Day 06 - Extract from 'Sometimes Breaking My Heart: An Ode to Belinda Carlisle'

I relax with a Rooibos and the vid of 'La Luna'
and ignore the NPower salesman's 'Let's Dance!' knocks
He can stand, hands clasped like a solitary mourner.
I'm too involved in the way you toss your locks:
like they're nunchaku, like you're an Alpine ibex
rearing then delivering a horn-butt to a rival,
like you're Rapunzel, hurling clambering rednecks
and princes from your hair, like you're fighting the devil.

Then there's how you can't seem to get out of bed.
You struggle like a formula-drunk scientist
changing to a beast, swaying breathless to one side
then the other, but the sheets stick to your chest
and you can't claw them away. Your wrists
seem handcuffed by the moonlight, while thick chains
snake beneath the rumples. Your range suggests
they fix you to the bedposts by your anklebones.

So why the beached Bel? Is the way you writhe
a signal from your window to the firebreather?
If so, the boy had better get it together.
I guess he did, or else ran out of fire to breathe.