Gen

by Jonathan Edwards

Look at them, coming round the corner,
bouncing, flouncing, boho
beehives, tattooed, corduroy-looned, sneakered
scumbags, skinheads, brogue-shod uni fools, or
look, they’re me, they’re you, but slightly
cooler, lust- and roll-up-fuelled, artfully
spectacled idea junkies, pushing,
selling, anyone of us could be
John Lennon, Jesus, coke and sneezes
forced through nostrils that are pinned
or pierced. Look, these feather-boa’d
vegans or these leopardskinned
animals, with their x-rated
bodies, their needs never sated
by hands-free friends or look, their palm-held
search engines, their razor’d heads turned
by beauty or a global crisis, these masters
of their own devices. For every word
they’ve #’d or abbreviated, each god
they’ve never worshipped, every song
they’ve downloaded, shook their arses to or sung,
I say bow down, bow down, the young, the young.