Fausto and Mariposita ran thru the rain of the blak blu nite, catching the water feelings provided by the sky’s sad happy air magic, the clappy thunderous thunderness of the storm clouds, a swell shower of power pon they likkle heads.
It was a real nite, a deep dark blak blu, hot cold blak, hot cold blu, blu cold hot blak blu fulla firey firey starz, hot cold farbrite, instantaneous, evident within they own spacetimes.
The magnetic poetry was present, universal.
The wheels of they feet cut lines and gestures of paint onto the rainsoaked blak nitestreet.
The skreetlamps shone skreetlite pon de skreety streets n streety skreets, both.
The style pervaded, highly evident and elevated.
The nite beheld secrets, new and old.
The Old Bad Kingdoms of Yester-Reality were dead and gone, preserved in volcanic ash, hissing hot rock breathing smoke hot ‘gainst the sky, cloudy, smokey, smoky smoke, ok, OK, the sorry houses weeping sad happy joy on the rain-kizzed skreets, the mediums rumbling in their magic lamps, breathing nuclei framed in tree corpi, the unrolling campaign of eternal peace seeping into ideologies and forever changing the course of the glittering ivy ball in the big cold blak nite of forever everything, The Beautiful Perfect Everything, La Yoga Azteca, La…
