When the Second Hand Plummeted in the Soft Treacle Air and the Day was Strange.

The strange day was between neutral and chalky alkali,
stale smells but coriander ache swirling with coffee and citrus on the palate
Ska rhythms and glitch music
All made me feel strange.

The strange day had a date somewhere with small numbers and early spring,
Though springing later into the tackle with bigger numbers than I had grown up with
Carrying a heavier crisp crouton bitterness with it too.

On the strange day, I thought about the Sun a lot, as normal.
Hypochondria and television advertisements,
The ineffectiveness of the breath mint,
They all featured.

Maybe it was the lighting that made the strange day so photographically strange
Or the quiet poking out of every doorway
Flowing round the building like bad Karma

Perhaps it was the audacious and wrinkly and odd structure
An arty ziggurat building.
Or else the coffee, alcohol, sugar, weed, cough syrup, tobacco, milk.
Or else the violins in my headphones pulling tug o’war laser beams from my eyeballs
Writhing in the shadows with itchy beauty.

The strange day was a dark day.
Not in a metaphorical sense,
Not truly.
This day could have been a dream to wake up from or a film to exit from
The lights slowly coming on.
The light of the strange day would draw out into the sump of the Heavens before it returned refreshed.

Maybe tomorrow will be a strange day.
Sequels have reasons
Rooted in money usually
And thus I will work through
And my eyes shall drink in my lover’s form at the end of the daily swim
And xylophones will twinkle with the shadow writhing violin laser beams.
And the dust will settle tidy
And the paper will soak up the yellowing peach fruit light
Revealing glorious cracks!
And lips will crack!
And the third strange day shall be the day I die in a myriad-maze-mind of chap'stick happiness.
God bless Planet Earth.