“There must be those among whom we can sit down and weep and still be counted as warriors.”

― Adrienne Rich

Time lies on a man
beautifully, obscenely,
so he imagines outside seasons pass
the rituals of daily life fade
in this thin inside rain
no excursions, no cats,
just this stinking fucking cell.

Del's prescribed,
grossed up under a grey blanket,
his own peculiar sort of hell
metal clanging on metal.

Soft prick, crying again, acts of contrition,
ten hail Marys, where does it getcha?
A cell of me own? No chance.

Opposite balcony
'erb smoke
some nutters kick the metal doors
of the metal cells
piss on the metal floors
Roar!.

Nose, rose, blows, crows
chant mindlessly
Del inscribes his initials
again and a gain and a grain:
glazed eyes, dilated, speaking shit
he's on the dirty, again
fat tall screw calls him
a lump of terminal blubber
Del turns, faces the wall
pretends to sleep, sleeps.