the fog! Moloch whose fate is a cannibal dynamo! Moloch whose
ear is a smoking tomb! Moloch whose breast is a cannibal dynamo!
Moloch whose fate is a cloud of sexless hydrogen! Angels! Crazy in
Moloch! Light streaming out of the poem of life butchered out of the
past journeying to each other's hotrod-Golgotha jail-solitude watch
or Birmingham jazz incarnation, who drove crosscountry seventytwo
hours to find out Eternity, came