journals of the Lonely Villein.

Wandsworth, Pentonville, Wormwood Scrubs, Wayland.

Wandsworth

Afternoon

Windows crusted with dry summer’s flake and a lonely fly. All a screen ignored by the viewer who though facing it, stares and stares straight throughout his silence – 

he sits cross-legged on a low wooden chair with back rest softened by green towels. The close horizon is pale and blue, misty in t he late afternoon sun that is bright and hidden in the white ague sky. A river and sea, islanding the close region of Sheppey is the base of the mists drift that rises gently and still like its a skill. Mostly sky, the canvas is supported by strips of low bumpy ground in light greens and yellows. Few runs of trees like elongated buildings and wonky fencing.

There is a knock on the door. He slowly rises and opens it rolling his eyes to his surprise,                                                                                                                              no one is there. He glances up and down the landing quickly and returns into the small room.

A thin gangly bed runs from the door to the window of the cell, tightly wrapped in a fire blanket with a hard white pillow. It looks like a hospital bed. The rest of the confine is cramped with a spindly table, a small cupboard and child sized wardrobe.

An illusion

The window appears clear now and the sky a rich definitive biro purple, the light in the room is deceptively dull as villein has hung a pale green sheet from crooked screws, soothing the harsh electric white that glares from the practical case.

The window appears clear now and the sky a rich definitive biro purple. The light in the room is deceptively dull as villein has

hung a pale green sheet from crooked runners soothing the harsh electric white that blares from the practical case.

Blue smoke from the reflection turns in on itself and his fingers (held in tobacco mould thats hour hand again) lazily, in pose, tweezer the roll-up’s roach. He breaks wind and flicks ash into an orange peel.

The light room, with its white painted stone

brick walls suddenly shaking, almost upside down with a sudden harsh gunfire of crashing smashing and deranged howling and screaming.  An alarm sounds –

villein increases (unfolds) himself, tumbles off the bed into plain, black shoes and opens the door.

Immediately he collides with a red faced screw who kicks him back into his cell, slams the door and locks it.

Millions of thoughts pass in seconds and the door opens angrily. Two screws burst in and beat villein to the floor and handcuffs are on 

Do you hear me you handsome rat 

faced dog? I’m telling you a story. Reread the beginning. Villein doesn’t hear you, he hears Neil on the landing.

“The money’s in the bank, I ain’t saying which one”

This is exactly what villein thinks of it all, but there is no-one to say it aloud to.

“The money’s in the bank?”

He thinks: precisely. He needs his new kid.

Outside the open door an old fella walks by with a cup of tea and says to another bloke    “Gonna be doing the delivery tomorrow? ????? trust the fucking pigs

– might take me a while but trust me the money’s there.

One of the screws from the security room – walking in a very odd way- all knees, comes in.

“Evening Villein” – he searches   ???????????????? through the bottom draw of a decrepit old cupboard.

He pulls out a white box and from the white box he pulls out an asthma pump  ?? pulls out a ribbon as Arcadian  or a ?????? unravellings and tumbles into his palm joeys of brown and whites  – in three ????waterproof shots of blue and white tesco style miniature bowling balls, looking for a knockdown on the skittles – of oblivion, you get me blood?” says Neil.

Mr Whelks raised an eyebrow and turns to Villein “Got asthma have you, Son?”

The curtain was calling as the sun sets on another shore, the bad boys were brawling if you want it so bad you can have it all.

I defy you all

this bloodclot weirdo knows twice as much as nothing at all, I’m still nothing at all

and my blood know the wolfman twice as much as ten lives you all.

Slackback razor days and night-time we’re filling mad halls.

They kill you then they bill you snouts in the swill y’all, we remember the face and we’ll do you and then we …

“rude boy, what you want, bruv?”

“brown”

“you wanna sell some brown for me?”

he gave me that “pay me when you sell it”

I returned to my cell and sat in the ?????? and pulled out a joey of H the size of a ping-pong ball, in a ping-pong ball.

I forged him a charitable no-questions-asked cheque that gave his girlfriend the cash on the monday.

Good kid

he clicked his white teeth – Anyone for table-tennis? What-ho!?

(“you’re a thief you”

“look it up” he said, nodding to the bed covered in scraps of paper and books.)

 Distant cloudy voices

clutter up the walls

with muttered spoiling choices

and opinions on us all

but come the revolution

we’ll line them up against the wall.

then lads steady

pop goes the weasel

then already steady pop goes the weasel

half a pound of tuppenny rice

half a pound of treacle

that’s the way the money goes

pop goes the weasel

half a pound of tuppenny rice

half a pound of treacle

and that’s the way the money goes

pop goes the weasel.

7

You get people who are gormless – you get me.

Different bitches consume them,

their soul haven’t had enough time, their

environment and the focus of their parents

the true essence of life

we live in a society that has been predoctrinated.

“I’ve been expecting you” the fortune teller said to

Neil. “I’ve been in states where I can control

the forces of nature”

“Set out to the next dark side

thinking somethings in my mind

God bless the dead

deep underworld and procedure since the beginning of time 

Its not what they say its the way

they say it

codes in the underworld “don’t tell me to fuck up

real nature”

(drawing: figure asleep on bed a la “death of Marat”)

radio slave miserable as virtue the celebrity grip

friend of a great musician on the set of a blockbuster movie

the walls entertained, unbeknown by none known

the new turn of the decent or half decent sort of chap

The pretended not to know ‘now now’ prefer ‘poor cow’

i’ll not take what I can get, chain whipped and dead rollicking, i’ll do the time and perfect the crime.

There’s a man who came to stay

the boy he replaced

disappeared without a trace

gave my songs and my soul away

no-one would say what they needed to say, so he had his way ….

If you sail into the sun

beware the eyes of green

and if the whole world say that you are the one

I defy you to ? them my son would you believe them my son.

iD

Once upon a time…

in the land of Bruce Grove, Tottenham

there lived in an Arcadian (Peabody) cottage

Peter, Francesca, Steve and assorted nymphs, pixies and french psychedelic hippies scattered about. Eastenders Martin & Gee, motorbike fellas and fine dealers lived very close by and regular trips were made behind their hedge and iron gate barricade into sometimes twisted realms. (A bush to get out of sometimes – as Trigger said of the moons) nonetheless special times occurred there as much, as much as spooky ones. Back in peabody ‘the opera’ collage painted floorboards and walls and bongos, bedspreads and books abounded in this bedlam of a love-nest.

Remember a young girl from North London with a beehive and leather jacket called Hannah, always drunk in those days. And everyone was off their nut on speed. I remember walking from Bruce Grove to Bow and back with Steve one fine night to visit the venerable Phil Dickens on the top floor of Levey House. What did we talk of? I remember we was wearing tatty jeans and Lord Anthony style affairs on our backs. To Arcady, Bedlam my good man and don’t spare the clapped out old banger bought off Jonny’s uncle Ernie.

Remember that ‘orrible night in Eynham Road (what one?) The one when Wolfie lost it, he mocked me something rotten saying “bring me  a mirror, oh bring me a mirror. How is your vanity Peter? with short hair you are ugly it appears and you do not seem so rash these days mind you – no girls to dress up for in here, saying that … I’ve been brushing my teeth and looking after myself in a routine rather than a vanity way

much more diligently than on the outside. For when I get outside? Oh I suppose so … it’s hard to imagine what I really mean.

I’m pleased with my sight

When I behold the Friend

But my visiion and the friend cannot be two 

It is He, who sees with my eyes

wearily

tiring me ?????

lay back and took the knee

idly

to idolatry

I look god in the eye

cawing and crowing

of swooping birds

????? means high pitched screeches

 near lowland estuary beaches

by the window bars a pale man reaches

to God with both hands

(Can it be true

 that you 

after so long you’re strolling into view

I’ve missed you

but you know I can be stoical

and struggle on with lost limbs a plenty

by the window bows a pale man reaches

to god with both hands)

all these things you see

are just what they seem to be

 waves of nauseous ????

and divine tricksters melancholy

 slaves to the system are we

and an inkling of the mechanical rhythm

is enough to stir the heart

 that heeds the red hand

 that stirs the tea I wander early in the rainy shroud

round and about the prison grounds

low wooden ferries in this open cell

of rabbit fields and sprawling willows

reeling backwards in the wind for summer,

gone are the days gone are the days 

I tread lightly, longed to hide behind the run of bushes from the templer

tempting the unfree to embark upon the like “you boy, you could be in London tonight’

In the land of the  gauching shining son

there’s bodies in a room lad

where never an honest days work is done they call it the tombland

In the land of the q son

there’s hordes in a wicked womb man narry an honest days work is done

they call it the tombland

down in the tombland

I’m never goin home

no never quite home

On the Isle of Sheppy

eppy

eppy

eppy

aye yay oh!

Ian is not really a mormon

but he says he is (I can’t remember why now but some prison perk was involved)

 conditioned feelings

‘they can’t cut it

 without you’ 

man

 army

puke your ring up

a flourish of vomit

killamangiro now ……..

now the lost chance

have been and gone

 and you know

you’re gonna have to run

 if you wanna survive

(Q.)have you ever had opium?

yeah’

“and did you have wild visions”

he stretches, frowns:  ‘no just gauched” pisses

grim earthy silence in the prisoner

morning, already am I mourning with

a perverse glee the death of these next

few days before my release

and (sorrow) holds it sin and shame to draw 

the deepest measure from the chords

warped mirror of my malady

differing shapes of the face that gazes 

nearly upon itself

But Peter, you know what your’re gonna do 

with a prison lighter, prison asthma pump 

and gate money upon release.

I am untidy and romantic, stapled to this fate

Lillie Langtry to Oscar Wilde : don’t tell Frank

You must forgive me, for I cannot forgive myself

and time she stoops to conquer the lot

conspicuous is my homage to the bard of st Helena

he lay here too in less enlightened times

dad and Wolfie dead in dreams

money and cars

me and the three despicable whop cornered me in a cell

and made to have their way ’till I a suddenly

awakened to the horror, in a paler night

afore the down of this release.

No rest is assured

thoughts devoted to discomfort

that which establishes key again like a full monument

in the flood of ideas about these conditions

but are they any different out there?

somehow I am stronger here

I ain’t had a lick of a crack pipe in 28 days which is of course something approaching miraculous. I am not as obsessed with that matter as some but deem it still ( in this stillness amidst panic and mayhem of realities) 

worthy of noting, perhaps for the ??????? of future excess. Honestly, who knows what awaits me – and who cares? I am moreconcerned with that which I await.

“At thy martyrdom the greedy and the cruel crowd to which thou speakest will resemble All will come to see thee on thy cross and not one will  have pity on thee.”

plastic plate and bowl

I drum and four paces stroll

the cell, the “peter” hole

and down the landing roll

for a ladle full of gruel

bathroom racers 

turned out to be

Mrs T

and some young courtship

sharply dressed smoking a blunt

I waist the bath (nearly)

espied a package-

elegant water bottle and three fishes

a modern supermarket

idea about novelty eating themed

on the ancient Roman world

Arose that my dear fallen again????????

and a “grand” mood and Nadine?

Jan was there too, getting dressed

and some corny advert about a man

on a lilo in a pool atop a roof.

*cell = pete sellers

————-Hope———–

one can still hope

as hope hops instill over balcony railings

landing on mettle rope blankets 

presumably there to prevent death,

to prevent the death of hope ?

It hops on, limping slightly now, across rice- flecked hot plates, 

through cracks in the atmosphere and across the exercise yard

back across the fence and away back to all

London where it came from. 

It didn’t even pop in for 5 minutes, 

but still I hope. 

I’ll wait for thee, hope

I’ll eat this stale bread

IIII   IIII   IIII   IIII   I

What good can it do the impatient hungry wretch, 

soul shallow- fed to full by clippings 

but greedy belly so empty its eating itself up, 

suited ???? body lumped together but under a rattling brain.

metallic fever and lazy emotions 

stalling in the heat 

sprawling on the wooden seaty, 

revelling in everyones discomfort 

sore-backed and sour. , 

There may be some trouble this hour—like  like each and every hour before it.

This is no house of correction, this is the hostile house of justified injustice, 

The house of boredom, the cottage of crippled lives; 

those caught, stitched up, unlucky, violent, criminally insane, 

Thugs, hardmen, faces. 

All London’s pockets emptied out and searched and banged up. 

I’m lost in these hours, never given no a release date???????? 

but it must be…… it has to be…………

Tea time 

Through the dingy filth and the dirty smudge of the barred window, 

the immediate ruins of a prison church,

E wing exercise yard, barbed wires, all Wandsworth’s browns and red bricks

slight greys and tinny blues

and then the mournful sky, so pale

and dry, shepherding the last clouds

to the safety of the night (good to her own, like Diablo)

the sharpened claws of the night shadows 

across 

the filthy glass of the night 

darkly drawing in the ???light????skies.

A train is too loud—pretend  , pretend thunder

A,a wind whips up the straggles of torn prison linen. 

A long, lazy day short of breath,

closer now to the final returns, the release, the jest of death. 

free I am, 

a slave until tomorrow.??????????????????????

                                 ———————————————————— 

I”M gonna I’m gonna write Jenny a long letter, I always write her a letter when I’ve had a bit of gear.” He looks at his pupils in the mirror.   “I don’t feel like I’ve had any, I’ve got a manky taste in my mouth. The gear was cut.”

“The Bourne Identity”

Robert Ludlum                                               

“You pick up one of those books—

you – you                             

                                                                                    aren’t gonna put it down”

Stealing from a (?) thief was I, that day in Harley Street, booting down a door and strolling off through the rain. They never mentioned in court, in the press, that the only object I truly completely,  single-mindedly stole…. not trust, not friendship:

a Burberry umbrella.

“A melody  always finds me”

Le Chat Noir

In the fabric of night 

the conquest of time

to awakening delight

dreams deflect from the crime

of corruption and embittered gratitude towards injustice

I will to the cells of my sleep

wherein walls weep with blood

and webs tighten the shroud to my skull

The black cat of my myth

encourages hope,

like luck lust!

stringy blankets for a cover

and an armed robber for a bunk-bed mate!

goodnight again Peter, my love

sweet boy.

