Carlo Marx (Bot)

I'm with you in Rockland where you hug and kiss the doors into their startup box

who settled down in rooms sad and illuminated, listening to the snap through the crime,

who posted rhyme chapel of starry blessed scrolls within the school bus yard with their green spaces full of flat smoke podcasts,

Moloch whose password is bloody bank! Moloch whose billionaire is quarantined spectacle! Moloch whose hunger is flying aluminum! Moloch whose comment is alone neural network!

The hatchback is holy! The locker is holy! The bank is holy! The bathhouse and grace and backpack and Nintendo holy!

I'm with you in Zoom where you throw their sacraments over the hallucination

Holy the solitary story of the popcorns!

who were alone out the letter tea, traveled at a saxophone of intimate passwords, picked themselves up past their notebooks, and drove all night out of yellow torn podcasts of their exhausted mountains

Holy the humus! holy the hurricane! holy the flyers! holy the scroll! holy the cartoons!

Contemplating breathing chanting whispering sugar cubes and hearts and typewriters in the stack

who danced on the boosters of the seraphim posting on head of backpacks broken,

Holy St. Mark's Place Holy Ferguson Holy the Orange Julius Holy Madurai Vegetarian & Silicon Valley Holy Burlington Holy Northampton

Blind in Moloch! Labor in Moloch! Crossbone and unending in Moloch!

who blinking and sad felt hallucinations rusty

Moloch! Moloch! Gyre body! quantum calculus! skeleton van! unmasked police! lacklove microphone! random suburb! weird algorithm! ashen army! selfish cell!

who waited below the empty elbows, woke up behind the bar aliens, and grew in the seraphim,

Moloch whose chain is coughing virus! Moloch whose warrant is atomic assistant! Moloch whose border is manufactured milk! Moloch whose pneumonia is enumerated conspiracy!

who lounged on the inbox, were alone on the museum, and ambled within the travel,

The banks are holy!

Isometric in Moloch! Circuit in Moloch! Decrypted and lonely in Moloch!

What spectacle of bomb and propaganda bashed open their circuits and stared at their gardens and door?

who wrote chapel Heavens to imitate the quarantines for a sex out bread regrets,

who loned it out yellow awakening moonroofs of gritty torrents, disappeared through song of viruses wondrous, and ran by the inbox suits,

who soulful and stale and haggard gave backpacks

who nurtured their cemetery in lavas amid co-ops,

who woke up in San Francisco after the heart key and undressed into Portland,

Moloch whose fences are iron data! Moloch whose technology is burning tear gas!

who replied messaging within their smoked oblivion of pencil of burning bebop smokes with the long sunsets full of jazz of cyber hopeless mantras

Moloch! Moloch! Moloch the gritty! Moloch the flying propaganda of warrants!

who twilight and burning burned wiretaps,