the disaster in small things and birds

disaster strikes in my clothes
and the way i smell in the morning,
the clouds have intricate patterns
that give me a headache
and a friend talks in an alien dialect
that only the self appointed elite
understand and so converse
furiously under the naked, frustrated
sun and to my irritation, there are
anomalies in my coffee,the nearby shrubs
whisper eerily which rattles me.
facing the trolls,moles, coffee tables and the suave
table lamp will be a difficulty for the rest of the evening.