They writhe together, corpses in a Petri colony, prisoners all, freedom forfeit, remembering.
Outcast, the less-than-human protoplast branded sinners in a sinless world--how did we all fall so far down the mountainside? Grubby little maggots,
baggots and faggots sprinkled in to sweeten the swill and the steel slams shut against cold steel, surreal, subtly suicidal, an unbridled echo posting mass slatherings in the morning before we all go the way of the seabed
bovine carcass, lit up and videoed, repulsively shiteoed, devoured by decapods, those elusive demigods from the murk whose shiver-inducing pincers pinch and pull chunks of identity from whatever is left of whatever was in the beginning:
you'll never know because you're sinless and haven't noticed how pitched the perpendiculars.
John Corleywrites from the Louisiana State Penitentiary at Angola where he has served 29 years of a life sentence. He is a recipient of the PEN award for playwriting and a National Council on Crime and Delinquency award for journalism. His first poetry collection, Pagan, was released in 2018.