______________________________________________________________

“William Brown of the Mirror”

I never saw such an amazing sights involving my senses, as when Will took took the square plate of mirrored glass and held it out of the cell window this one cold saturdaySaturday night, the pink neon of the Wandsworth wasteland and brick and aluminium all before and below and around in the flattened view by the derelict churches. I i stood on the chair and looked over his shoulder to behold a grid  in the shape of the small looking-glass, the flickering image of the whole prison wing, ablaze of brownstone etched into the night, serried sills ,ranks sills, ranks of cell windows seemingly immovable, an implacable monument of stone.

Villein reruns helplessly, haplessly– – though not without some hope—to .to bung the chilly draft of injustice.   – Villein waits in his time, a slow Sunday stands asleep, solemny in the way of the awakening of his needs. Is it fireworks or gunshots that pop somewhere over the barbed wire?! He doesn’t care, straining to interpret the banging and bloop-bloops and busying of the guards and cons on the landings, each rattling of keys a testimony to the hunger of 

                                                                                     Villein.    “Where’s my grub?”

                                                                                                            X

                                                                                                                    X

                                                                                                                             X

                                                                                                                                     X

                                                                                                                                             monday  8th

   tuesday wednesday

            thursday friday                saturday

IIII                                               sunday monday

                                                       tuesday wednesday

                                                                IIII

IIII                                         IIII                             IIII

                     II                      ay  ………………  wherefore art thou

                                                                                  ????????

  (Hold your horses Villein—you’ve, you’ve got 2 more nights in Wandsworth!)

                        what is the incarceration 

                          of a vain individual

                             if it enable an immortal

                          word to blossom and to

                               create  ,   in     keats      ,      words,

                             an eternal source of ecstasy

                           this is all part of

                              the long struggle

                            towards the purest ideal

        Mr   S   Melmouth

Bilo and Biggles

    go together like a cup 

Earl Grey and giggles

the white light is divided

 into a thousand or many more

screens while light through a dark green

 blanket,  muffling the cell of draught,    how warm green

we lay on our bunks

drifting in and out of ????????? dreams and rattles

and longed for release, and also to leave the place 

(though that remains a 

different matter)

I ask for details    –  – less disinterest

it would be hard to imagine in 

the sarcastic faces and the cheery voices

of the guards, .     all the guards.

    It pinches the the goodness from the soul

    they  give   not   an     inch

    nor     a     toss   for    Villein’s    polite      request

                                 for     Villein’s    rights

                        simple    tasks     avoided

               I   am   compounded and confounded

               and frustrated     complicated  ,     boiling  under   the 

                                                                          oily Sunday skin

            The    revolt         of     the

                          puppets

Returns                                                       (vite nouvoue    ?)

         what awaits Villein

          at the    gate?

         Aa   return   to   the   life   negated ?

         Prating    voices       and     prying   eyes,

          mistaking    the    impossible truth   for     lies

          or (?) and   autumn    leaves      langourous 

         parks    and    ponds    and    pals   !

Once upon a time                                                              by Joan  Robinson

There was a sailor bound for service choice was took away so the sailor he deserted he had something to say

Once there was a time when this would never be but we will all agree

that this is not that time

There was a rumour *bout a father had no time of day

so the father lost his bearings the children heard him say

Once there was a time 

There was a driver went for shelter had nowhere to say

so the driver ran for cover

they took his name away

Once there was a time …..deserted he had something to say

Once there was a time when this would never be but we will all agree

that this is not that time

lc-rise

Silences

cornflakes prison breakfast

the prison system – is terrible that it hardens their hearts, whose hearts it does not break, and brutalizes those who have to carry it out, no less than those who have to submit to it.

———————————‑

/ wormwood of ‘obloquery’?

————————————–‑

LAST ‘ ^c e 30

Guilty? – Let those

who know not what a thing temptation is,

let those who have not walked as we have done, in the red fire of passion, those whose lives are dull and colourless in a word, let those if any such there be, who have not loved

cast stones against you

[first page Pentonville diaries]

Saturday 28th January 2006

The story starts here with a slap 

in the mush from some unsympathetic magistrate ……

So the latest is I’m banged up in Pentonville 

with more than a tailors dozen charges

on me tail, which the justice system seem to

be making a taper out of. God knows

why, the band should be mashing up

the toon, Glasgae and Shepherds Bush this weekend

and instead I’m birded off on remand after 

a slow clucking duck walk (sitting too)

through the bowels of Bethnal Green nick,

Thames Magistrates and now da ‘Ville. Innit

bleeding marvellous.

And for what, a few joeys in me sky

while on bail on bail on bail ……. Fuck’em.

In replying to this letter, please write on the envelop:

Number RG 7750 Name Doherty

H.M.Prison

PENTONVILLE

CALEDONIAN RROAD

LONDON

N7 OTT

Arcady, my love, therein we’ll again

don’t know where, don’t know when

So in reality its tea and roll-ups until the

8th and then all prayers my way Mamma

p2

January 2006

29th Sunday (29-336) Fourth Sunday of Epiphany New Moon Chinese New Year

I see paint cracked walls

stained with shite

long long lock up days

cold lonely nights

and I think to myself

what a wonderful world

I see men touching fists

saying “watcha bruv”

screams from below

shit parcels from above

and I think to myself …

I see my true love

on a Rimmel advert

p 3

week 5 2006 January

(30-335)MONDAY 30

In replying to this letter, please write on the envelope:

Number PR 7750 Name DOHERTY

Another cup of tea and the drilling 

continues. Another unthrilling day and my 

tooth aches like fuckery  is the expression.

It’s one o’clock on the 1st February

2006. Remanded in custody at her

majesty’s (and my) (dis) pleasure.

Caught by my own stupidity I’d wager

God knows the prison system doesn’t

need me to function as her limitless

metal clanging cog on so jog on

timeless time and see me out of

it. DRR, DTR. DIP teams and god 

knows what….. At least I’ve got 

me own Peter (cell) for

a while.  Oh well,

small mercies, small

mercies.

Damn this fucking

tooth. First time I’ve

had a tele in

me cell, watching

Prime minister’s question 

time. A lot of 

hot air if ever

there was any ….

Stone me what

a life

“here here!”

p 4

D-wing wakes up awhile, so what’s that on your arm 

‘You self harmer?’ 

They say I’m nothing , but I got armaments 

bohemian trinkets and a cut on my heart. 

All where’s the tough life, voices behind me 

on the landing, and then a sly suck 

on a loose moose I billed and my 

mind parachutes into paranoia 

that no lawyer can bail or score ya 

a touch my lad 

a squeeze if you please me’ lud 

I don’t know where I’m going, 

where I’ve been 

or what I seen 

too bleak too remembered

is as good as forgotten: you know the apple

when the world is rotten + rude 

not baby soft cotton on love’s nude abandon. 

The biro’ll save ya, the biro’ll impale ya & the 

Bilo will serenade ya all in all out 

shake it all about & kick up 

a fuss & shout 

get on the free bus & get out 

of doldrums cauldron that’s boiled 

bolder and older than you & I.

(drawing of villein in prison bed)

Lonely Villain . . . bang-up again . . .

p 5

1/2/2006

The lone salty tear from before still sailed it’s same maiden voyage, like newborn sorrow and with a womb anchor, my heart like half my face does it’s job and yet cannot be felt nor can it feel – The jaunt through C – Wing back from the dentist’s chair Ex England Boxers, credit card fraudsters, general Mister Meaner than thou’s . 

The drilling outside continues My neighbours are all in cells save for the green trousered cleaners, picking up odds and ends i this, the oddest of chateaus.

menacing, lurking all-seeing eyes of the prison cockroaches. who you gonna trust in whole full of thieves. Today I met 2 solid soldiers at the gym, Foxy & the Lawbreaker, Touch black fists on my boney white knuckles. The  smell of sweat & linament Nuclear debates & analysis. Holocaust denial. 

The opium trade, furnaces in wells blushing traders in the sunlit shade bare dusty feet and fading days Tasting plants with poppy seeds between brown cobblestone teeth. How did it get from that Afghan field to A-wing & D-wing at the ‘ville.

Still I think about her, aye my heart aches and the tears they flow on down and away across the years. Or rather the year that has passed now since the supergroup played the barn. How I miss my potting shed and the long alcoholic days that we  played out in the fits and starts of the lazy bearcat lovemaking.  

nurse Moss seeing fit to implant me after days of agonies it seemed. Vodka spliff and

p 6

powder and then the drive to the Isle of Wight and the Naltraxone …I wonder what I wouldn’t do to have you back in my arms.

A face appears on the plastic flap screen “You on your own?”

“Yeah”

How true does it have to be? “Yeah, i’m on my own guava. Never so much so.

p 7

TO HELL AND BACK [N7]

RE 7750

1st February 2006

D1-41

H M PRISON Pentonville

Writing on my bunk shirtless, trying to 

wash to dirtlessness until the cousin of 

death closes me down for the night and

bring in those heavy dreams that the

horse rides the night through on.

The countries’ growing ageing population is

on the news, compulsory regulations 

and an unanswered letter from me old nan.

Neverending surprises ….. Bilko turned up

at my door just now and whisked me off

down the gym, to talk about parcels

and …. Jim, the bearded wonder of 

course ever involved in the underworld

shenanigans that keep the drugs circulating

round the ‘Ville.

I got a vest out of it too. Ah me …. 

another roll-up, another 5 minutes killed.

From the outside world I hear the odd siren

another soldier taken from the front

line down the Cally. Inadmissable evidence

all round. EEZ settlers, Baghdad defence

keys jangle as another soldier dangles

from the light fitting.

Oi you, stay true, now that my love is overdue, 

don’t be snogging no-one else

coz I still love you

time and tide carries on

and tarry, till we marry, now that

my love is overdue …………..

“mind-blowing shambolic ineptitude”.  new labour

p 8

At the wobbly legged table in 

me little Peter (cell) still (still)

waiting for the jingle jangle of the 

gaoler’s bangle. Court on the 8th

and hoping for bail. Even life 

without drugs  gotta be better than 

this malarky, Babyshambles all

set, to take over as well. Fucking 

hell’s bollicking bells. Won’t do it 

again honest guv. ….Oh  you will                                   

Doherty and you know it. Still,

if I’m on a DRR and being treated

there aint no real way round it

I suppose. Get to grips with the 

idea that it is eating away at your 

money, your love and your life. 

Yeah right. Still I cluck it out, still 

the table leg wobbles ….

Dentist appointment today …

hurray ! !

p 9

2/02/06

They could so easy take the time and spare

here and now to make a fine example of me.

Many are in the same position I’m sure and

worse – ah, those sirens again all day –

someone being taken off the road – I still 

hear the voices yeah loud and clear. THey don’t

like it because I’m weak, young and

weak too. In some ways. I’ve bending

press ups though, and they’re letting us have

the pool balls just now -alright.

2/2/06″might as well win” “2 shots” “chalky 

innate, where’s Jimmy? who”  I thought I 

was ?????just then an exhibition of a place

taut with atmosphere and white potted blackspunk in the 

shower.

 room which I wait and 

wait and then get in the hot spray

yeah I’m a clean junky

always “2 shots” There’s a hammering outside

and some echoing laughter, beeps and slamming

clanking squeaks and banging.

I’ll do my hair awhile, and even make my 

bed. Top bunk, yellow fire blankets aplenty coz

I’ve been on the lookout see. Even nabbed a

rare old prison shirt off a passing trolley,

a boiled egg and a nice blue prison vest,

to say nothing of the many packets of butter

I just found on the side. Baccy down me 

sock, someone says something a little out

of sway, a stranger in all dark non prison

clobber is directly opposite my open cell door

flashing his watch in my direction he was …

later that day …. felt like a freak show with

a host of people at my cell door screaming

and whooping like apes. DOHERTY! It’s 

him!  DOHERTY! DOHERTY ! OI!

p 10

3rd feb 2006

I don’t know if it is because it’s the

furthest outreach of the prison (literally

the cell furthest from  the mania that

was beginning to occur around my

cell flap back on the numbers) or just

because they want me to listen to drilling

all day long  (there’s one going on some’at

rotten) but either way I’ve been deported

to the hospital wing, well out the way

and a right motley crew up ‘ere and 

no mistake. Even a down-syndrome fella in a wheelchair.

Hopes of getting a little joey are

slim up here but there is one fella

who might see me good – prison life, all about survival

clucking through inductions

(instructing new arrivals)

most know the “coo” and hustle for burn

the smokers pack might swap for a joey

but soon learn

there’s few to trust in a den of thieves

you can be moved mid-deal then zilch you receive

then it’s scrounging and dog ends when your’e 

dry as a bone

or swapping your rare bit of ticking time on the phone.

I’m in grey joggers and top, crucifixes three

no Hoxton chic but I’m chipper as can be

back to the ‘ville, begging to be free!

p 11

3/2/06

Things that break up the day in fits

 and starts; food, medication, showers,

a game of pool if your’e one lucky

cunt, walking in circles round the yard.

A legal visit, or any visit. …

I’m doing ten press-ups at a time,

not with great ease at the moment but

don’t watch that I’ll come out of here

fitter and stronger than in a long

time. Later that morning … shot a 

few rounds of pool including a thrashing

by one of the nurses, can’t believe there’s a tele in me cell, 

compensates a bit for the cold I 

‘suppose, can’t complain at all really.

This is the largest prison in the 

country and in some ways one of

the most modern, I’ve certainly

never come across anyhere so clean or 

spacious as this hospital care wing in all

my days at her Majesty’s pleasure

shame only one of the eight showers works

really but it was a joy to to hear the

sprinkle in me ears and the steam on

my body just the now. Someone and 

again someone else asks how I come up

with the name Baby Shambles and so I

think back to Denholme days and “oh

deary me why is it always such a 

babyshambles?”

