The Work Itself

I have one thousand friends
whose avatars hang on my wall
as a hunter displays heads
of wild beasts hunted,
killed for sport.

It is the schlock
of the no-longer new,
wherein each generation re-invents
the penis and the plectrum;
plays the phanto-meme.

I see the same as you,
crack knuckles and flex elbows,
say: wagon wheels are smaller
and after-eights are best
before...

... before the modern was the modern,
we always worked in factories
to earn the money
to buy the goods we made,
yet hated the work itself.

There is no language
to translate between the times
of angels and of UFOs,
so I speak to the tele-present
and snub my neighbours.