HW6834 2003

In the first days of the month of February
things in Brixton A wing became a bit scary.
It seems Simon the Snake had pissed off someone,
so on the way back from the shower he was done.
Whacked wrong from behind to the head several blows,
227g of pineapples socked -- how blood flows!
A nervous morning for me, that much more for Si,
as fucked up as it was, no one batted an eye.
In no time at all he had returned to the wing
where every London rude-bwai was proving something.

Shortly thereafter, Ol' Si was moved to wing C;
A nicer place all'round; more quiet, sane, and T.V.
I was at the time in the chapel and praying,
"God please smite my enemies - that's all I'm saying."
When I returned to my wing and my cell again,
instead of Simon I found tobacco; godsend!
In his place later on a 'wag came with his kit.
By the time he was settled I had quite had it.
So I moved to the sunny side of the landing,
in with Tartaglialini to continue remanding.

Thomas T. came straight from the old boot of the south,
that Italian knew well how to keep shut his mouth.
The days flew on by us as we marathon read
enough crap garbage novels to do in my head.
Thomas spent 6 weeks in prison, sentence: time served,
for stealing two cuts of gammon. Was it deserved?
We would talk about what we would do when set free.
He said he would go back to junk, decidedly.
I understood him and could not say much with wit.
If a junkie wants junk then that's just what they'll get.

Now Thomas I imagine is on London's streets
measuring time, the greatest of all junkie feats.
Good luck to you Thomas, and godspeed to you, friend.
I hope you find some peace, and some good in the end.
When Thomas left I met the new man to the cell;
Rasta himself, he said my dreads came along well.
Up for a double, the charges spoke of a gun
But according to him, never even had one.
Sunny was laid back, every bit a nice guy;
we got along fine, the Lucian Rasta and I.

One stupid morning the screw came early with news:
"You are up for release.  Pack your shit. Grab your shoes."
The motherfucking bastard was taking the piss;
he looked too cheerful, something was certainly amiss.
He then told me I was now moving to wing C;
a small consolation for all this fuckery.
Threw on my trousers both legs jumped into from bed,
landed in my boots, grabbed my stuff, and scratched my head.
Looked around, said goodbye and bounced down the three flights,
happy to leave A wing's insane screams, blood, and fights.

The Bells

There are no clocks I can see, but I can hear eight working ones in the room, plus the bells of a church.  It's always dark when I wake up, and the light through the window is from a paranoid streetlamp.  I am tired.  I don't want to wake up, but once the gears start turning, the discomfort sets in & I know I'll be awake.  The eight clocks in the room, for LA, NY, BA, London, Berlin, Bangkok, HK, Tokyo, and the dead Moscow clock at night seem like a perfect train of rhythm, a locomotive pulling a slow heart down even tracks.  It isn't hard to fall asleep.  When I next hear them, they are quieter; my mind is louder.

 

I can hear every movement in the house, the flame of the heater, the fan, the metal clicking and bending with temperature, the creak of wood and more.  If I move, it will hurt, but I can't stay still.  Sitting down in flourescent light, putting on ugly trousers in the cold, I am unsure if this is life. 

 

 

Progress

i have no brain for famous names.




or even just people i meet's names



or tying my shoes.



i don't drool so much though



when i'm awake



anymore



usually