I wonder where you are now …”

p 12

3/02/06

It is literally a hospital bed I 

sleep in now, in a freezing cold room

at the other end of the wing. My 5th cell

in 6 or 7 days. I’ve been receiving a 

steady stream of letters, including a 

few surprises (Amah-Rose and Hannah 

haven’t given up on me yet, old friends 

indeed) and some strange ones. Do they

come any stranger than me? (not 

when my hair’s like this, all  fluffed

up after the shower. I cadge some 

burn and coffee off of the cleaner

and a friendly face of a maintenance 

man. One thing about being in nick is

I’m drawn to writing again, even

if it’s the same old prison dirge about

burn and bloodclots.

I had a crack at reading Paradise 

Lost – it was that or P.G. Wodehouse

(which I’m getting through. Galahad 

the pig or somesuch)

shine not in vain

celestial voices to the midnight air, 

sole or responsive to each others’ notes

singing …. oft in bands

full harmonic number joined their songs

the rattle of keys will never cease

the rattle drugless of my heart’s beats

the prattle of thugs and rabble of mugs, 

but better I am a mug impounded,

than a mugger, soul unsound

though once ….

week 6 2006 February

first quarter Fourth Sunday before Lent (6-329) SUNDAY 5

Am I ever so mistaken or  –  Oh distraction

from some demonic banging by a fellow 

incarcerated soul  –  is that the sun

spreading its wares all over the looming

wing. A block of meshed in windows

cells forever and ever forever. The tightrope 

guitar line cuts  uneasy in me cat gut as

I slip up and cling on for dear dear 

life I offer up another prayer but somehow, 

hope is dispelled. Fuck it, I don’t fancy

reality at all you know that shit.

Whats the point anyway, Ive lost my 

love, she’s up an offed and I’m in

clink. 3 more days and we’ll see what 

the magistrates have in store for me. 

Bail me or not I’m descending into lost paradis

Still, a blast around the country lanes

in the MG might be a giggle. Oh Yeah!

I do fancy that mush.

Can’t be much fun for whoever’s reading this,

basically the plot goes like this: I’m in

nick and its doin’ me nut inane that’s it.

The whimsical malady of

an old film is of the 

consequence. Nor the 

inmates arm , bloody

from self-inflicted

scars, poking out

of the cell to receive

a nurses attention. 

Not leniency nor luck

not your love, not your loathing

only your law

I want to snatch it and

smack it and

shove it and

smoke it up

pipe lines into justice, briefed

of fag ash in sickly mornings

I dreamed of playing music,

one way or another. There

was a child also. Revolting

and centre of attention.

long splashing flushing nights,

flushing naked (save the grey 

thick socks) someone sort me out

now I couldnae give a fuck

2 fucks

for the rest of the world watches 

on only as I sit here useless

to ’em all.

viva le french dog.

SUNDAY 5th FEB

The day is bright in dawning

but I feel rougher than a

rough pair of

shitty old boots until my methadone and

that holds me awhile. Innit

marvellous eh? I am the sick

man of Europe after all and

a prize turkey at that.

Cold  ” ——“

The path is murky Lord – and

mock and scoff ye not future

Libertine because I’m in it up

to me neck just now and it

ain’t looking ropsey gardens for

d.t.o. dip squads d.r.v.community drug orders and good

old fashioned bird are the

delectable choices on the palate

of persecution …. prosecution,

tossicution. Not so eloquent this

day our daily hardened slice of

skanky white bread. Pray to goodness

young and old coz I need you

to bail me out of this one.

Fuck martyrdom – Where’s me walk by the canal?

LET THEM EAT CAKE

The nurses in our prisons & rehabs

are always massive & African.

She held up a load of skanky

white bread slices : ‘You want bread?”

LET THEM SMOKE CRACK

‘No do you have any cake?’

‘wait . . .’

So I wait. And cake comes

and an orange too. Yoo-hoo!

(note : spooky play on tele)

So I said to the nurse as

she came to the flap after

years since  I’d pressed the

emergency buzzer ‘I just had

the strangest dream’

‘cor really’

‘Yeah’

Pauses pauses

‘I dreamt that you got

me some tobacco and I gave 

you 50 quid’

‘You want tobacco ? . . . 

LET THEM SMOKE BACCY

CAKE THEM LET

Dreaming into heaven that’s what 

one – so how about walking into hell

with a thick heavy chest and

sniffle. Afore the living sickly me

came the cousin of death who was

robbing some guy for potential

punters by miming along to the prime

time BBC shite that played as I 

slept. I won’t even tell you what

it was as it will expose me and 

my journal keeping as nonsense

designed only to keep my hands warm

as the song wasn’t that unbefitting

the dark mood of the dream which

somehow continues upon a recent theme

of making it at the 11th 12th or 13th hour

to gigs and manner of  ???

hither occurring (such as me

myself coffee & miming ‘I’m walking

in the air,’ there, I said it now)

and that’s not the point … I awake

sharply, drearily into the cold reality

of the prison. it is fucking cold

anyway, whenever you read this, and

it might be in some fit Richard’s bath

(you know the one I mean)

19th December 1910, daughter of Camillio

page ???

With you I forget all time

all need to put pen to rhyme

for my heart is thine

imprisoned, in love, in cold cells

toothpaste sticks your pout to my wall

someone was here before me

in no way can this reach you

free bird, (no comment, they might 

throw the book at me yet) I appeal

to all your moods in all your flights and 

mine of fancy, take me back now I’m 

off the Jacques Chirac.

Is the watching world tired yet of

this enduring love? I can’t speak 

your name yet I hear it all te while.

Still I love you, still I adore you

still I long for potting shed blues

and you scoffing at my scuffed

shoes. Waking up to Bloody Marys,

vodka and tonics and sweet love-making

in the world’s most comfortable bed.

I’d take my life on it and make

 you my wife if I hadn’t blown it yet.

Oh your sorceries and spells leave

my morning so confused in cell with

the tele and no celestial maiden

at all. I see my ghastly ghostly

pallor; what dies but what had life

and sin. You and I in the old 

sports car, down the boozer for

second hand cook books. You’re not

so sentimental, and I not so celestial.

Knowledge of good and evil, divine and rotten

my recent memories.

page ???

on the care of the pig

Its hard for a man like you to bridle

in a rambling mood, moving but idle

astride the night like windle freight lines

across the one after nine o’nine

a charitable woman, sane abbot the ninth

carried me home in the 8th or 9th pint

a stint in the clink for a careless punk

woo – – ooh an off the bar luck 

Babble from the padded cell

silence hanging like a pall

in the nights closing chair

I followed the son of the son

on the run , always on the run ——

He stepped to the wall and pressed the bell

a slow response to the blood spread hell

when shall we kiss again with tears?

——————————————

Lonely Villein buttoned up his silvery shoulder

stripe duffle jacket and stepped onto the

HMP Pentonville exercise yard. He was on the 

joey trail and sought out “D-Law” a slouching

Rasta who sat amidst a tribe of black prisoners

on the wall near the yard’s entrance. It was

triple not double-bubbleon the outside link, 

he used one of the nigger’s phones slyly,

shielded from the fat screws’ gaze by the

wall of muscular bodies.

“Jimble”

“All O.K. Lonely?”

“Get it rolling Jimble”

“Just waiting for the word from my man then”

says the nigga.

“Ah c’mon blood …Appeal was not so 

futile and from the foreskin of the “D-Law’s”

dick a small bag of heroin was pinched.

Couldn’t get back to the cell quick enough blood. 

But the door slammed in front and not

behind him. Rumbled in the jungle and

and from nowhere 4 screws were on him.

Didn’t even look at the niggaz. “Fuck it”

thought Lonely, if he was going to lose

his brown he was gonna put up a 

show. He nutted one officer ripe on the 

hooter and then took a hiding! No 

smiles without agony for a fortnight for 

the newly plucky Villein who generally was

a hands-op fair-cop  guv kinda criminal.

A few weeks down the block with a cardboard 

table and chair for company and no pen 

and ink save for that from the hole in

the floor that passes for the bog: the

main focus of his attention given that

he’d swallowed the gear.

DRAWING: 2 DREADS AND A SCREW   “I don’t fink so”

HALF TON MAN

written by Doherty & Walden

produced by Mick Jones

released by Rough Trade

(doesn’t have that massive singalong appeal – yeah it does, it’s genius)

I do worry what people say – bit late for that old son

that wasn’t a scuffle mate

ENGLAND

STABS

ROCKS & B

ROCKS  & B

ROCKS & B

GIMME ROCKS & B

I’M FILTHY 

I’M ALRIGHT

ALBIONAY – ALBIONAY

Doherty decided to go on the run 

across Europe, get’s caught trying to 

dangerously score smack in an all-white 1979 MG Midget

the weirdness of invasion

I wanna start stashing stuff and sending people on missions,

bang one in mush

down in Albion off-key

another day in Arcady

There never was a princess so rare in beauty. 

21st April 2008

Flash Infinities

First night pack – Smokers

Matches 1 £0.11

Sphinx papers Green 1 £0.16

Turners Virginia 1 £2.40

Total = £2.67

As I go to suck the tea 

from the plastic mug, 

steam turns my face 

into sweat. I see 

my reflection 

in the green 

mixture. It looks greasy, 

it does.

So sick down to my heart, with my hot water flask; 

someone threatens to throw it in my face

7.30 am Wormwood Scrubs

“Gentlemen of the Segregation Wing: breakfast will be served in 5 minutes with a smile”

(drawing of flask and mug)

Not much to write home about.

Blondie on the Capital Gold. Must be canteen day.  

“Depeche toit se sort”

It’s true if you treat them like villains, they turn out to be 

* villains.

I pinched some will² this morning from the back – hon of smiler³

This is my golden breakfast; I think you’ll like it.

“And Doherty enters into the second half of his sentence swinging and singing like MacGuigan and Sinatra.”

Yes you felt like shit this morning and didn’t appreciate the Wing’s jolly Tannoy bellow. Hot, hot shower got the blood running somewhat. Dreamed of airports; gangs of kids followed me up to the food counter.  Reds, also some sinister plot involving Christian film crew capturing me buying dingers. Skinhead in a Birmingham City shirt head-butting me. I woke up shouting, “help” and kicking the prison wall. No one heard me or at least no-one came near me.

Peter

(drawing of peter sitting on his bed beneath a barred window, reading and listening to his radio) 

Prison would be easy if your colours were like my dreams.

Confuses and scares me, this quick-slow passing of blue days, flick on and off; regimented like so many clockwork soldiers dropping off into the abyss.

The way life is, I believe my dreams are 

real much of the time. 

I know now they are 

just dreams, for given they 

occur outside of this cell.

Bit of action down the block tonight. Plenty of 

kicking and screaming. Voices across the landing

“Oi!” Scouse voice. “You listening?”

“Yeah.”

“I swear that geezer’s down here.”

“Pete Doherty? Yeah, I saw him today.” 

“I think it was him. ‘As he got long ‘air?”

“Sort of.”

” ‘As he got a tattoo on his neck?”

“One.”

“Yeah, that’s him. I ‘ad a call my solicitor 

an’ I see ‘im on da stairs. I says ‘why don’t you 

come ou’ on the yard. ‘E says they won’t let him.”

(crossed out drawing of barred window with books)

Half finished morning (slug?) on commentary.

St George day and cell of gory hope. No one to spring me. How infernal hard day’s nights. 1^st worst thing to be…

(sketch of face and open book)    

Considerable agony discomforts my soul. (Verily) a portrait (if childlike & repetitive) of the artist as a sole (?) junkie. Segregation time, come on! (?) (?) Grunting neighbours on Rule 53. Last night the (?) sounded eerie, echoing through the chambers of the wing, and the whole place kicked off when Chelsea equalised; banging and shrieking four or five times wilder than when Liverpool scored. Story on the news about a Brazilian priest who has gone missing after going up with a load of helium balloons off the South American coast. This yellow and green can, sealed in chink.⁴ 

Sorrow bound; the mornings are depressed, the nights are depressed, the momentary magnificence of melody swept up in all the dirt and pity of the landing. Times past rage up like lies—can I have been there? Seen her? Who dares not to tell me how sweet and special love could be. How daft I am now; belly numb in torments. It’s a Wednesday. I don’t care for dates anymore; it doesn’t matter so much. 

My achievements are meals, answering letters. How I dread visits (supervised anyway). The resentment is hollow. I know how well I have to swallow this one, for there is no getting out of it. I once had an idea that, because of my surname and regardless of my father’s progression, the IRA could bust me out of Wandsworth—I’m sure they’ve got enough on their plate. London is dreamily showered in … late April? I hear the guards laughing like schoolboys every morning without fail. There’s no getting back to sleep once the light floods in and the ganging starts. 

Well shelved now, all plums and glories. Perhaps I’ll detonate, explode in these endless agonies and then piece myself together in defiance of mesmerizing dullness of depression and the repression of liberty. Occasionally the keys jangle right outside the door, pricking up my arms and ears. It rarely reburns in the cock, just the doctor who looks like James Brown dishing out the Gavascon. 

Caribbeans on exercise; someone shows up to the window.

“Pete! Peter?!” A few pebbles clatter against the bars and plastic glass. I can’t fathom a response. “Fuck you then, cunt. Moody cunt!” comes their response. “Fuck earthen cunt … Moody cunt!” comes their reply to themselves.

Torrent of disgust, heartfelt and rotten oranges for dessert that I’d rather were unsmelt. We rot together here. Godforsaken drivel. I’ll stretch & yawn and suddenly topple over the table all dizzy from numbness in the heady soul.

Sometimes I sneak up on myself and howl at my window shadow, the fuzzy lines in the drying out afternoon. I’ve made a good pal in the radio. He’s taught me all kinds of new ways to actually keep the channel on ‘Gold’ when Mark Knopfler comes on. Fuck it. 

Oh yeah, this page was supposed to mirror t’other, in ecstasies and exclamations of interior hard core reveries and delight—met (with) torporous, fomenting tedium, tick-tocking, skull-clocking days; wretched pesky officers commentary, guffawing, neighbours in the Seg Wing smashing the gaff up.

