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.
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