The toy train chugging along a flat line,

single-puffing solid steam-dots from the chimney ‘i’s’? 

or did U see

the row of skellington houses with funny windows

down the Sunday-quiet street? 

or the washing line with jim-jams and jumpers and leggy-pegs  

all hanging downside top? 

 

But tell me when, 

 when did they change to teenie-weenie holders;

  little backpockets, purses

 and satchel-bags puffed out with good and bad

  personal sound-smells and feelings;

sight-tastes and all kinds of gestalts -

scenes in which you always seemed to get

the important part yourself?

And tell me when,

Young-person-of-the-world,

when did you start to vacillate

between awe and suspicion

for those slippery,  hand-me-down paper-tigers? 

And how long now will you put up with

those pirate databanks and alien formulations

that once overran your skiff and which so readily now

leapfrog back to the mind and to the psyche; 

to the lips,  the teeth,  the tip-of-the-tongue

faster than you can ever blink???? 

And when will you, from the inside out,

and in accord with soundest building principles,

re-construct the world with new-made personal,

 l’ego mots

(that’s lego-like wORd breeze-blocks)

and put them into magick

image-making-clusters or  chuffing holograms

which may just chug round and round

and to which others may respond

with curiosity, or fun, or some other kind of wordless  

reciprocation:

long after the wORds

or the sounds of the wORds

on the yellowing, papered air

or down in the digital waste-ground  

have all been totally recycled?