RA Washington at The Lit in Cleveland – photo by JB

MOLOCH, MOLOCH

                               For Allen Ginsberg

 

This was not a generation

 

It was a genocide.

 

My corpses piled along internet apathy

 

Or strewn toward ghosts. The angry children

 

Fear and pose, play pasts to passive

 

Flick flowers, grave are you.

 

The postage stamp heroes we will not be.

 

 

This is no generation

 

For we alarm their shaking jowls

 

Rooted magic, napalm inside me.

 

Me for you

 

Me, this flinging and failing

 

Me, general of boys who weep gutters

 

Me, of women who sing at their stolen hoods

 

Clits singed proper, skirts up.

 

The money is looking

 

Me, of stark hovels, the conforming comfort.

 

Me, broken vows, the worthy say so.

 

 

This was no generation

 

Leaders lobby to stay lobbied

 

The dope flows, secrets uttered obscene.

 

Homo, bitch, nigg (with the A)

 

Before we war ourselves silly trumpets

 

Cow bells and awkward phrasing

 

Tweet twit bewitched for inching despair.

 

Path so disease the puss ooze out in Vogue.

 

Nights of prayers

 

People who love too much, shoved just enough

 

Go, vita

 

Go, street

 

Go, ape

 

                Shitting dawn and no care

 

Go, Jesus

 

Go, life

 

So fuck your womb we know better.

 

Go, cynic

 

Go, lists

 

Go, for goods hatched in distraction

 

Go, pummel, yes, pummel

 

For we drag our dicks like clubs, and ambition.

 

Go, modern

 

Go, fleets of madness, we all must be.

 

 

This is no generation.

 

Still wishing sit ins matter

 

Taking riot gear as holy shroud

 

You, for the well we must keep

 

You, for the passive rebelling

 

You, amongst fear, so silent

 

The violin without strings

 

You, must be lying

 

Off alone, left out.

 

Leftist pleading mercy from wolves

 

Hail of Marys

 

Who kept to saying their real names

 

We men, yelling, bend over, bend over over

 

Love is lust

 

So the nut is empty

 

As workers wallets and your belief

 

All eyes are pennies, their guts in the street

 

Taken as litter, and ash trays

 

You, muse of beer

 

Neglect as poignant as the news

 

We might be killing ourselves

 

No, frank ohara or Sinatra

 

No, Charles

 

No talking assholes

 

Wait – yes, talking assholes

 

No allen, no jack

 

No patti, or leroi

 

Just the forgetting the hettie amongst us now.

 

No power, black or white

 

That was them. Them dead. Boomers Florida now.

 

No deaths to martyr

 

                                                Malcolm, martin

 

No bobby, but there is a Jackson and we decided to mourn him.

 

Or mother, or daddi

 

Jimi angels all.

 

This is no generation

 

This is a forgetting, in place of pasts

 

Jostling for an us

 

Amongst fables.

* * * * * * * *

Ra Washington Is a writer living and working on Cleveland’s west side with his wife, historian Lyz Bly. He is the author of 24 books – most recently the novel, Run Along, The FIRE Says – and he operates the bookstore/zine cooperative, Guide To Kulchur, in the Historic Detroit Shoreway neighborhood. He also curates the electronic music label Cleveland Tapes. You can find him on twitter @clevelandtapes.

“Moloch, Moloch” (c) 2012 by RA Washington, used with permission.  The poem originally appeared in his book Primer for the Vanguard Youth, published by Crisis Chronicles Press.

 


Primer for the Vanguard Youth – cover photo by Steven B Smith

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