It
The clouds ground themselves against the sky of sand, and sharpened themselves into dark thunderous razors, aflame with venom and incalculable malcontent.
The buildings flexed themselves into debris and glass confetti, their windows diced and dispersed storey by tortured storey; their struts and freckled foundations snapped and sheared.
The sea grew to a turbulent boil and tumultuous sickness, dragging itself beneath an iron curtain of its dead fish before pillaging its beaches and promenades with a practiced and disenchantingly consistent epicaricacy.
The dirt and asphalt blossomed into rose-shaped pits, clawing the surrounding land and life into its terrific infested gut in the stomach of the planet, smelting our civilisations into gigantic iron teardrops.
The volcanoes coughed up blackened lungfuls of insatiable fire as the mountains cascaded down like dominoes, pounding city and forest into sickly world-pulp.
The rivers sped beyond the sound barrier, crumbling dams and flooding the people under a veil of radio silence; satellite delay afforded through apocalyptic improbability.
The men in suits with black credit cards got drunk in their private aircraft and hung in the sky like stars; to the doomed below, warts against the swollen red moon, auditioning for God in the Great Big Play.
I bruised my teeth with indecision on the barrel of my gun, eyes fixed on a fanged and flaming horizon, ears under siege of screams, working on working a hole through the roof of my mouth and out into the shouting sun.
