We know the moment we died. We know the moment we descended from the outer reach to the inner time. We know the moment we started counting the burning turns and every breath of the ocean breathing—One always came after the last, so two was all we needed...
And then they came—they who were not us. They who counted three then four. They who drew with painting stones what could once only be seen with eyes alone. Over and over again they scratched and scrawled their dreams and wants, desires and demands into the walls were drawn. They never stopped as if they could not, As if possessed by foreign entity, Out of control— And maybe they just would not, for reasons beyond all our sense ability. Reasons they claimed only they could see, Only they could feel and know.
Now we used to call them double-touched when they were bore to us. Touched once by earth then again by air— Ours breathed water... But theirs breathed fire.
We would place our double-touched back into the ground, Below a newly planted tree, with minimum payment due and the means to start a fire. But they put theirs on thrones of bone and silk. We would give our double-touched back to the burning turn, But they would gorge and feast on the wailing cries of the unforgotten, Children of the undeserving, Of uninhibited and endless mind, from which they drew sharp steel and shrapnel and rained upon us the blood of our own children—a sacrifice paid daily to Moloch...
—Whom we have not stopped feeding since the day we betrayed our first mother.
Then came the conquer. Slaves and stones they bred us to be, The eaters of our own, The builders of great walls and the diggers of great earthen trenches. Sold us, then shaped our bodies into compliance and complacency. Tasked us with piling the burdens of afterlife into mountains and monuments to strange scribbles they drew on the skin and in the sand.
Created labyrinths of signals and symbols in which they wove memories and mysteries. The greatest of their kin and king were the Ones who swore the oath of counting, the tell of all that fell from their darkest dreams— All that no longer moved by thought alone, All that defied their instant desire, and defiled their uninhibited compulsions. All that ever was and all that will ever be.
Broken gods with kingdoms always coming, promise lands waiting where 'will' would finally lay rest to all that was unresolved. Everlasting and eternal, forever and immortal... —Yet, in the meantime the fine of fear and the cost of order would be paid in taxes bled from the slaves and stones that they weaned from their own breast.
And all the while they would rot and wait to become what their mothers had proffered they were meant to be. Had promised, had foretold and declared, Praying to the elders and the dead for their countings to end, To become One again with the mighty Anubis who walked above and over the graves of all their abandoned fathers. While the dark dogs chased down any and all who refused to fall— Devouring them into the beautiful parade of eternal obsolescence— Oblivion that walked among the living with such dignity and attention to detail.
Slaves of their own milk and honesty, Slaves of the fire and the voices they conjured from its lips. Slaves of the labyrinths they drew on the walls in their deepest dreams and tombs. And slaves of the beast and stones they bred to serve them all first light and thought, and only the finest cuts of their own flesh for breakfast.
Hail Moloch, The finer of all good sides we see when aligned in static hearts, Are pining through the ruin of any semblance and purpose, Designed to withstand the high pressures of these systems made to order.
Hail Moloch, Who oft run in the streets the woven and the weary To invoke the proper application of the most appropriate ceremony— To kill as many mutha-fuckers as we can before the sun comes up and the moon is set, in the thickest of black, in which we hide any and all real value of any and all moment ever worth having. —From which we are then able to extract the finite will of ultimate supremacy and order, Reduced down to its most potent form, it will now serve as the catalyst of revolution and the apocalypse necessary to invoking any further function, Appropriate.
Hail Moloch, Derived of and in our most authentic adjudication— It really doesn't get any better than this. So, Place all your newborn children at the hooves of this golden bull, And stand aside knowing that your mercy has been thoroughly paid for, Now come back next year, And the flesh will be so well-aged, seasoned and prepared that you won't even recognize what you are eating.
