Dig this Daddio:


the fog! Moloch whose breast is a smoking tomb! dream and croak
in the who fell on their knees in hopeless cathedrals praying for
each other's salvation and light and breasts, until the soul
illuminated its hair for a second, who crashed through their minds in jail
waiting for impossible criminals with golden heads and the last
telephone and even that imaginary, nothing but a hopeful little bit of
hallucination


Seed me again

Thanks to Allen Ginsberg for HOWL, and Andrei Andreyevich Markov for an algorithm.