"Typewriter Man" (first draft). Critiques please!

Flame lapping at the dabs of meaning on the page straight out of the Smith-Corona the clicking of the keys the humming of the Motor, the grease on the grooves of the spinning rotors Slamming the ink into my Skin Tattooed precisely with a flick of the fingers onto the Sticky, weary keys Of the Smith-Corona

And only the day that Troy falls Will we know the tragic loneliness of our species We inhabit an oasis In a vast desert left to rot We are nothing but a consequence of our universe spinning and wobbling in and out and through and through and gyrating toward oblivion

Until then, we are trapped in the walls of comforts And illusions of an god intravenous in our lives and Blind to the higher powers that make up our world

Until then, I’ve got Eliot’s sweet verse tapped into my arm And Hemingway’s spare prose decorating my neck And letters of love Of promises unkept To soldiers recently deceased On foreign soil, fusing to foreign roots Scratched into my back