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Moloch Grows Like MoldWe stand, hesitantly, where Moloch grows like mold over a stagnant history, our jittery unwilling silence illuminated by a quiet ecstasy every few moments.
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We defy, guts uneasy, unliberated Egos, tasting strange new flesh, feeling the sweat on our palms exchange and change temperature.
Rotting ideals―won on stale grey streets, scrawled on yellowed pages now festering in some museum―howl at us, spleens bursting, cocks twitching, fists unfurling like a royal banner.
What changed times.
Wizened, hardened faces march and stagger on concrete, can in hand, ignored by shocked new coats. They, too, howl rotting ideas from rotting minds, and outstretch their rotting hands.
Music unwanted comes from speakers in restaurants; gods unwanted come from speakers on boxes, with microphones and suits and paint. They, too, howl rotting ideas from yellowed pages, cocks twitching...