Colorful Ghazal Scrawled on an
Electroshock Toilet Stall at Abu Ghraib Prison
Dennis Mahagin

When sick pixie Private England pitched a fit, she
put a kid’s nuts in vise grip, inches from my lips:

“Lick it, limp-dick,” Lynndie hissed. “Lick!”

Wicked bitch got a sure-fire kick out of conical grocery
sacks in tight-ass fit she dubbed her “Unknown Comics.”

From bag of tricks she pulled licorice whips, creel sticks,
alligator clips she crow-hitched to hamburger nips and that

little toy generator as a Geiger counter that went:

Zzzzzzzt… Zzzzzzt.

But the worst part came with shutter-clicks, digital pics—
hairy posteriors in fairy posterity and the positive fucking
horror of it.