Classic Poem

In my feverish fingers the world writhes. I am a net of wire, a pulse of thousand pulses, a seismograph of world-quakes. In the East there rises in me the sun, in the West there sets in me the sun, Morocco storms fy fortresses, a hurricane devastates my harvest-fields, in Broome Street I perish in flames, the black Hudson drags me to its bottom, I kindle the world in the fire of decline; with naked heaving breasts, with hungry eyes, raging fists upon sated worlds I advance — — — In my feverish fingers the world convulses, and I within it — — a sullen sadness .
Dusty papers and sooty faces, machines — palpitating hearts, frustrated thoughts on questioning shoulders, imps in weary eyes, and fingers jerk as if on wires. The leaden Destroyer above swallows the letters in his burning belly and regurgitates them in lines, lines. The Moloch of emotions is unappeased. Me he will also gulp down and spit out in leaden lines, the world in my fingers and I in the seething belly of the press-machine .
Of a sudden the world paused and my fingers remain at rest on the keys of the typewriter, scattered, stiffened. The head sinks like lead upon the desk, the wire-net becomes like stinging flies that spread themselves upon me with blind repose, with tiny freezing pins — — — And Moloch above rips his belly within him. His fury exhales grey fumes, the hunger cramps his entrails, red worms crawl from his eyes — — — And my fingers on the keys of the typewriter, spread out and stiffened .