“Moloch whose mind is pure machinery! Moloch whose blood is
running money! Moloch whose fingers are ten armies! Moloch whose breast is a
cannibal dynamo! Moloch whose ear is a smoking tomb!” – Allen Ginsberg
I
am moved
By
the words of a poetic con-man’s prophecy
Written
by the city, midnight, a junkie
I
have searched for lies
For
false truths and acts of defiance
I
have walked the streets in desperation
To
deny you
Still,
your Monster remains
Waving
contracts and horned smiles
His
breath, temptation
Promises
as fragile as skin
As
a bank note fallen in the rain
We
clamour to bend and kiss
Fighting
like angels in heat
And
pray for the substance to empty ourselves
Carlo,
saviour of men
Speak
to us once more
Through
your heavenly Benzedrine haze
Free
us from the horns of Moloch
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