Burnley

It started small, a thing I never planned.
This house, which you expect - rather, demand -
I polish every minute, neat as a shell
has become my cell.

It's tough, not going outside, making no sound
as your schoolmaster cane inflects each wound,
accepts the count of every bright switch I take.
Afterwards, I ache.

So, I've begun acting out my dissatisfaction;
I don't deny I'm wanting your reaction.
I tilt this picture of your beloved Burnley.
You're bound to punish me.

And so, each day I say what I am feeling,
your Burnley's pants-down, shockingly revealing,
the doffing of its frame a shade more acute.
I'm following suit.

I wonder when you learned that swollen flesh
splits more when hit - anoints your cane afresh
when left to rise, like bread, for half an hour -
with my red offerings, my dying flower,
my dying red flower.