Remote control killers and the wisdom of phallometry
At an early age he realised he wasn't quite right.
Grand theft auto found him too aroused,
in the back streets of Miami he butchered whores,
baseball batted doormen,
and shot grannies in the face.
Here, having volunteered for a program
which may see his sentence reduced,
he finds himself at ease.
The theatre room is sparse, with a large TV at its centre,
he sits naked from the waist down, hands restrained.
An orderly witnessed by a screw has attached sensors
to his genitals.
The lights dim
and the film rolls.
Knowing he is observed, already has him twitching.
It must have been fifteen minutes,
nothing to compare with reality
though his submission was worth the thrill.
Successfully, unknowingly and further dehumanised,
he is returned to his cell.
In the dark non-silence he manipulates the images,
his, and theirs.
Oh what cocktail of joy,
what rehabilitating genius.
He imagines his freedom,
and all the fun he will have
practicing what they have taught him.