyperinflation even. They were tenuous yolks about to abruptly quit their egg-job and move over to the frying pan over the questionable cadence of an ever-growing hairline fracture that took cracks in skulls, sidewalks and windshields and made them look like Grand Canyons further eroded by battles among giants amid their dreary and uninspiring pits. The donkeys that made up the entire state of Nebraska and twelve rusty furnaces could safely roam and ramble across the walks between the gaping expanses in between these newfound hollows blown into concrete, bone and plastic-coated glass. Tears would become fluffy, drops and beadlets of sweat into creampuffs filled with purely incandescent terror. The mist on the windows of the World Trade Center didn't know the full-front of a passenger jet and couldn't scream the way his two omelettes would dance about the tip of a broom bristle, trying not to fall, dying not to splatter. But death is death except when it's not and this wasn't going to be another showdown. Not in the corner, not with the salt on top.
The chain grated against the glue in his skin, etched in a slice of pus and rust that slickly made a faint sucking noise as tighter and tighter the grip on the toothpick and flesh drew, all the furious and unattentive blood vessels were slapped to attention at the impasse and grew furiouser and furiouser like roadwork least expected or a taping of Oprah in the middle of rush hour traffic where money was being purposefully burned to make rich people giggle as opinions were running the gamut like weasels in an elongated brick oven and the host's weight did cartwheels, constantly overturning the center of gravity and leaving everyone guessing where it would land. Either side of the chain surged with radioactivity and veins blistered at the pressure.
On every fever-pitched note the time grew thin...skipping out to pasture with lunchsack in hand.
The chain grated against the glue in his skin, etched in a slice of pus and rust that slickly made a faint sucking noise as tighter and tighter the grip on the toothpick and flesh drew, all the furious and unattentive blood vessels were slapped to attention at the impasse and grew furiouser and furiouser like roadwork least expected or a taping of Oprah in the middle of rush hour traffic where money was being purposefully burned to make rich people giggle as opinions were running the gamut like weasels in an elongated brick oven and the host's weight did cartwheels, constantly overturning the center of gravity and leaving everyone guessing where it would land. Either side of the chain surged with radioactivity and veins blistered at the pressure.
On every fever-pitched note the time grew thin...skipping out to pasture with lunchsack in hand.