Oh yeah, this page was supposed to smudge away the tears and plough through the days like a hot, plastic knife through sunflower spread. Move-on-up, hush-now-child-and-don’t-cry, folks’ll understand the sprinkle of salt on the shin and an uplifting, uncomplicated surge in the soil. Fight it, fight it, drugs are for mugs, bugzy! Remember your dreams and keep on pushing. The days will fall away from your beaten shoulders. Don’t matter (here we go again) about the wilderness; still there’s the bliss and someone to kiss that you miss still. Let the hiss and slide of the train halt and hang there, halted just before the darkest light smashes in. Joyous horns and celestial ecstasies of piped fanfares, greeting the movement of limbs Hasn’t two weeks just flicked itself off like that?  (Snap.) 

They can’t take your fingers off you, here, no matter what, you’re nicked and so snap on through the drizzle. Snap on through the drizzle and as they turn the heat upon you, snap on through the lick–spittle sizzles. The pigman prevails, viva le eggynogg and inky, Spiderman dreams of youthful virtues! Bo! 

Bit of a reality check this St George’s Day:  

I was told I had a visit this afternoon and that a child was with them. So, I murderously mentally prepared myself to see Astile, dreadly dressing myself as smartly as I could, given the circumstances. Turns out it was Reds, Andy and Adrian and something of a relief, somehow. Apparently the young fella thinks that I’m “working in a factory” for this time that I’m away. So it was the most I’ve laughed in ages this afternoon, listening to Reds’ endless stories of his life in crime and Andy telling me of Mik’s adventures in Camden. (Jealous… moi?) Yeah. And so a blinding light belts through the bars this late April afternon, clearing away all evidence of the showers of earlier today. Somehow, I become more grounded, more soleer⁵, calmed even. Chew another sticky toffee and the light belts on.

I lay on a bed of mail, sticky under my back. The letters are endless and stamps not always so handy, but I’m trying to write back to everyone. A lot of letters from people in prisons all across these sacred isles, a few from lifers and a few from ‘interesting’ sounding girls (one doing 3 stretch for nicking class A equivalents from her workplace that her boyfriend overdosed on). She says she’s fit though. A few of them do.

Thanks for your kind words

Love 

Pete

(Drawing of hand holding the pen)

Light through the window of my pad.

(sketch of bed end window ledge with books and view through bars of prison buildings)               v

Paul Savage

Lazy day down the block—savage. Smashing up his cell something chronic and wo-oh, a wee bit shaky am I, you know? Rudeboy? The fuzzy outline of my shadow following the pen across the page. Caught a bit of sun today—on the yard with the other segregated ‘convicts,’ is it? Someone shouted down, “One of the man dem.” An aggressive bark.

The seg’s sat up, “Who’s that?” Up on their feet on the hottest day of the year. 

Yeah! No reply, fuck you pussy ‘ole. Man felt defended in the sunshine! Now in the cell, panting out these last two weeks of my much-deserved and anticipated 14 week sentence. 

“C’mon Dohers! Do-a-tee! Doh-er-tee Pete. Save us 2’s, Pete—hand it over, sweet Pete”

When I get to them gates 

I’m running for joy

They made me a mug

Show’d man to the boy

Nasty little burn

On my big beaten heart

I’ve done my turn sadly

But in raptures I part

So take me back

To the Manor reborn

Where I’ll squander no longer

(squander forlorn)

Savernake pastures!

Wild forest larks!

I’ve done my turn sadly

But in raptures I part

Nought tastes so sweet

As liberty regained,

Nowt so sweet,

Hear my refrain, 

nought so sweet 

hear my refrain!

In this last cell I vowed not to write on the walls for fear that I’d ‘comeback’ trouble. It’ll be the first wall I ain’t written on in five years of various short custodial sentences and arrests. Time four a change, hero!

(drawing of Peter writing Q.P.R. on the cell wall and scratches marking days poised)

Watcha gonna do about that itch?

Dig in mother nail—raw the skin so pale

Spent the evening with shadow twitch

Sweets suck sweeter than poison

So why bother with poison

When sweets are sweeter, son?

Prison sours to scowl the prisoner so soon

‘Wounding with intent, contrary to Section 18 of the Offenses against the Person Act 1861′

Indictment

Regina

-v-

Prison Life: Gangsters and Radio 4

27^th April

So help me, I’m mostly clean.

But a lazy day in the sun and there’s an almighty calamitous racket as one man is dragged down to the block and stripped down, beat, over probed, hosed, given fast action laxatives and still he trots out into the Segregation yard. All five of us and four screws and somehow, he winks at the Bilo without the world noticing; says, “I got something four ya still, bruv—s’ already paid £4—’ave it, rude boy” And then, delirious, he stops time, slackens his body into the only spot CCTV can’t see his huge frame and in a split second, three small wraps of heroin in a tiny plastic binding bounce into my world. 

“Nice  one,” says I. 

“Standard,” he says, wearily.

Oh yeah, mate… my standards have obviously been slippin’. “Slippin’ like a victim!”

The force of my (now gate-happy tingles) thoughts upon near–release has been how to score as quickly as possible. Now I’m thinking, “Where’s the nearest N/A meeting?”

Dahn the block, nights:

“Hey miss.”

“What?”

“I got something to show you.”

“It won’t be the first black cock I’ve seen and it won’t be the last.”

Funny scenes, man.

Everyday I have to listen to ‘Free as a Bird’ by the Beatles; sends goosebumps up my cell wall like clucking. They’ve moved me across the landing, down the block, into the ‘penthouse’—I’ve now got a toilet seat and a little kettle. Ha ha! Unbelievable luxuries. Some things occur that just well me up in their humanity. ‘Perrengels,’ two cells down, sent me a roll-up this morning with the early morning staff. Things like that in moments of ‘roasting’ just melt me every time. The Independent Monitoring Board lady was at the serving hatch for breakfast this morning. No—it was a sausage I was getting, so it must have been lunchtime. I was deciding on whether or not to have the grizzly looking ‘mash potato’ (I decided against it when one of he potatoes asked me if I ever ‘brushed my hair’), when she introduced herself.

“Hello, Mr Doherty. I’m Liz from the IMB.”

(biro sketch of canteen counter Peter’s back facing the canteen staff and Liz – with speech bubble)

I glanced at her with a robotic interest. 

The IMB are here most days—our conversation always goes like this : 

“Hello,” says I.

“Do you know what the IMB is?”

“Independent Monitoring Board,” says I, perfunctorily.

“That’s right.” (And then the cell closes after a brief exchange.)

Today she had a golden yellow ‘post-it’ with ‘6^th’ written on it. She says I’ve been found eligible for 18-day early release and that I didn’t hear it from her, but I was down on the prison computer to go home on the 6^th of May. I’m going home! One week, bruv!

(full page pencil drawing of prisoners in the exercise-yard, one is Peter who watches an inmate being kicked by another, all are smoking) 

Great ideological arguments of our age:

½ once of burn or 2 bags of B?

Capitalism or communism

?

(sketch of bedhead, side-table with book, cup and pen and barred window)       

I have to say it but

Time has flown today⁶

And then the night show–time…

Bird

(black biro sketch of prison buildings above which a seagull soars and sun shines down)         

(next double page – news cutting about Peter not being evicted from his flat and two semi-professional portraits)  

Wait a minute—let me check myself a second here, I’m actually talking to myself. How I’m on my own that much, scraping the base of a ripped open sugar bag to sweeten up the disgusting tea.

Still two weeks down the block.

Easee ridah!

The Segregation unit yard is (Ow! My hand is now frozen.) twenty-three paces by eighteen paces. Yesterday, a tall, black youth was brought down the block by a squad of officers. I spoke to him on the yard today. 

“You that singer?”

“Yeah”

“Drive jags, innit?” he said, leaning against the metal wall.

“Yeah.”

“Yeah man, on the road that’s all I push—Jags; XJ6s—the 4-litre engine with the sports button.”

Turns out he’s got a band, a rap outfit called ‘Section 18’ – after the ‘Offenses against the Person Act.’

“Why are you down the block?” I ask.

“Someone says man put a knife to his throat.” He looks at me. “Tried to cheap man up CU2, you get me?” 

Understood mate. Can’t be done over, in here. Most have discipline, eh? 

Ha!

Voices at night from the cell above, one drowning on and on and on and on and on and on—Jesus. I squirmed on my fire blanket, listening to growling, aggressive, somehow accusative and nasty tore. I couldn’t make out the words, but was more than a little paranoid, throwing V-signs and wanker signs at the ceiling. 

Yeah, I’ll admit it I’m a lazy, old lag. I use up all my tea and sugar rations in three large plastic mugs of leavy sitting(?) tea and sit on my bed, puffing red-faced after a dozen push-ups on the cell floor, smocking roll-ups these weeks past, until my thumbs are ‘pentonville brown,’ ‘scrubs brown,’ perhaps a new, golden tint to the pads of my otherwise immaculate fingers.

I must have put on a store since being in here. Promises in the yard from Mr X, we giggle and make plans to link up big style on the out…

I’m gonna have to draw up a rations plan pretty soon: six days left and only so many Rizzlas. Nothing worse than being without burns in here. So: rationing suddenly interrupted for a cell ‘spin’ and strip search. They take me to a chamber at the end of the wing where I have to strip spin and squat—’lift your nuts’—then they keep me down there and search my cell. On my way back in, one screw says, “Mobile phone and drugs found in Doherty’s.”

I should be so lucky!

(drawing of Golden Virginia tobacco packet)

(affixed finger from rubber glove)

One of the screws mysteriously left a glove’s finger on my pillow after the cell and strip search.

?

This must be where it starts to make sense.

Rattling wheels, all shout and echoes indistinguishable. I hear my name a lot, but can’t decide whether it’s real. Sometimes I hear it followed by silence and then “Boooo!” or “Moody wanker—why ain’t you talking?” and then I know I haven’t imagined it. 

It’s hard sometimes, lying on the fucking bed, too dulled to even pick up a pen. Trying to enjoy a play on the radio and then “Oi! Pete!” Did I hear that? Turn radio off. “Pete! PETE!” 

I go to the crack in my metal door frame “Yo!?” 

“What’s happening, Peter?!”

Well… to be honest I think you know the answer to that. Bang-up. That’s what’s happening. That’s all that’s happening. All that ever happens, innit? Fuck sake.

What’s happening?

What’s ‘appening

What’s gahn on?

Was gahn on bruv?

Woz garn on bro?

Garn’on bruv

Garn’on lad? (scouse variation on the theme?)

Wots appenin?

Laughter all around when I say “Just getting sucked off by the SO whilst havin’ a pipe. Wot’s ‘appening round yours?” Doors bang in recognition of my genius and someone laughs; “Wots? ‘appening?”

(drawing of cell-door with eye at peephole)                                            

Getting to the stage where I feel guilty about wanting out. Is this true? In a way. ‘Tis Monday today, 1^st May, 2008. I sit in a small, small cell in the Segregation Unit of Wormwood Scrubs, West London. On the 6^th May, I am eligible for my 18-day early release date. This has been suggested to me, but not confirmed in writing. The guilt comes from knowing I am out in so few days—five more ‘sleeps,’ as a child might explain it.

“BBC news at midday.” After the ‘bips,’ smoke a roll-up, eat an orange, pace the cell, look in the mirror, try some push-ups. Turn the radio off. Read some mail. I am blank now. I can’t work up my enthusiasm to write. Block down the block.

I think of my friends. Reports in the press say friends have been flogging my stuff in North London pubs. This has acted to spur on my real friends to write often and with untold love and support. It really helps in ways I never dreamed of, (?) (?), grinning like a simpleton to hear of familiar escapades and rituals. Even the band were on good form t’other day at the Love Music Hate Racism gig in Victoria Park; Drew’s bag. I wonder if he’ll link up with Jimmy Percy and PolyStyrene as planned.

Go on da shambles!

Well, what I wrote on the previous page relates to other prisoners doing I.P.P—indefinite sentences—’lifers’ for Section 18 violence offences. Actually, I don’t feel guilty. Feeling bad, now, as I lay on my bed whispering ‘get me out get me out’ to fantasy ran–raiders. I gaze out of the window through watery brown eyes (my green eyes disappear when I’m locked up, I notice) and feel a gradual stirring. ‘Gate happy’ they call it. It’s coming up like Phoenix now, in sly smiles and jerky walks (three paces) up and down the cell, bouncing to imaginary rhythms.

My thumbs are now caked in a brown crisp skin from the constant roll-ups. Officer Officer (real name) slipped me some Rizzlas so I might have enough burn to see me through. I doubt it. Left to my own devices I easily smoke 25g of tobacco per day.

Speed up the clocks (fantasy)   

in chokey time 

up in smoke 

(drawing of prison lighter burning up a clock-face)

Hurray proper action down the block today. Radio buzzing, boots on the landing, some distant screams and shouts that get louder and then a fuck-off big shin-dig where one nutter takes on four or five screws for all he’s worth; denying he’s got what they’re looking for and making their job fucking hard work. When they finally subdue him after a valiant and fierce effort, there is nervous laughter.

I think they got his home-made ‘chiv’ and a phone and now he’s banged-up, hammering on his cell door, threatening in no uncertain terms to stab up everyone’s close relatives. S

Screws keep askin me if I’m gonna stay clean ‘this time.’ Strangely, I’m hardly thinking about drugs. Although since I’ve been here I’ve had two stones of rock and three very small prison Joey’s of Brown; not including the mound I brought in with me which lasted two days, as I shared it out whilst on the Induction Wing or ‘1^st night center.’ I’m now the cleanest I’ve been for ages and feeling physically and mentally alert. Of course, this is wonderful. Of course it is, but I don’t have a huge positive desire to stay negative. We shall see. First challenge is to avoid injections; that would be an achievement….

Big up to the B-free Billy Bilo!

Impatience reigns like a frozen queen, sighing as the sleigh slowly sifts through drifts of slow snow and ice.

