to my dear matojo
Thirteen blue mastodons come, causing the ground to tremble with the enormous and gluish grief of their chicken partners. We, the citizens, cry the pleasure of being struck by the running carriages of our own black and sticky despair. We will never know if it was the piss of the indians or the holy fire of the robed speakers that kept repeating the same threats to the unholy multitude. The squadrons are upon us, spawning from the bellies of the paquidermic cousins of our war machines. ¡Praise the land and fuck with terror!