Down by the Dungeons

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Down by the sullied dungeons, I was kept.
Down by the fetid floorings, there I slept.

Athirst and starved,
My captors dug from their purse: tools.
And armed from day to day without pause,
They widened my pores.
Fluids dripped till they came in pours, ending in pus.

But on a day, still in my putrid lockup
Down came my whipsman with a bout of ailment I recognized.
Down came my whipsman, sprawled and enthralled.
So I told him a remedy
And I told him eat of it. And eat of it he did.
And he gained his strength anew
And was back anew. To whip ravenously at my back.

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For Dirk Willems
And the Pacifists.

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