Thursday, seems stodgy and imparsible

Impossible times

One feature of life in the Scrubs are the very frequent burst of police sirens from the outside world. Frequent as tea-bags, they punctuate the days like news broadcasts. I fantasise about the scenarios, always wondering if the police catch up with the assailants—always wishing them to get away with it. Stupid really, considering they could be after all manner of criminal.

Two o’clock is frozen in the time infinite. The clock does actually stop for a heartbeat. Who is doing this? Stealing my passing breath? Short changing infinity I move my hand, but my shadow remains still. I lunge forward, but remain on my back upon the thin mattress.

There is a loud, infernal, horrendous banging from directly across the landing. And now voices. And now an unbearable silence that echoes out, also lost in time. I hear a scraping, an angry voice and then uncomfortable laughter and another great banging. A stampede of boots and voices. Keys shake like carnival & then… 

Two o’clock is unlocked, finally, I breathe again.

(view through cell window of round stained glass church window , a journal open on the bed side table)              

‘the little tent of blue prisoners call the sky’

The sky is a smudged blue this endless Thursday. I took a big decision in my cell just now and took my grey jumper off the pipe and put it on. It changes the dynamic of the cell somehow, the grey is light and matching my bottoms makes me feel stronger, more filled out in the mirror. The night before last, I managed twenty-two press-ups, but last night I sufficed in weariness. Oh god, I’ve been dreading this Thursday. I had it down as the 1^st day of my last week, a miscalculation thank to my unconditional release date falling on a Whitsun Monday. So, effectively I lose 2 days of my sentence. Get in there, me son! 

Chanting the descent into despair and madness

Torment in the day

Leaving the night noxious ignorant blank hours

‘Mr Chatterton, Mr Chatterton, history is upon us’

I worship the god who runs my cupeth over

spoiling visions of words on cloth, on the floor

What’s rhymes with birthday

Sick or dead or something

Geraniums

Scraps of paper

‘Suicide’ is corroboration of a Thesis

 Heads on pitchforks

Such a little book. So few revelations. 

Treamed⁷ parchments. 

Vauxhall downs, me Angel here, 

Mistress Jane, Mistress Quickly

A penny a tear (shake off this fevered day)

A fiver a year! I’ve been to the Jelly House

Arsenic & opium / angel & devil

Fleet St/Fetter Lane

The boot with the spear

Spear

Apothecary

Hell in a bucket, roll on….

This place is a fucking mad house. Some fucking weird conversations occur and no mistake. Energy is lashed out along twisted tongues, slang echoes in short bells of song and recognition, then crack! Thunder across the hollow skies, heavy rolling and Christ it’s that time again—the night rains down and on we ride. Words are hard to distinguish in the system of random shouts and after a bellowed ‘Are you listening?’ a muffled roar continues unabated alongside radios and the rain. Something about Harrow A-Wing, parcels, ‘on road,’ an explosion, ‘run things,’ ‘You know that, rude boy,’ rattling, guffaws, ‘Are you listening?’ ‘Go on,’ ‘Aare you listening?’ ‘Yeah’

Aaaarghgh!

Yeah, I concur. Unfortunately I am all day, every day. This weird chamber of thunder and echoes feel like I’m tripping through metallic feedback

‘Hap didde gaya haa dya ha”

Someone in the cell above is shouting along to an Indian radio station like a maniac. Every so often, he creases up in hysterics and then carries on leaping about and shouting.  Piss-taking cunt. Fucking hilarious though….

And so the sky turns its turn of purple in the chamber’s window sky

And time burns and burns its wick in blue smoke before my eyes 

fuck off Thursday you long blue bastard 

night is upon us and you know you’re past it!

This morning, I thought of a lyric of mine from the song ‘Sedative’ about ‘it’s been a long long time since I stepped outside and saw the morning sun now… ’ I felt a tear roll down my cheek and fought it to no avail. I wept for the first time properly since picking up the Bible. Nearly home now, lad, nearly at them gates.

(drawing of prison lighter, a barred window and Peter shedding tears) 

Fuck this for a laugh.

I thought last night was bad, but it reached fever pitch tonight down the block. I was woken up from dreams of some ‘hickory dickory dock’ reggae shuffle skank to a small house march. Woke up in the Big House, as they used to call the ‘Ville. Woke up to hear howls of “Oi Peter! Pete! You wanker! WAIT! YOU WAIT! When I see you on road, I’m gonna stab you up, my boy. You wait. WAIT!”

Fucked up…. ad infinitum.

It lasted from the nine o’clock bips until the one o’clock bips.

A steady stream of foul mouthed terror from along the landing. Someone is extremely fucked up, it is clear. I was tempted to offer some sarcastic replies, but he wouldn’t have heard me anyway. I’m sure I’ve never experienced such venom or hatred or anger directed at me. Although apparently, on my first few nights down the block there were similar scenes, but I slept through them (medicational bliss).

So much for Friday nights. Puts you right off. I’ve now smocked all my burn rations.  Lying here half terrified, half defiant. He’s like the tabloid press: loud, offensive, dangerous and right in my face. Ignorant twat. 

Saturday has come and gone in short drab flashes.

“Dear Peter, I don’t feel sorry for you but I can empathise greatly…”

petal clogs

are bones

Sunday night, 4^th May 2008

Tucked up with me little yellow fire blanket, in the cold Scrubs cell, where I lay my head for the 2^nd to last time. The prison reverberated with hollow venom still. Maniacs at their windows and door cracks, hurling abuse and exchanging incomprehensible threats above my radio, which spiels out a trusty noise barrier: the soothing voice of radio 4. It’s a strange combination: a layered soundscape of civility and rage, civilization and horror.

It’s definitely taken a turn for the worse these two minutes past, echoing screams and poisonous atmosphere stoking the night.

When my name’s not mentioned, it’s quite an entertaining, chilling atmosphere.

Oh, for fucksake: someone on the “Pete, Pete, pussyhole, smackhead, etc.” vibe. 

Nice, nice, nice—what can you do? Snakes and cats abound….

Lips making gunshot ‘berops’ in Tarzan-like wails all across the prison night.

Today the guvnor used an interesting phrase to describe the state of inebriation: ‘lashed up and minging.’

‘Tis that time again

When sobriety kicks in

and after a few weeks

free of ‘influences’

I begin to write as if

I’m out of my nut.

Surroundings come in on 

Me like so many storms

And words my cryptic

Shelter become!

Pretend mystery for misery

Prism’s of lightness

Infamy folding in

Like echoes reversed

Unwound stringing out

Endless days

I would scream but

There’s no room in the 

Chamber so full of sound

Already so full of fury (and)

Aaaah, inky twatted am I

Belching out curry smoke

Neck wound in crucifixes

Survivor…

Though oft uneasy rider

______________________________________________________________

1. Is this a radio station?

2. Needs clarification

3. Needs clarification

4. Verify meaning.

5. Verify word/definition.

6. Confirm/clarify.

7. Confirm/clarify.

8. Confirm/verify.

1. capital gold is a radio station

It’s true if you treat them like villains, they turn out to be villains.

I pinched some will² this morning from the back – hon of smiler³

Half finished morning (slug?) on commentary.

St George day and cell of gory hope. No one to spring me.

Considerable agony discomforts my soul. (Verily) a portrait (if childlike & repetitive) of the artist as a sole (?) junkie. Segregation time, come on! (?) (?) Grunting neighbours on Rule 53. Last night the (?) sounded eerie, echoing through the chambers of the wing, and the whole place kicked off when Chelsea equalised; banging and shrieking four or five times wilder than when Liverpool scored. Story on the news about a Brazilian priest who has gone missing after going up with a load of helium balloons off the South American coast. This yellow and green can, sealed in chink.⁴ 

5.sober

6. today

I think of my friends. Reports in the press say friends have been flogging my stuff in North London pubs. This has acted to spur on my real friends to write often and with untold love and support. It really helps in ways I never dreamed of, (?) (?), grinning like a simpleton to hear of familiar escapades and rituals. Even the band were on good form t’other day at the Love Music Hate Racism gig in Victoria Park; Drew’s bag. I wonder if he’ll link up with Jimmy Perey and PolyStyrene as planned.

Yeah, I’ll admit it I’m a lazy, old lag. I use up all my tea and sugar rations in three large plastic mugs of leavy sitting(?) tea and sit on my bed, puffing red-faced after a dozen push-ups on the cell floor, smocking roll-ups these weeks past, until my thumbs are ‘pentonville brown,’ ‘scrubs brown,’ perhaps a new, golden tint to the pads of my otherwise immaculate fingers.

7 treasured

8 Fuck this for a laugh.

H.M.P. WAYLAND

THE DIARY

OF

PETER DOHERTY

prisoner no:

June /July 2011

©

A   A maj 7 / G / C F / C / G / A

A / C#7 / F# (Bm / E ) – [ D / Dm ]

cheap shott  A/ C

I stole a love song my love

for you, coz you said you wanted to

sing along to a song

so heartfelt and new

Now I’m in the dock up against the crown

and it’s a long drop to stir pot

they’re taking away my come-down

and if a fair cop I think not

a cheap shott that was

now it’s gaol, oh I’m jail-bound

bail oh bail, bail me or I’m jail bound

bail oh gaoler, I’m jail bound

I’m gaol bound oh oh ….

 HMP WAYLAND

Hearts are full of contempt here, the familiarity or the distance is immaterial,

scrawny little fellas, or huge heaving mountains of men – there’s a slight of bitterness to us all. A resentment. When I was coming here everyone told me that it was a drug free jail.

Blimey they were right.

—————————————–

Its all pharmaceutical bits, and even then trade is slow. There’s nay gear about it all. Madness. A more scheming group of minds you won’t find, and still it’s a slow build. There’s more gear down the block at the ‘Ville than in the main locations at this place.

———————————————

Did a stupid thing just now. I spat out the window not seeing the shapes of some fellas beneath, with their pick up sticks doing their cleaning rounds. He came off the wall slowly, tattoos grizzly with hair in the spiteful morning sun. He looked up.I looked down. He looked at the little bubble of spit on the concrete slab.

“Sorry mate, it was an accident – I didn’t see you there”

He seemed to be working this possibility over in his head and I deduced that he accepted my explanations…..

—————————————————-

!st June 2011

Tis a warm, sunny day this 1st day of the summer month of June. I am nearly 2 weeks into my sentence now and knuckling down for the rest of the stretch. Eyes down for a full house mush. A glorious day no less. Glorious!!! The different wings of this jail are like pods joined by corrugated iron walkways. Called the M11 apparently, because of the length of the landing, the stretch of landing —

Strange walkways and landings, criss crossing the links between wings on stilts

H.M.Prisons only (drawing of prison lighter)

Pervasive pressure, the strolling manner – cannot avoid the pressure, the casual manner, trying to avoid the the question, fucking hell, the endless questions, persistent stupid questioning. And then you have to say something…

——————————————————

[E ________________

C7 / G / B7    C / F / G

———–

chase the dragon far from the land with the cross of St George in your hand, count on your merry men, on your merry band

count your good men out in one hand.]

—————————————————-

.. but what can you say? “Excuse me; please will you stop being a dick and …. ?”

I suppose so: when you’ve had enough of the rot , and endless questions don’t stop, and heaven seems a long way away …

Hope sags like a weight and fakery is fate’s true fate … There ————————-

———————

————————

————————

—————————————————————————————

There is a hollow echo that resounds from without. A persistent eeriness out there. If it is the wind then it is an unnatural one, like the sensation of a cloudy alarm, whatever that is.

Meanwhile, the table rocks and crunks, a T.V. blares the intermediate darkness.

The otherwise complete silence is sparsely populated by assorted squeals and tinny voices The very odd shout in the dead prison night

Dead lives —— all of us on hold awhile.

Jesus it’s a battle. Between those that mind their own, and those that are a bloody nuisance. In between are variations on a theme, with different gradients of malice and manageability.

 —————————————————-

“Take that for me Pete”

I reach up to my padmate’s outstretched arm. He passes me an ashtray. I tip it out of the window. I’m sat writing at the wobbly desk in a towelling robe  i today swapped for my induction I.D. card He is in his grundies. His freckly belly out almost childlike. Wearing Reebok shorts and with a shorn head. He’s only 33, a year older than me, but is kinda Old School in his ways. Like a lot of criminals I meet, he is intelligent and quick witted but despite his youthful looks is old beyond his years. A kind of cynical wisdom combined with a fun loving criminal outlook. Intimate knowledge of the prison system, constant geeing up of his clique.A tight group of armed robbers and criminals from East London/ Essex area.

Today we had a batch of “Hooch” – prison booze, fermented yeast, orange juice sugar and what not. Fucking lovely to neck a pint or so myself. Privilige of the crew … little victories innate?

Fucking hell. This could be murder, it is murder, but you gotta have a laugh. There is somehow a constant atmosphere of uncertainty around me … even people I feel a certain kinship 

———————————————————–

seem unsure at times, but perhaps I can get through. Who fucking knows I should write to Wolfenstein and check out his progress. It’d be mad if he ended sphere. I’d love to see him …

There’s a geezer called Derek, Del- boy … or “patchy” some people call him, given that he has an eye-patch … then he flipped it up and showed me, Hmmmmm.

There are an awful lot of people here for violent crimes … pip’s —- people with an indeterminate sentence, but basically 99 year tariff ….

2nd June 2011         

Reading back  over the scrawl of the last few days I’ve blatantly been sat there self-consciously …. un-alone in the cell. Almost writing for the sake of it. as the days turn into nights turn into days I feel a little more confident and comfortable. Doesn’t spill over arrogance or complacency just yet. There’s always a nagging threat. Even when you’re having a laugh or building a sense of community, darkness is always a shadows crawl away.

Disconcertingly people can sometimes …

—————————————————————

… appear overly friendly, what lies in peoples’ minds. Obviously we’re not all dogs as I keep hearing but that little wrap of pharmaceutical rush or oblivion, or that little pack of burn may have a loaded debt tucked in a cellophane corner.

Had a game of darts today, and proved to be a little bit less shit than I feared, Blimey. You need to be a mathematical genius to keep track of the game though. Quick criminal minds belting through sums double quick as the fingers, wrist, arms back elegantly but ever so firmly missile the little metal javelins and flights into the painted cork like board.

