Trapped inside a washing machine, my world is a distortion of sound.
I see my reflection spin 'round and 'round in the glass door.
With each spin it's more distorted,
With each turn it's more unclear.
It seems to me that it is made of clay,
Soft, grey and mouldable, as an expert hand takes the lead and sculpts deep into my skin.
Its fingers reach into my eye socket to form my protruding eyes,
My mouth is pressed thinner into a misshapen upside down grin,
Then a thumb heavily erases all traces of it.
My throat is pulled longer and thinner by the most firm of grips,
Stretched and tense like a giraffe's,
So that each breath has to scale it's side, clinging to the raw pink,
Until it faintly becomes smoke into the frosty light.
A wry, ashen creation stares impatient.
Feverish with the gelidity that softened the clay.
'Round and 'round. With each spin a tug warps the image.
I'm trapped inside a washing machine,
My world is a distortion of sound
And outside Frankenstein's monster is at large.
