I guess some preamble is in order. I write this poem primarily to
record, not to shock. The spur was a LRB review of an Andy McNab
"thriller" which said that this book contained something which most
western literature did not: a description of water-boarding. It was an
accusation of sorts, about something I suppose the reviewer thinks
that the Western lit community is avoiding: engagement with deeds done
in their name, and in particular the controversial water-boarding. I
have some sympathies with that opinion. I know this will never be
published, but I like to think it ghosts the attempt. It breaks some
of my golden rules, never to ventriloquise experience which I've never
under-taken, it is explicit, not oblique. In addition, It does not
disguise itself through legend or myth. Maybe a better poem will arise
that does; for now, this is it.
He hears accents, American, English.
A door crashes.
They secure his feet and hands
to a wooden board
head down
feet up
his hood chafes
on blood-flooded cheeks
a joke
someone laughs
a metal hoop clanks
uneasily under weight
his breath comes fast, shallow
fists balled, twisting
the first time the wait was easy
wet gag gag gag
no choke no
no no no
no no gag
--
My Stuff: http://www.badstep.net/
"She went out with her paint box, paints the chapel blue
She went out with her matches, torched the car-wash too"
The Go-Betweens
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