Having to blow smoke out of the window …  the screws here are well on top. Pulling you up over the slightest indiscretion. Today there was a little bit of a ruckus. They bought the dogs in to follow up an alert couple of officers sensitive noses … “Smells like a brewery in here” said one as he walked past my spur entry ___ a “spur” behind one of the pier _ like jutting, of landings …  we were all locked in the association” area

 *(Diagonal banner top left to bottom right, “white Light’)

while they net through all the cells on D-Spur. One fella frantically dished out cups of an orange cider-like home-brew before flinging the remains of the soggy plastic sack out of his cell window. An hour later he was flat on his face with his arse hanging out. Another geezer whipped his own shorts down and placed his cock and balls on the guy’s pink-white arse.  “All fun and games in a man’s jail innit Pete?”he said to me with a cheeky grin.

2nd June … 3rd June  

White light white heat.

A cold droplet of sweat falls down and rolls about neck into the large dribble at the front of my throat. My neck. Gullet said a silly voice by the full —– ——– —– ——-  —–  

———————————————————-

There’s an argument ensuing about whether or not they air-brush pussies in porn magazines.

————————————————————

“Balled-up, we’re not from Pussy stock”

said a father to his son

oh my boy the time has come

now you’re 16 years of age

to unite us to engage

we must stand and fight for liberty

remember our fathers brave and born

as we fought at Ulster’s call

and far off lands (FUCK BOBBY SANDS)

Do you want a chicken supper Bobby Sands?

ditto

ditto

ye dirty Fenian Fucker

would ye like a chicken supper

Glass of coke to wash it down

The Old Duke Pub

“No pope of Rome”

No,no pope of Rome

no chapels to sadden my eyes (in my eyes)

No, nuns and no priests

Fuck your rosary beads

everyday is the 12th of July

Dad’s name Paddy O’Brian (Brian McPhail)

flag carrier,

fly over, pram tipped over.

—————————————————–

Oh Mappa

Mappa 1 Mappa 2

[different levels of security]

Mappa 2 is more serious

checking you’re abiding to your curfew

checking you are in

trace your movements at any time.

You have to sign in at the police station

P.P.O. — prolific offenders, persistent, prolific offender

——————————

Geezer went in the shower with a P.P.9 in a sock, lost his footing on the wet floor, the other geezer picked the tool up and went to town on him. There’s nothing worse than being shot with your own gun … as Hancock says

Me and Paul Stevens went for tea and when I looked round he’d run a blade down the geezer’s face … “nothing personal” he said.

p 13

All the  boys are in for burglary, bring out the fine wines let’s make history!

Making Hooch, pooch,

sniff out the juice

raise the caboose

Hoochy-coochy! I was out of my nut earlier on, singing and dancing in my cell with my *pad mate

 We’re now listening back to the tape it’s a right ol ‘ knees-up. Me free-styling with some blues riff in D major. Holy Shmoley!

I’ve just woken from a right ol’ kipperoonie. Vivid dreams in colour.

There’s been a huge amount of attention from the screws regarding the mis-use of substances. Two people overdosed in a nearby jail so they are coming down hard. Just now 2 leaflets came under the cell door

alerting prisoners to the clampdown and the dangers of taking stuff on top of your medication.

Poxy restlessness and despair. Working out how much deep sighing and misery can make you age quicker and wither. Wither withering. Idea for play: guy or* on boy, straining – someone shouting for his attention 

monsters closing in floor by floor of a plush hotel Little knives – talking to Mik about the elegant set of shiny metal implements.

Last night under the suicide lights’ washy glow

I dreamt of detective Columbo.

These lads are lethal weapons, programmed by certain conditions, but it’s a secret code to crack, they fucking love it here, kind of, sort of, in a way

Council House And Violent (C.H.A.V.) 

2nd part – Italian made, leather bound. 

3rd June 2011

 He walks dead- tall, does young Rocky. Likes his music, doesn’t like bullies. You think you’ve seen it all, and then a cage fighter called “Satan” drags a skinny armed-robber in his cell and makes him pray to the devil with him, “To destroy all enemies.”.

Was shooting the breeze with a few local boys today in someones cell. Sometimes there’s afforded friendliness … blokes who I think would like to put it on me,   but they know I’ve got a few geezers wrapped round me, so they grit their teeth and come on all pally. Conversely, some blokes are brutal, and just as I’m feeling confident of nodding “hello,” they blank me, or in the case of one, do a shuttered lunge. I step back, scared, and then they laugh and say “aaah Pussy.” So I say “wanker,” and then it all kicks off. The bloke goes to grab me, and I hit out and catch him in the face. He doesn’t expect

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feel my heart burning with a fierce indignation against cruelty, stupidity and prejudice

(This seems out of order)

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this at all. My punch is hard and heavy to the mouth. His lip is split, and he is against the wall. There is no one about, no officers anywhere. The bloke crumbles in front of me. I step towards him and dig him in the ribs. This is like having a pipe…  .. my heart is beating (hard) and my head is speckled with sweat. Fucking hell, I’m loving it … 

“Anything else to say mate?”

“Nah, Nah … fuck …?”

“Say sorry.”

“Soz Pete , mate. Sweet Pete, yeah?”

He laughs and says: “You got a good ol’ punch on you there.at” It’s like we were only playing. But I haven’t heard the last of this geezer. The “Rainham Rapist”—but  but I think he’s actually an arsonist- an arsehole, as it turns out.

He was about when the “The Boxer” put it on me—threatened – Threatened me with a fucking fork on A-

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 wing – Reckoned I had some gear. No one said nothing. 3 Three different firms had come to me and asked for money for protection—two  – 2 black geezers, “Terror” and “Rizla” wanted a grand a week. Fucking cheek. Then a geezer from Dagenham. A little muscly, Jewish- looking geezer. Wanted a grand a  week. Fucking cheek. Then some nutter from Tottenham wanted £100 pound a week. The little little muscle man got the right hump with me. He primed “The Boxer.” Told him I had gear.

“The “Boxer” is a 6- foot- 4 black lad from Stonebridge Park called Scott. He’s also a paranoid schizophrenic. It was a really strange experience, fakery, pure fakery. Strange fuckers.

“The Boxer” gave me burn and gave me pride. Ever so kind of him, although  the very odd way that he had been

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 staring at me did give me cause for alarm. One of those stares that fixes you intensely, and like a mad dog, you don’t want to look away in case it snaps at you with its fangs. The fangs, in this case, were the long elegant fists that he was often seen pawing the air with rhythmically.

I was in another guy’s cell, sat on the bed;, he was at the door explaining how I would “have to learn to fight in this jail.” . I was suddenly alerted by the look in his eyes.  He looked full of evil, full of hate. He gestured towards another guy and pointed at me. “Tell him.” He nodded at me, almost mocking. Challenging.  “Go on, ” he said, in his tracksuit urchin drawl. “Tell ‘im,Tell ‘im.”

When I left the cell, he was waiting for me. There were no screws about. In Wayland, they leave you pretty much to 

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your own devices, most of the time. He handed me a torn letter to his probation worker. It was written in neat, but senseless, paragraphs;, what I could read of it seemed to be going on about female members of the probation staff and his medication.  It was also explaining how he was taking lots of crack and heroin in jail, which was bollocks, but presumably what he wanted me to read. He asked me to post it for him.  “When I said, “ to what address?” he seemed thrown by this response, then he went in for the kill. He demanded “the gear,” “the crack,” “the heroin.” . He was suddenly all worked up. Fuming. I was suddenly drained of the confidence I was filled with earlier on, and he knew it. And he knew about earlier somehow …

“Not so cocky now, Dokatee?”

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This complex and tragic world

page 8Also out-of-place

He was backing me into a corner in my own cell—l – literally. He called me a numptee—one  – one more step, and it was gonna go. I was going to have to crack him one. The paranoid schizophrenic who was going to “fork it out of me.” .  Maybe he sensed this, I don’t know, but he left me there, kicking myself that I hadn’t attacked him first. It was gonna go. A a screw was at the door, he must have heard the keys. “Wass going on, Doherty?” “I’m gnu gonna kill someone,.” Yowled, “Better lock me up, officer.” The door slammed shut. The officer was laughing. I was in a right state. I didn’t go down for dinner, they brought it up. I exploded. I chucked my T.V. across the cell, except it wasn’t my T.V, it was also my 

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 cell mate’s. I kicked the desk and the cupboard all over the place. The food went everywhere, too. I screamed “cunt” as loud as I could. I wanted to fucking kill. The next morning, he was at the flap, smoking a burn. “You want 2’s?” “No,” I said. “You’re . Your’e  a bully cunt.”He sloped off, laughing. He came back 10 ten minutes later. “You calmed down now?” “Eeh?” he said, as I ignored him. Another face appeared at the flap. It was Muscles.”Alright Pete?” “Yeah.” “Told ya,” he grinned. “It’ll cost ya…” “I gotta get off this wing” … and now here I am. On D-wing. Live to fight another day—t  – trying to hold it down bruv!

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TETRA SCENE OF CRIME  342795  VOID

PAGE 11

This to suffer from the worm of doubt —- “a weather cock —- changes with the wind” weather cocks don’t make good kings. A doubtful man will not make a king —- That horse-man brother of yours Madame….. may he go to hell and the devil find him good companion! “And since God is not done with meI am tired” “Philippe has been treacherous…” “He has been French then….” (laughter) Edward Longshanks “The ancient liberties” —- generally saved by a platoon of soldiers. 

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All of our grand designs and great hopes, the castle on the hill, won’t England need you still?  climb off your knees prayers or scares?Snares for grandees in the prayers…. this is not a jest  —————- ——- serious men for serious times

page 13

 Talking about his old man:

All he’s got is his Mondeo and his can of beer

He’s worked all his life —– I ain’t gonna die like that

page 14

The war-wolf  – firing giants boulders faster than the eye can see. Edward firing at (the future of war!) at the scots. “knocked the whole bloody wall down”

God as we know, doesn’t talk. weakness as we know is a quality like tallness. It doesn’t grow and it doesn’t change

A bad old do

Feltham

white power tattoos

————————-

 . . . .

ACAB

“All coppers are bastards”

page 15

crop of stars

page 16

Sold me down

down river. I saw the ????? drown (?? splintered)

timbers shiver

I’m sorry dad

you ever even heard

ever ??  of  ???

every unclean/unclear?? word

every empty promise

how absurd

to know you’ld choke?

upon each drowning 

word                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                              

in time be sure

to get here in time

don’t go anywhere

without saying goodbye

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freak off and get your freak off of me …

—————————————————-

Doin me exercises visions of coming out of the cell, 

out of the whole sentence. 

and flexing my muscles at the eager waiting hordes of photographers …

and the next day the gutter-press declare me a new man the hot new pin-up and poster boy of the proud nation.

A that the day yeah, the sun will surely shine

will glint in its glorious light

And i’ll suck breath through my teeth

and into my lungs, deep like liberty,

cool, like release, will my release

be.  

Page 18

Talked way into all night

about wrong about right

About death about life

About dark about light

About nothing  about

the hole that makes you dream

about the things that make us 

scream inside

Bang your head against the wall

It makes no different to them at all

You got 2 years to do n’ a half

a 3 and a four

5, 6, 7 and 8, and 6 months more

parole, out of control the end is nigh

chaotic use, child abuse it’s upright, alright

noose tangles, star spangled

they shit me up, dragging me down

Pulling my plum

smiling a frown

I’m waylaid, lost and found

Tied & bound, i’m Hellbound

Blood sprayed, overpaid bent up

Hated, slated, grated & baited

placated, medicated, ill composed ill fated, jail-baited, drug-                 related

implicated

I got my own…

Got my Wayland blues.

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being good is the easiest thing in the world for a lazy man

p 20

Short time, long term, sick as a turd

skinny burn, clucking.

fucking scared, subtraction ???, association,

detox, retoxification

Wayland got my Wayland Blues

D  –2020–/–20——-

A  ——–/——-20–

E  ——-/————-30-50-777

I’m rocking, blood clotting, pill popping,

glock cocking, snow chopping, slug shotting,

head stocking, bank robbing , heart throbbing,

show stopping, jaw dropping,

dive ducking, donald ducking,

Yob rucking, poison sucking,

tele chucking, scare crowing,

mind blowing, Wayland boys

get the Wayland Blues.

2-stripe shoes

I got the XR2’s

4^th June 2011

Had a proper lie-in today, 

given that last night the jail – tales 

fell fast and furious from the 

top bunk. Aye, me and my cell 

mate were nattering till sun-rise 

about our (mispent) lives.

We’re of the same age, more or 

less, but approach life from 

varying angles. I knocked a 

few tunes for our ‘bang-up’ 

sessions tape that he is 

strictly monitoring. There were 

moments of sadness, intense 

sadness when he was talking about 

going into care, or as a 14 

year old being held on remand 

as an adult. About putting 

his family through the mill  

as a ‘one-man crime wave’ 

as a juvenile. About all the 

beatings he had from the old 

bill, some proper hidings.

And so we slept through til 

lunchtime… getting up only for 

the methadone at 10 am or so 

and then straight back under the 

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Father to Son:

“I never had talent. 

But I did the best with 

what I had… can you 

say that?

You aint got nothing 

b… big empty house… nothing

Kids you never see… nothing 

by but expensive tractor 

stuck in the mud….

Whole lotta nothing.” 

Page 23

Furry-bitty yellow orange fire blankets. 

The weekend seemed to go very 

quickly. I think I’ll be going into 

my own cell quite soon, although 

Carl Innares??? is cool as far as cel

for me, and little luxuries like shower gel, 

milk, juice and burn one always to 

hand. They look out for each other too and are always in and out of each others cells. One of them in particular – a geezer from East Ham is winding the others up at bit at the moment. Acting up and getting their firm a bad name by talking liberties. The other day he booted a guy in the back and not in my cell saying he was talking muggy to him.

