Philistines

I feel sorry for them:
the New Philistines;
for whom Kipling means cake
-and for the knowing modernists
icing every confection
into post-ironic fake.
I wish some felt insulted
by that plus sign shoved
between star x-d lovers.
And yet whose fault is it?
That they do not read-
just filter culture virtually
made byte-sized by others?

They feel sorry for me:
an Old Philistine;
for whom writing remains a skill
-and for the whining pedants
whose love for punctuation
makes the texters feel quite ill.
They wish I'd leave my tower,
aloof and calcified,
to model their new fashions.
But no, they say, I'm craven
-tied to long past styles-
happy for long descriptions
to delay more instant passions.