.

written from within
an incessant haze of
second hand smoke
inflicted by selfish
neighbours, my words
turn back on me like
a boomerang and I
am immersed in a haze
with no release.


that's what this sunday
best exemplifies; its
sense of non-linearity.
... like a box of straws
that fall on the floor
and re-configure in
random overlap, myriad
planes of experience
that converge in the head
like an amorphous cloud,
like multiple beloveds
who map onto each other
over time in some foggy
way.


there is no place
on the planet that
anyone should be
allowed to smoke.