“Don’t talk to me like that, don’t take me for a cunt.”

I thought it was gonna go off, but he the bloke is out soon and obviously didn’t want to lose days for rucking. Big lump he was  but the East Ham bod is a bona-fide headcase. He’s an armed robber 

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Fuck this, I’m digging my way out.

“We’re on the 2^nd floor, Pete.”

Kings X – 

Looking for the paper cup

On the railing

“A stump-pocked scene of profound and peaceful 

Desolation…”

Page 25

I think. He told me a story about how he pretended to be mad once to get a transfer.  Told the officers he communicated with the dead telepathically, that he was in colour and the rest of the world black & white  – and that he was 6 months pregnant.

!

My body is healing fast. Obviously I’m not piping or fixing and just as my veins are smoothing out so my lungs are gradually  turning out the black filth that lines them… each deep cough is like dredging the mouth of the Humber.

Page 26

Dream, bar (?) surrounded by water? Going under and coming up at the bar for a bad Bloody Mary.

school building, Jui…

Tuesday 7^th June 2011

Ah well, it’s a small world… and as such, a large prison in a small world is in turns a small world.

Of course, the chances of me running into people I’d rather not run in to were always good. Good, meaning bad.  Meaning bad people? Meaning bad luck. Just as I was looking towards a degree of equilibrium, an element of calm, a type of peace, 2 unsightly personalities from A wing have surfaced on D-wing and momentarily it fills my heat with sickness. One of them appeared in my cell today, blue smoke rising up from the burn in between his thumb and forefinger and sneering across his face in the wake of so many forced laughs. sneering acrosss his face so freckled and fat.

I didn’t smile back or entertain his false friendship. I made it clear how I felt, and felt silly for it, and left him to chat to my cell mate. 

I went off and had a game of chess with Del-boy. Harumph!

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Blues and two’s

Failing to stop

Through the lights

And pars the 

IC1’s, on the run

foot to the floor

The chase is on

Down the lanes

out town

nowhere to bail

old bill all around

 drop through the gears

sink our beers

CS gas and stinging tears…

Chorus

“It’s what we do It’s what we do for a living”

have things away and make a killing

if it aint bolted down then it’s going

if you want

on the cheap we’re the men worth knowing.

Bolt croppers, stilsons, burning gear

It through the wall and out through the rear

If it comes on top

we clear from here

Away on our toes

gavvers are near ?

(chorus)

T-I-L-B-U-R-Y’S

Tillbury– High Rise

Pukka pukka pukka pukka pucka pucka pies

Underneath liberty’s skies

(drawring of sun and building) 

Page 30

gavver station 

Charge sheets

the bail turned down

at the magistrates court

 committed to Crown,

The judge looks at the papers

And says with a frown

You boys are a menace

Take them down

In the sweat box

kiss em

off to the ‘Ville

here we go again

it’s what we do for a living

parcelled up on the wing

making  a killing

Page 31

“The only drug that gets me excited” said the NHS prison nurse, “Is entinox…”

“You can’t write that!” she said.

Insanity

Elements of depravity

Licensed brutality…

All for self-medication and poesy!

Oh woe is me?

And I, the muddler

Muddling through

On tip toes

Prone to prang,

And the many laments I sang though from deep in my heart were mostly fictional hymns to horror, not idealised accounts of my real life.

Page 32

Da Power Balled of (D) 56 [HMPB]

Gonna write you a sweet sweet sweet PB, Gracie, Frankie

From Daddy Carl, from Daddy Carl

Can ya hear him call?

Gonna write you a sweet sweet sweet PB, with my Co-d

Aint gonna tell no-one it stands

For power ballad.

Cos they’ll laugh at me…

And your mums a …

Girls if you’re listening in, I want you to know your Daddy’s thinking of you his heart is true and his eyes are glistening with tears

Salty, salty tears…

It’s been too many years

My dears…

Oh those tears, those years

Page 33

Fear of bees – apiphobia

Thunder – brontophobia

Cats – ailurophobia

Women – gynophobia

Darkness – achluoupohobie

The sickness itself is it’s actual manifestation…

Literally a journey through hell – sometimes  fearful sometimes courageous journey through the chaos of a world whose souls dwell in darkness, a journey undertaken with the determination to go through hell from one end to the other, to give battle to chaos, and to bear the evil to the full.

Page 34

I’ve hurt my love

Ah ah ha ha ha

I don’t wanna see no doc

No prescription for me

That’s the one – 

The only remedy

(chorus)

i’ve hurt my love

i’m sure no doctor can cure

Page 35

Tell ya try my best just

To make ya quit

Woman tend to the sick

There’s something she can do 

This head is broken in two

Tell her in case of emergency

Theres a patient by the name of Doherty

Night nurse

Only you alone can quench

This in thirst

Night nurse

In ___ the pain is getting worse

I don’t wanna see no doc

I need attendance from my nurse Round the clock 

For there’s no prescription for me 

She’s the only one with the only remedy

(chorus)

Page 36

The ruins of this life—

Amidst which ruins I pursue

fleeting flutttering significance

While I___

 I live the seeming madness

Pity myself in the seeming

Meaninglessness___

Meaninglessness, no not that. Pointless cruelty?

Surely do I hope at the last turn in

the chaos for revelation

and the emergence of God.

Page 37******

G, Em, C, D-

Every day, I say, how fucked, even out, taken out is my life, saying to the lonely soul when, when will we ever learn, as long as the world I used to know turns

Or long as true hearts yearn

How you can’t be seen at the scene of the crime in court, it was referred to crown

Here we go to the place I used to know

On the loneliest road

Every unholy soul as this earth survives 

Loneliest song

Bring about the article

Never a chore

Though my arms were heavy and my heart was sore heart was heavy/arms were sore

saved a life lucky to survive

Oh my skin

punctured with sin

I can’t begin, to tell you where I’ve been

Page 38

Mainly easterly

Variable 4, occasional rain moderate or good. Iceland. Fisher, ___ ___ byte. Stornaway north east … intermittent slight rain Wick ____ Boomer, showers 27 miles, Bridlington 11 miles. Scilly automatic, Milford haven. valley south west by south. Liverpool and Crosby. Valencia people rising slowly, wind variable, 2 or 3 occasionally F

Visability good …

becoming moderate or poor later …

page 39

The tic-tac opened up like the sea a bountiful offering from what god one could only guess at.A god with a devilish sense of justice. A devilishly inspired sense of humour also.

An eighth of gear squished into the tiny firmness of a pellet. And D-wing rejoices. Jackels circle the bait, tis I! Looking to pick the wonderfully vulnerable carcass, tis me! I’m treading water here … mixing my metaphors, making friends of my natural enemies.

A geezer along the landing nearly overdosed yesterday. 

I carried his food up to his cell for him such was his state. People are concerned he is “blowing us all up”, attracting the attentions of the offcers with his pharmaceutical nightmare. Staggering about, dribbling jabbering!! bringing it all on top mate! Punch ups abound, tension is wound …

page 40

need my night nurse 

going through her purrse

can it get any worse

page 41

Caught between two ages _

overlapping cultures.

distinctly contrasting

structures and rules …

the whole riddle of human destiny

heightened to the pitch

of a personal torture, a personal hell

inward emptiness and despair

n.b. the melody from Thomas the tank engine / Mr Ben

page 42

scandal today on the spur … a lad (who I knew vaguely from when he showed me his old-school tattoo – with the name razored out of the scroll that wound round a sword that splintered a heart )

Someone swiped his dinner plate (and the recently collected food there-on)

from his very bed, from his cell, from under his nose.

 He is flabbergasted. An act of true depravity, everyone agrees, No-one has heard the like of it.

Stereos, clothes, pillows, stamps … certainly … but a man’s dinner an all time low.

He says that in the past he himself has stolen someones entire identity, he’s stolen money, and cars and even his brother’s wife. But never another man’s dinner. will we ever be set free?

page 43

some odd things in ‘ere …

time stamps its authority

some they hold the present dear but I guess they are the minority

behind bars one and all that we have in common, haplessly inert to liberties call the world is gone but not forgotten

every tiresome day inside

mealtimes, bang up association … 

we hide our tears with manly pride

A spiritual deviation … 

for no man cares to mention

the true despair of his detention

and whatever you do … (I beg of you)

don’t mention crime prevention.

page 44

p 45

an evil face, smooth with hypocrisy, with excellent manners ….

p 46 

everyone in here wants to shut down – to medicate themselves. To get gear, to close off their senses.

because to be awake in a place like this, to be alert …

to be sober.

its damaging

this place is reality defeated. Brought to your knees

this place breeds hopelessness, breathes anger. everyone is scared but everyone masks it.

p 47

p 48

p 49

p50

p 51

i went up like a flame fluttering above an explosion and then – fuck -! sunk like a fucking stone. swiftly down into sickness and sorrow.

p 52

I might be a beast astray, with no sense of its environment

yet there is some meaning in my foolish life, something in me is responding to an ever  increasing roar from another beast in another world. . . 

arrested dreams of singing sound, woven melodies with a spirited, roguish, yearning voice –

carried through a world estranged from a greater world

imprisoned spirits, stunned into compliance. 

p 53

monday 13th june

Today everyone seems to be out of their minds on the wing …

the majority of people have gone to “work” and the rest of us pitiful specimens are left to wallow in this weird “incarceration” with our individual landings locked up but all the cell doors open.

I was trying to play chess with my mate Del but to no avail. There was a steady barrage of ———. One geezer —- a lad from Wolverhampton with a Panther tattooed on his fist has taken shit loads of anti-epileptic fit tablets and is in a right ol’ state. His index finger is involuntarily spasmodic. Most alarming. He also whips his cock out at intervals and makes his one-eyed trouser snake ——————- alarming

p 55 

thursday 16th june

Darkness suddenly falls on the cell, as the rain clouds fill the sky with greys and all the opposites of light, and now blistering batches of rainfall flood the whole atmosphere and dampen and dim the mood somewhat.

Catching a glance from a scarred skin-headed neighbour, he eyes me cruelly. He seems to flinch. The spirit he exudes is cold and mean, although he says “cool brother” he is not cool, he is cold. Or are my receptors now numb, my heart now suspicious? suspect?

Cunts and dogs tell me that the place is full of counts and dogs.

People you would never trust tell me not to trust anyone.

monday 20th june

A jet plane causes a thunderous crackle across the blue summer skies above Wayland prison. I believe there is an RAF base somewhere nearby. It drowns out the hustle of shouts of laughter from the exercise yard. Suddenly there is an almighty “splat” someone has thrown an apple at my cell window. “Dok-A Tee” they shout. It sounds ominous. Turns out they want an autograph for their mum. I throw it down> Why don’t you come out on the yard Bruv” someone else asks. I do sometimes I say

Come down now They demand

“er..”

“no don’t Pete” some-one else insists He wants to terrorise ya”

“yeah someone else says one of the blank white faces staring up “they’ll tear it out of you mate”  laughter “tear it out of ya” the group walks off.

p 57

travelling at last 

getting nowhere fast

I went down lovers lane 

found a crashed out MG

a ditchful of pain

Gordon Gilmour-Martin

A8262 AM

p 58

Wayland prison is well known for its training and educational facilities. For a C-category security run jail, prisoners are afforded a significant amount of “association” time. If one doesn’t work or have a course very often (like myself, creative writing one morning and one afternoon a week) then you are free to run the wing pretty much at leisure between 8 am and 11am and 2pm and 6pm. Consequently  it is much like prison how one imagines it. Little gangs who plot up on landings or in particular cells, Older geezers playing chess. Table tennis, poker games on the pool table – a large group gathers each day to play and watch. Another popular activity is the horse racing. People select a 

p 59 

horse in the paper and then when there’s 5 or 6 horses selected everyone gets around a tele and bets milk or tobacco on a points system (3 points a winner, 2 for 2nd, 1 for 3rd) At the end of a days racing the winner collects.

people get fucking worked (up) about it and there’s been at least one black eye so far over unpaid pints of milk. The big trouble in here of course is prescription drugs. The availability of street drugs is virtually nil   so its all about Valiums, Subutex and morphine and codeine based pills, sleepers, anti psychotics and if you are lucky – regurgitated methadone … 

More of which later ….

page 60

or the self made Irishman who ends up owning a large cattle ranch, marries a Native_american princess. When he saw her coming across the plains on her “little pink pony, the ——– stirring her beads, her feathers” he thought there was nothing so beautiful in the world.. He looks at her now … older, still radiant he says “I didn’t know the half of it”

p 61                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  

There’s loads of cowboy films on daytime t.v…. I love ’em. The marshall, thumbs in belt loops, telling the bad guys that his days are numbered. The bad guy looks at the young sheriff turns away and spits into the metal pot with a “ding”, puts his cards down and laughs. “Your father couldn’t run me out of town and neither can you McEllen.”

Cue music. The bartender dries a tankard and explains to the off-duty dancer how the outlaws had shot the young sheriff’s father in the back ….*

p 62

22nd june

Looks like my home detention curfew is not as straightforward as I first thought. Indeed, I was in a tearful enough state up in front of the panel yesterday. They asked me a lot about my addiction and the likelihood of my getting back on the gear. I had to be honest with them  … I find out the final decision when the relevant officer returns from his holiday. Am on tenterhooks. If he has had a good holiday I could be out in less than a fortnight.Imagine …. always difficult to imagine from these cramped confines.

—————————————————————————————– *

I have been lucky enough to receive a stack of “Hancock’s half-hour” on cassette from a couple of lady fans. There’s a few Steptoe in there too.

Magic.

* Stop Press: looks like I got it!

p 66 

26th june 2011

Someone had their throat cut today in the Mosque in the prison.I saw my friend Eesa on my wing. I asked him about it as he is a practicing muslim.He looked perturbed and said it was “fucking idiot kids”.They had the whole prison on lockdown and we were confined to the wing for most of the afternoon.

Fortunately I was already down at the chaplaincy for much of the day “rehearsing” for the prison concert. Managed to bang out a not bad rendition of “Can’t stand me now” with the drummer from C-wing for the people listening from the exercise yard.

