POEM BEGINNING WITH A First Quatrain wherein T.S. Eliot offers SOME SOUND ADVICE

The first thing to do
when you hear
the Syrens…
is to have a good [sic] Piss

before the ground starts to swell
and the Earth becomes the base-
ment of Heaven for these ‘stewards’
to learn the true word of verstehen

by meaning of ‘rapture’

In Las Vegas In New York
London Salt Lake
Houston Los Angeles
most will be rather lost

than found (confounding
I know) as these pigs
refresh & refresh & refresh
their scroll of digital bets

and scratch at their lottery tickets

Meanwhile Musk dreams of building
brick by brick an igloo house colony
somewhere undisclosed and classified
on the wilderness of Mars hailing bright Venus

(Argh!–hardy hard~hardy hard)
Elon blows a tremulous flock
of space-x clouds
from Cuban cigar

and clears out another westside
for grass lawns as green & soft
as the bourgeoise sod
of Pinehurst #9

In the meantime
on Wimbledon’s crown court
the chalk lines are appearing
a bit twined & warped

throwing back to days
when Henry the VIII
called his own lines
and like Johnny McEnroe

played it punk
giving two fingers
and a big ‘fuck you’
to the Pope