Grimace

Whitewashed walls crawl as I burrow into my strait jacket—I am anxious in it—
the walls make the room hot—
all the walls are radiators doing squats for a mate that’s repulsive.
The knots are tied by the walls too. I try to move my hands
to touch my crouch but the jacket screams, Repulsive!
Repulsive! But I can touch the ceiling. The best squatter
sits on my face for an advert.

Tied up, I start to assess my experience. Tense here;
thought there. The walls then flash me outside: it’s floor to…
there’s no ceiling!—in mud. Ah, but there be mirrors still:
where’s the tension then, hmm? The jacket is
branded! How could it be hot in this, I am saying
as I am suddenly allowed to touch myself
while the radiators grimace pointing fingers.