Hart Crane Homeward Bound XVI

Lay, boom, boom, lay

Lay, boom, boom, lay

So the oil drums do play

So the oil drums do play

In the sea, on a voyage

In the sea, on a voyage

the reverie of Vachel

Lindsay, we do pay

a courtesy call, a study

of the perverse, as we

Hart and I, have no truck

with racial beat, we reverse

the flow of hate, and

Lay, boom, boom, lay

Lay, boom, boom, lay

ain't that a mantra

of the 20th century

war and peace, sex and

violence, Hell, Hart, we could

do better than perplex

the reader with high falutin

games, have Chuck Baudelaire,

wearing an ostrich feather

looking all chic and ready

for a voyage, inviting us

to love, Looove,

look we - we have them on,

kid them, rag them,

take them on a voyage,

where reader's squint,

to read between the lines

where the bloody big whale

spouts a torrent of bi-sex

spring, and subsequently

parodies Hem and Sherwood

like Velasquez at the door

and the postmodern squit

Oh the thrill of the Mirror

Look at yourself!

The syntax and sound

is at variance with the Age

we need to dress in skin-tight

latex, as two old Queens, knight

the listener with a squall

of

I want you come inside

me now Baby

nice and easy

Oh shooting stars & Spiders on Mars

we pucker our lips

into rosy ass-holes

to whistle

the tune of

indifference

as the Cyberboys upload us

in their vehicles

of dominance

tie us up, gain our submission

in the Act of Rape

like the lonely Pontiac cruising

picking up

the broads

Lay, boom, boom, boom, lay

the prequel

Is the T.S. Eliot secretary in the

Wasteland and poor Vivian

in the looney bin

Cos

Cause

Tom and Viv inhabited two worlds

he the spiritual - she the physical

Those cyberboys

locked in

the

Virtual

like as we declare, in a Southern way,

as the magnolia in bloom,

so does the need to inflict

Agony

in

the

private

Pontiac

in

the

woods

of

the

Internet

Now Hart and I do not subscribe

to these values

that

begin with

the

Pin-up girl or boy

and

end

in

ashes to ashes

We, breach, like our whale does

the conventional

bubble

that

is

blown

by

the silicon

dream

Valley

we

sail

away

on our analog

junk

boys

sail

through

the

Gates

of

Hell.