Living in the belly

Thinking about Ginsberg’s ‘Moloch’ in the Howl.

Moloch no longer smiles in the dark

covered in grimy smoke of the Industrial revolution

does not breathe fiery fumes or

stare in glowing dark.


From far far away, Moloch is a beast. Moloch is ravager.

But now that I live within the beast;

now that beast has consumed me

crushed me under the cushioned seats and

air-conditioned rooms, filled with survivors.


Many have been consumed by it’s savage mouth

And many live withing the belly of the beast

not looking for a weapon to tear it open

and run free, rather sit inside quitely

and meditate in the silence.

LISTEN! to the war horns blaring outside

fires blazing, poverty, political agenda, riots, religious violence

corruption, corruption of the fourth pillar, commercialization, sensationalisation

water shortage, environment pollution, failure of educational systems, dictatorships,


Everything will turn to ashes outisde

engulfed by flames emerging from Moloch’s eyes.


But inside, it is quite unlike–


Except for the sound of clickety-clackety

of keys being hit

bursts into an symphony

that enjoins the silent murmur of people.


Inside the belly,

we live as brothers,

survivors of the flame.

living our cubicled lives

Sheltering from his wrath.









On listening to Howl in the morning
Among kneeling at the church,
and confession boxes,
And proclaiming Christ as the savior,

In musty creaky ceilings
where pigeons haunt like
the Holy Spirit; with fire they descend their shit
while we pray. We howl to a deaf God.

The poorly tied knot,
On my alter boy robes. The smell of frankincense and myrr.
Holy Lord! Why do you need so much fragrance?
Do you stink?
Or do your servants do not obey?
that you fog our eyes
Until we choke on our prayers.

In suspended ash and myrr,
My mind is a like Pilate’s bowl;
It wants to be clean,
But it’s stained with memories.
Memories that flood the cities
Until they wash away people
And its streetlights.

And there you appear
In heavenly divine attire
In sing-song tune
Out of the priest’s mouth—I
look around. They scream God
yet they love you
It’s you who burns their heart.

They all walked out
naked. weightless and guiltless.
Woe these people!
who create prisons out of your words
who wear rich armaments and golden crosses.

You set hands free
to masturbate on typewriters
Broken minds waltz in your blanket
Tears running down I say
They call you God.