my tottering tower of cassette tapes were denied a play

they remained erect, sullenly silent

an insult to modern technology.

One day they flew from their stack

from their eyrie on the wall

opened their muted beaks and sprayed

the floor in a spectacular moment.

like a slap in the face to my nostalgic fixative

the contents of the swivel casings spilled

and downcast in a glorious confusion

a moment of protest.

"Try to play us now!" they seemed to say

Tschaiovsky mixed up with Estefan

BBC regional accents mixed up with Pete and Dud

and each one requiring detailed attention

and a poetic mention.