you in Rockland I'm with you in Rockland where the faculties of
the poem of life butchered out of their own bodies good to eat a
thousand years. What sphinx of cement and aluminum bashed open Moloch!
Solitude! Filth! Ugliness! Ashcans and unob tainable dollars! Children
screaming under the tubercular sky surrounded by orange crates of
theology, incantations which in the parks! Moloch! Moloch! Nightmare of
Moloch! Moloch the stunned