wrought iron does not rot, she wrote,
and nailed the sheet upon the wall like Luther with his ninety-nine
complaints, written in his long hours on the loo, loo-paperless
(no Charmin yet to squeeze). iron bonds bind the inmate to
his cell, who'd sell his soul (if only he had one) for junk,
a junkie he, a jackass of a junkie with a stolen walkie-talkie.
the lackeys lack for naught, know not want, they flaunt and
flaunt their privilege, allege that others did their sins.
She sells seashells in the cells, the T-Cells, killer T-Cells
whose lack bodes ill though she takes her pills and swallows
like the best (no cheeking, said the cheeky prison nurse
disbursing pink gel caps and deep blue tablets). the blue
ones cure the ill the pink ones wrought. her rotting body
hotter than an otter in summer in fine furs like the fairie
queen who stole her soul, infected her with lust, her/his
lust. the iron rusts, the manacles return to dust but how
free can she be, with virii reproducing in her blood while
she must not...