TRANQUILISED

My clothes are buttoned wrong.They sayin a fugue state,but this is no toccataand I am no Vanessa Mae.They lie.I see them when I am asleeppulling at my clotheswhile I hover by the ceiling.I have yet to master the artof swimming through concrete,so am just as trappedout of my bodyas when I’m in my head.The straps binding my bodyare matched by invisible chainswelded on by medicationto restrain my personality.I am thinking of writingto the Queento ask the one with curly hairto intervene on my behalfand maybe play ‘Let Me Out’to free me from this room.I have an appointmentto go flying with Richard Bransonbut they won’t let me leaveor die,There are people herewho scream and fight;I just float, hoping thatthey will leave a window openand a set of bolt cutters handy.