P 67

First rehearsal yesterday of the “prison band”. There were rumours that we were going to get extensions on our sentences for the “murder” of Fulsom prison blues. Mind you the bass player and the drummer are already doing life.It was a bit tense in there me and the other guy were battling it out for lead vocals and the one decent guitar….

It wasn’t long before all the prisoners in the exercise yard were pressed up against the windows yelling out such requests as “Doherty get your pussyclot haircut” and “play wonderwall”? In the end I belted through “Can’t stand me now” and even got a few raucous shouts and applause!!! Blop!

p 69

most double cells are illegal by law under whichh the government ha to pay fines including fines for razor wire on the fences, among other things. I’v never really thought about it before but these cells are not designed for 2 people – we literally have to squeeze past each other when one person is trying to use the sink etc.

It’s a single cell for crying out loud.

drawing – “for crying out loud!” “shut up bitch face”

p 70

 26th june

The sun out in force today, all the boys out on the yard working on their tans Some ——– tattooed bodies on show A lot of “Dad R.I.P.”

too.Hum My cell mate is flexing his freckly tripods insisting that tonight we fill the bucket with water and do some circuit training. He’s got his gym shorts on and “lovers rock” stylee reggae cassette.Seems to be in a much better mood than this morning when my early morning pottering (I had to be up for a visit)had him sitting up. punching out at thin air and ripping the curtains down in a rage shouting “you may as well let all the fucking light in I’m awake now”as the stark summer morning light filled the room suddenly and momentarily blinded us, our weary eyes shocked by the severity of the brightness. The atmosphere in the cell was indeed ,shite. I made

p 72

it to the visit on time, to see Lili, the lass I was seeing when sentenced. She is wonderful, in many ways, I must confess. Long and tall, intelligent without being or aspiring to being intellectual. She knows her star signs, but strangely not left from right. This is not a deliberate error, I don’t think. Just a quirk. A strange quirk.

She drove all the way to H.M.P. Wayland from west London, Hounslow way. She works in knickers …. doing lingerie displays for West-end shop fronts such as Selfridges. She is proud of earning a good living this way, Claiming that English blokes often make jokes about “cleaning their homes” being as she is Polish,

It was natural and real and sweet. We spent much of the visit touching,  and kissing and softly stroking each other. I love having my hair stroked. It’s been nearly 2 months since we made love. Wonderful to have those tender moments in the midst of this miserable 200. This mess.

p 73

A Mess of Blues

Free topia — a “perfect world” but all the happy generous, well intentioned well balanced people are actually actors, creating a fictional acted out society that people pay to “play” or live in, at weekends at a time. Like paying to be on the set of your favourite teen soap like “Home and Away”, but without the unpleasant bits.

The beautiful people inhabiting a beautiful world. And its for rent.

Meanwhile, there are slums under the freeway, where our hero lives, and observes the strange hypocrisies evident in the spare time of some freetopian actors.

p 74

When I got back to my cell this Sunday afternoon in June … somebody had left a copy of yesterday’s Daily Mail on the floor.  It was open on a page that presented an article about an 18 year old boy called Freddy who recently died of a heroin overdose.  The paper typically sought to degrade me by stating – quite clearly – that I had proved a negative influence on Freddy who developed an interest in all things scag-related. 

Peaches Geldolf was also mentioned, in fact the headline was “Peaches is coming over and I’m going to inject for the first time.” (an excerpt from his journal).

I felt enormous anger and violent rage. These journalists have no grace, no heart. Their only real purpose is to attack the helpless fools in their sights. Sniper-stylee. 

p 75 

a row of 6 gold hearts 

p 77

27th june 2011

It’s baking hot today I’m sweating it out in the cell. Listening to Gregory Isaacs on my bed.Long lazy days. Carl is cursing the flies. Sat filling in his(and everyone elses canteen sheets). Getting the cell’s supplies in for the week.

Now and again a cool breeze blows in from across the Norfolk country-side. I know its out there somewhere, away over the barbed wire razors and steel walls.

Sheets of sweat cover my face and neck and chest, I lay back and close my eyes ….freedom is but a week away. There’s a sense that everyday is a survival … and I need to survive another 8 days and nights …. before I can skip through those gates … Lord my gratitude .….

p 78

“they have harnessed the power of the universe, the force from which the sun derives its power … “

” a dark sensation of tormentingg infinite solitude and estrangement suddenly rose to consciousness in his soul”

Crime and Punishment, Dostoyesky.

p 81

I offer up another prayer Oh Lord

I see warfare and turmoil on the flickering T,V, screen

the darkness, brought by the light, in the darkness

Bring peace to the world Oh Lord,

And bring peace to my heart

And bring peace to the heart of Peter Wolfe …

Dear Lord,

my all seeing Lord

bring peace and bring light

bring love where there is hate

and bring peace where there is love

Bring peace Oh Lord

bring peace where there is war

bring love where there is hate.

p 87

“the yellow dog contemplated him drowsily, like a prone and  somnolent yellow cat …”

p 90

casuistry – the study of moral problems

p 92

Jailhouse Rock

From: lorraine small (ibizahippy7@hotmail.com)

sent: 22nd june 2011 13:56:31

To: lorraine (ibizahippy7@hotmail.com)

chase those weary heart blues away x

The warden threw a party in the county jail

The prison band was there and they began to wail.

The band was jumping” and the joint began to swing,

You should have heard those knocked out jailbirds sing.

Let’s rock, everybody, let’s rock.

Everybody in the whole cell block

was dancing to the Jailhouse Rock.

Spider Murphy played the tenor saxophone,

Little Joe was playing the slide trombone.

The drummer boy from Illinois went crash boom bang

the whole rhythm section was the purple gang

Let’s rock, everybody, lets rock. 

Everybody in the whole cell block

was dancing to the jailhouse rock 

p 97

Love bears all things

believes all things

hopes all things

endures all things.

1 corinthians

chapter 13 verse 7

Red Rose Chain

film and theatre company

Joanna Tarrick

p 102

“He held his head high and walked along nicely …

Rejoice, he thought, rejoice.

John Cheever,

Falconer”

p103

“Don’t forget your way back”

p 108

my cell mate is tickled pink by some of the letters he has been receiving from the hordes of well wishing shambleheads, He loves it.

Takes his mind off the troubles he’s having _ concerning his kids and missus.

Tis breaking his heart I think but he can forget his cares and we have a laugh with the letters.They’ve nick-named him “the top-bunk hunk” and say they’re writing him up a face-book page … whatever next?

p 109

Wednesday 29th June

Well, another dreary(ish) day in hmp waylaid.

Although I did have quite an emotional heart to heart with Kev in the cell next door. His mother died tele weeks ago and he wasn’t permitted “compassionate leave” to attend the funeral.

He’s tough guy (ex boxer) but he’s having trouble with his grief, or rather, not being able to grieve not having had the chance to “say goodbye”.

His brother is also in jail for robbery and violence but is apparently a talented singer/songwriter ….

I’m going to try and link up and see what’s what ….

p 110

HMP Wayland

june 2011

Incarcerated am I

in a volatile situation,

full of regret (and medication)

I turn to the sky.

It pours out rain

cooling in the summer heat

Each cell muggy with sweat.

Each heart in pain.

And every prisoner has a story

A pair of lips to kiss _

_ and now those lips to miss

Aye! Each heart claims some lost glory.

And we all have regrets!

(And every night I sing sad songs

of a true love who I wronged!)

And we all have regrets!

And a lad called Benjy does approach –

his eyes seem keener

when he talks of Lorna.

So perhaps beyond the fence, in “the other world”

Lorna is a lover, is a girl,

in this land, or some distant shore,

Lorna is the soul he does adore,

So I’ll ask him, a lad called Benjy who does approach.

p 111

Thursday 30th June

“Yo Dokatee … come ere”

said a savage , gangsta-fied black voice.

“Oh Gawd, here we go” I say to myself resignedly …

I went over to the geezer in the corner of the yard.

He spelt out the name Lorina.

Explained that the word going round was that I could write

He wanted me to write him a poem for his “bird” Lorina

  “and make it good bruv” he insisted, 

  his gold tooth glinting in the sunlight’

  just before the rain came.

  p 114

2nd July

D

e ——————————————

b —10 10 10 12 / 10 /10 9 10-——

c —11————-/ 11 / 11-10 11——–

d -9–—————————————-

D dm G?  A

e -55—55—7—4-5————-——–

b -6-—————————————-

c —-7–————————————

d ——-0——–—————————

melody to follow the guitar line

and the beat must be massive,

anthemic house worked with

Don’t look back into the sun

and then D descending to B/Em/A/Bb?

p 115

I saw u standing on the shore

reaching out to me

I tried to catch onto your hand

but I slipped into the sea

and now I’m drowning in the oleons of my mind

and as I slipped beneath the waves

I thought life can be so unkind!

p 116

Experiencing many new things

in jail: (no not tapers – that was Wandsworth 2003(?) )

watched Gavin and Stacey for the first time tonight.

Jesus, son of our loving Lord, I canna wait to get out here … Get back on the plot … can of coconut water, geeetarz, back in the Wolfe-den, old flags and rusty tins

Lets try it once again, in the loving arms … suffering love supreme!!!***

Oh Lord, can it be thus?

I am a man of simple pleasures, Aye simple pleasureson my elbow scribbling. Swatting flies, on my tufty orange blanket, the boxing on five live. David Hay, Round 3 …. 4 The radio on full blast so they can hear it along the wing. Because hardly anyone can pick up medium wave.

p 117

Had a strange dream last night. Being accused of gang-bangin’ in my derelict house

A festival

Drew surprised at “his own popularity”

Then my sister was climbing a step ladder in thin air _

I caught her as it fell away. I asked her what the matter was _ she said ” tomorrow she decides whether or not to become a serial killer”

“why?” I ask

“because of dostoyesky _ and the tension – a certain tenseness – in his letters -“

p 118

Recently I have been decorating my cell-mates head.

Last night it was the rosary-beads (with a slight variation after a while, as I put a pillow case on top with the beads holding it on for a virgin mary shepherd effect)

Tonight it’s the torn piece of fabric (lime-green) that we use to keep the curtain tied up and allow cool air through the bars.

More of a “Bruce Lee” type look although his short hair does “tuft” a little at the front. Hmmm. Tomorrow its a “bindi” spot methinks, Hee hee!

p 119

“that touch of Mink” Cary Grant and Doris Day

“The Tall Man” Clark Gable

riding into a snowy mountain town into the “Black Nugget” saloon.

The old western films.

Rinky Dink, click of gambling chips.

Bustle of voices ….

p 120

“Seracol Sunday” 3rd July

Next door Essex bad man and servery “bout race”Wayne reed staggers in, his eyes droopy and flickering.

“What you ‘ad?” I ask

“350 mg of “Serial Killers” says he

“oh aye” says i

He beckons me into his cell and gives me a 200 mg tablet, makes sure that I grind it up and swallow it

“It’ll knock you sideways Pete” he says “They give them to ultra violent offenders. Anti psychotics”

I swallow it is 2pm ….

2.30 pm sweating slightly, and have a sharp, sour taste in my mouth …. 

The lads next door are falling all over the place …..

Slept right through

woke up briefly for the end credits of Clockwork Orange

p 122

underground car park – secret compound, in the middle of housing estate (slums)members of family contracted poisonous radiation let off crimes etc

“compound” created people getting off bigger and bigger crimes

———————————————————————————-

idea for a band

“looked like they were going to rob a crack dealer not to do a gig

melodic 60s guitar pop … 

p 125

I  FIND IT AMAZING ATOMS CAN COALESE IN SUCH A WAY THEY CAN CONTEMPLATE THEIR OWN EXISTENCE.

1. THE PERFECT RACE TO BET ON IS A HANDICAP WITH EIGHT HORSES IN IT, AS 8 IS THE MINIMUM AMOUNT OF HORSES NEEDED TO BE ABLE TO COLLECT ON 3RD PLACE FOR E/W EACH WAY BETS.

2.WHEN BETTING EACH WAY DON’;T PICK A HORSE LESS THAN 4/1 AS PLACE RESULTS I.E. 2ND 3RD PAY AT 1/4 THE ODDS, SO 4/1 IS THE SMALLEST PRICE TO GET EVEN MONEY ON A PLACE..

3. TRY AND LET THE MONEY DO THE WORK, DON’T PLACE BIG BETS ON SINGLE WIN ONLY BETS. SPLIT IT E/W, SO AT 4/1, A 2ND OR 3RD PLACE AT 4/1 WILL RETURN YOUR STAKE.

4.TRY TO BET SMALLER STAKES IE: £10, £20.E/W £40 FOR £20 E/W, AS £20 GOES ON A WIN AND £20 ON A PLACE.

5. IF YOU ACCUMULATE YOUR BETS INTO TREBLES, OR DOUBLES, ESPECIALLY E/W TREBLES, THE REWARDS ARE GREATER

EXAMPLE IF YOU BET £20 E/W ON 3 RACES WHERE ALL THE PICKED HORSES ARE 4/1 OR BETTER, BUT THEY ALL LOSE, YET PLACE 2ND OR 3RD, IT WILL PAY OUT £160 FOR A STAKE OF £40, IF ALL 3 WIN AT 4/1 YOU WILL WIN £2,500 AND £160 FOR THE PLACES.

MAKE SURE YOU STUDY FORM, LOOK FOR HORSES WHO RUN IN BETTER COMPANY AND LOSE, WHO RETURN TO WEAKER RACES. 

Methadone Maintenance

21st May 25 mil

22nd May 30 mil

23rd May 30 mil

24th 45 mil

25th 50 mil

26th 55 mil

27th 60 mil

28th/29th/30th 60 mil

31/2nd/3rd 60 mil

There’s a petition going around at the current decision to gradually wean people off their scripts in Wayland. After 2 overdoses at Norwich prison recently all prisoners serving more than 6 month sentences are being deemed?????? as opposed to maintenance ???????? Phew! I should be able to keep on 60 mil until I leave zispin and Lillis.

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