First and last loves: singing, whistling, clapping.
Even they made childhood’s playthings artificial: upright piano, church organ,
shire hall violin. Artificial really kicked in with radio: three minute
thrills, mono symphonies, news flashes. 33-and-one-third grew to a wall of
sound: album sleeves, greatest hits, needle jumps. And TV: cartoon countdowns,
canned laughter, that living-room sound. Do I have a triad for CDs? Heralds of
endless synthetic, tokens of permanent nostalgia, broken promises of
indestructible. Arriving, not before time, at wallpaper: online clips, earplug
cacophony, overabundant downloads. Still these abide: morning magpies, leaves
riffing rifflings, April rain on a tin roof.
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