By the second act they became sullen. To them the stage bore no comfort, gave escape to none. A drape of factory smoke choked the theater so not even the mill worker could escape it. Its chilled chairs reclined only halfway, then dusty springs claimed their victims.
The fiasco died it seemed, with the sword swallower and trapeze. Horse dung laid conquered by gravity and wept until it dried. The magpies, bored of their laughing games, swept along to another terrace. One with better scenery. Even stone walls lost hope or feared the worst.
But that night, nearby in moderately priced apartments, awoke the minds of many sleeping children. They itched like thieves at a witch's bedside. Their minds, burning with unfamiliar questions, slithered toward opening doors. Remembering the theater, they felt fire on the periphery and the fiasco was rekindled.
2.02.2007
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3 comments:
sword swallowers and trapezers (sp?) are fun to watch. But I hate clowns. Mostly because one killed my dad.
Anon,
Not to beat a dead clown's horse, but perhaps you should consider administering punishment to that paternal clown murderer?
Peripheral Fiasco endorses at least one form of capital punishment. Dick Slap Death.
It has been noted, both by the ancients and the thick-tongued alike, that when the fiasco shifts it's weight from one foot to another, the earth swings a little low...sweet chariot.
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