Abu Gharaib: A Masque ('04)

Setting: B.F. Skinner box, infernal as bitumen
Or black fields of basalt camels cannot crawl
between Amman and Baghdad, some taxi route.
Civilian ideologues profess, now practice:
Bovver brown scum. Push button, jar-head!

*******

Officer: Any coin-op hard-core porn, big dude?

Pfc Graner: Real-time video action reels
of human bondage: for sequel, please squeal.
Organ donors squashed to shapes primary.
Triangles? Sex-pyramids? Deal done.

Officer: Meat market under green line kosher?

Pfc Graner: Butcher slab scrub-down, tiny miniskirt.
Runway lingerie show at eighteen-hundred,
more inmates with frilly women’s panties
free of stains--otherwise, hell paid for.

Officer: Any contractor sex sport, online fantasy chat?

Pfc Graner: Albeit the phone line jammed or cut.

Officer: Any shit-kicker cowboy sex-track, trooper?

Pfc: To be.

Officer: Some golden shower, potty joke enactment?

Pfc Graner: Plenty. Ramp the speed and tag along.

Officer: Aerobics high-impact slaparound?
Any totalitarian slapstick routine?

Pfc Graner : More than that, even better than.

Officer: Any full penetration, whole 90 yards?

Pfc Graner : Underground they get goosebumps.
Live video-cam, sex-action capture.
Free-style, purgatorial yogic contortion.

Both: square-jawed soldiery sodomites
or fisters, certainly no! That would be wrong
(straight faces maintained).

Officer: Discipline regimen, pigskin in black?

Pfc Graner: Big boots on collar-bones and body-bags
for big boobs and penile extension bench-press.

Both: Tres vulgar perhaps. But of Saddam?
His Hefnerite grottos, tacky art stash,
castle-cabinets of Johnny Walker Black,
and golden toilets–Christ Jesus,

even Liberace’d blush!

*********
Lyndie: came me to get some.

Pfc Graner: me too!

Lyndie: Yummy copulation concrete tower,
Colder concrete floor on which to mate, torment.

PFC Graner: trailer park tomboy, you'll do.

Both: Imperative: to liberate, from norms and despots.

No Marquis DeSade nor Hammurabi had it better.

Lyndie: fucky, fuck?

Pfc. Graner: Please do.
Articulate your petite limbs around my bone.

Both: Artistic influence? Internet cumshot.
Video arcade game: blast 'em, despot!

All: Cluster-fuck ‘em. We’re a team!
Who said not? What care we? Not we care!
Tribal prerogative uniform. Cut loose! Copulate
before jailed. For jailers, jack.

Pfc. Graner: Not pretty, you'll do.

Lyndie: Squeeze 'em! Ride 'em, big boy, into dawn.
Sense of shame? For the camera, grunt, you grunt.
(Limbs in puzzle-pyramid linked like plumbing
spawned on some Windows XP screen-saver.)

All: Bone 'em, po'boy! Sex sandwich al a halal.
Matamoros, O alaque! Who's king? Ham you, rabbi!
Pumped-up village pineapple people-pyramid: go man, go.
If you look enough, a body spells the alphabet.

O the eye, em the nose-bridge, with the brows,
and the eye-O. By stimuli steer the body, steer the man,
until... petered out, descending figure?

Pfc.: will you?

Lyndie: do I. (Deep sigh!)
To jailed: contorted positions no option.

Doggy: Spring to attention guy!
Calib am I, so close to caliphate
or to Marvin Kalb, who’s pal
to Henry K., that it’s not funny.
My name’s a taunt to Islamic man.
After interludes of herding
for the Franks and being bred
to lie upon the laps of regencies
the bitch is back, no scavenger
to lick a dead Sassanid’s cheek.
No matter how tough you are,
the nape of homo erectus is tender.
Now that jugular will I go for.
Fraidy cat? Bow. Do not move.
Leniency? Conjugal visits? Dream on!
Potable water, bandaids? Wow, better, Jack!
Protect your manhood? Try me, meanie!
The bone I'll unbury's your thigh.

Prisoners, atremble: Nota bene
We didn't audition the normal way,
Our casting couch concrete.

Doggy: Woof! My licks, that look
so loving, while I clean indifferently carrion
from rifle barrel or bone. Heed how fast

All: the last can switch places with the first:
new contexts convert the slave to taskmaster,
morphing the modest-meaned lunch lady
into the cold-cutted brute of the land-grant campus.

Pfc. Graner: (One sound, a single eel fingerling
slipping in the latex pinkie of a hospital glove.)

Lyndie: O make/unmake me. Bone me, man.
Bore me. Use your man-handle, plough
rocky soil. Bone through me, bore me. Man!
(Soon an adults-only sex action video feature.)

To jailed:
Moan no more: your maker you'll meet.

All together: Anyone below eighteen
unaccompanied by parent or guardian
forbidden from entering the theater.

Harvard-bankrolled hack, official historian,
and radio heckler: "little difference here between
[for your eyes only] and daily fraternity haze."

Neocon: so imam, of umma dream, and yo mama.
Passports of pleasure, a few pennies a day.
A special club, accessed through our portal.
Read the affidavit, then click and enter

Lyndie: (blows, post coitus, smoke rings.)
You’re a pfc specialist, and I an associate.

Pfc: and discharged, you’re a sales specialist.
and I an associate trainee. We won't make
the appliances we sell. But you won't be
a cashier or a snitch, now will you?
You'll be a sales specialist, and I your king.

Lyndie: And I your queen.
You'll move the units
From the in-door to the out
and never never snitch
And you'll promise. So promise.

Pfc Graner: We'll be what we can be.

Lyndie: a meterologist to read the oracles
Of weather right, the entrails of the sky
Among several sets of burning candles.

Prisoners: but we never "auditioned."

Doggies: Keep your distance, hoi polloi! Woof, woof!