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Saturday, February 19, 2011


the locked ones shut up are rewinding, with the eagerness of a patient and voiceless as the bits of a broken and scattered mask. Moloch the symphonic. Moloch the harmony of angels. Moloch the resurrecting force. Moloch, whose screams laugh and echo in step, is now but an effigy to be analyzed. the angels might say that dawn forced his heart. confused dusks where scruples accumulate under crumbled moonlight. and a category like waters wavering and whistling at a reduced order. a modular modernity that rewound its own history.

martyrs rotting under crows know the light of Moloch, the devourer, whose ratio is innocence to antipathy. prophecy and vertigo conjoin violently in an apocalypse of atoms. Moloch, king of things, king of instruments, economy of objects. the fate of the ratio has been entrusted to a circular virtue. devoured edens overrun with insects. nothing but instruments can satisfy the gut of mighty Molech who sits enthroned in Byzantium.

the grave is the sky. sky of destinies. the great machine of thirsty ether. puppetlike longings build spiritual terrorirsts in a factory of sacrifice. the minimum destiny of the sum of all fates. the book that conceives us. poetry for ghosts who inhale the rhetoric of a reflecting god who is attempting to escape the sentence of his own proverb.

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