Ramblings from a prison cell 

CELLMATES  

Life in the prism is surreal. The norms of society mean little here. Inmates are stripped of their dignity and basic rights and are constantly treated as if they are another species, like wild animals. I call my fellow housemates professors of improvisation laughing in awe of their innovations. Handed down and developed over centuries by bird actors and comics equal to any on Broadway. They’ve got the timing of an athlete and the humour of a clown. Even the bellhops have to laugh at times even though it’s unbecoming of their roles and undermines their authority they are a captive audience. 

Most chaps here are northerners which causes me considerable linguistic difficulties at times since they speak in strange tongues and use words not found elsewhere. When slipping into prism vernacular new meanings arise for grass, burn, bender, bird and nuns and for my survival they enter my own speech. Scrabble using these words is a riot at times. Games are popular confirming Jung’s theory that adults never lose the kid inside but are forced by society and economics to work and quit playing.  For our work here we get paid a total of £1.55 per week which mostly goes on tobacco although the store canteen which opens once weekly for our purchase of pleasures has delicacies ranging from stamps to shampoo to soft squishy sweet things that maybe exist for some kind of psychological study, I’m not sure.

SMITH YR 3264 

He’s been a good husband, father and son, 

He plays darts, tells jokes and likes to have fun, 

Beneath a number and that suit of blue,

He’s a heart and soul like me and like you, 

He loves his football and adores his mum, 

Happy on visits without them he’s glum,

He waits for letters, reads them time and again, 

While photos of loved ones look down in pain, 

He’s got no one to talk with about family affairs, 

In a male macho regime no one dares, 

He’s expected to learn how to live the right life, 

After a celibate year he gets three days with his wife, 

If he’s lucky someday he’ll get parole, 

So he can go home to live on the dole, 

There but for fortune is easy to say, 

You’ll find out it’s true if you get put away.

THE PRICE OF ONE MOMENT

One crazy warped moment, one blow of the knife, 

A good friend lies dying, the judge gave him life, 

Plead guilty they told him, the judge will be fair, 

He played the game, now he lives in their lair, 

Nine years later, and they still want more, 

British justice they call it, Queen Victoria’s law, 

The crime took a minute, he can never repay, 

Can’t they see his remorse? can’t they tell he’s okay? 

His dark eyes look forward, to a day yet to come, 

When he can go home, to live in peace with his son.

SHANGHAI’D TONY

The queen and the pawns sit sad and forlorn,

Under the photo’s all tattered and torn,

Here today and gone tomorrow,

Empty slippers stare up in sorrow,

At the skeleton frame all stripped and bare,

With the ghostly imprint still lying there,

You disappeared like a a leaf in the storm,

Your laughter still echoes around the dorm,

You’re more than a shadow, a true renegade,

Shanghai’d, shipped out in the pirate raid.

HOME LEAVE

We said “have a good weekend with your kids and wife,

Those three days could be the time of your life,” 

When on the following Tuesday you didn’t return, 

With no phone call and no message, there’s no way we could learn, 

What happened’s a mystery so we guess as we wait, 

Did you die in a car crash? are you running?…. or just late? 

Perhaps you’re in Spain, on some sunny beach, 

Staying clear of the law, well out of arms reach, 

We wish you good luck, and please remember your mates, 

While you’re free as a bird, we’re stuck with our fates. 

Everyone here seems to have a lass outside waiting patiently sometimes for years. They’re hoping that the man who emerges is the man of the many dreams sporadic letters and occasional visits. It’s a gamble but for the long distance prism guest it’s an essential thin thread connecting the spider to the web.

THE LETTER

Sometimes you’re happy, sometimes you’re sad,

When you sound depressed, I feel so bad 

There’s so many problems, I’ve had quite a few, 

I want you to know, that I sympathise to, 

I want to see, if you arrive today, 

I hope you’re not lost, or gone astray, 

If you fail to show up, I may even cry, 

Don’t cruise by boat, it’s faster to fly, 

When you first arrived, my heart jumped for joy, 

You brought me more pleasure ,than a kid’s favourite toy, 

My black hole was filled, with your sweet words of love, 

I rose up and I coo’d, like some highflying dove.

12. CHRISTMAS IN LINDHOLME (1988)

I’ve spent Christmas in some crazy places. Alone on a sailboat, camping on a beach, dumpster diving for dinner or sharing a community feast but none compared with my time confined in a a very small space with ten criminal  strangers.

ONE

Christmas cards sit staring, 

Like portraits of the loved ones locked outside, 

Away from daddy, son or lover, 

Will Santa hear their special request to bring him down the chimney and sit him by the tree? 

After the presents are opened and the fruity cake is cut, 

There’s only one thought in their minds, 

And one question the children ask,  

Where’s my daddy and when’s he coming home?

TWO

An extra hour of TV,  cards of bleeding hearts, 

The lamenting of a guitar, a couple playing darts, 

Scrabble in the corner below a Hindu prayer, 

A little branch with tinsel, I sit alone and stare, 

Outside the night is silent, no sign of Santa Claus, 

I wonder if he delivers gifts behind these prison doors?

THREE

Think I’ll stay in this Christmas and cut back on the booze, 

Forget the tree and mistletoe and presents they can’t use, 

Instead I’ll lie upon my bed like every other day, 

Read a book and dream a dream of friends so far away.

FOUR

You can wear that party hat and grin upon your face, 

You probably bought your own sweet lass some silk and fancy lace, 

It’s ludicrous this game you play pretending to be cheerful, 

Is your family sat at home depressed and feeling tearful? 

I know it’s not your choice to work on Christmas day, 

But you’ve got a job to do if you want to earn your pay, 

Do you ever stop to wonder what it’s like for us, 

We’re more than names and numbers but remain anonymous, 

A little conversation, a simple human chat, 

Does more to make it Christmas than that stupid party hat.

13.  SCREWS

JOBS WORTH

Keep off the grass and get your lunch, 

Tow the line you rowdy bunch, 

I know you think I’m some lazy slob, 

I’m here for the pay it’s just my job,

No one likes us and they call us fools, 

But I work really hard enforcing the rules.

ROCK HARD

Breaking rocks as we sang, 

Doing our bird here on the gang, 

Another day suffering this  chain of time, 

Such a wind of change from my victimless crime.

HEAVY PUNISHMENT

420 hours of Radio One Madonna, Tom Jones, Petula Clark, Elvis, 

840 times being called lad or boy, 

336 cups of old grey tea, 

84 days of the Daily Mirror, the Sun or News of the World, 

Three shirts too short, 

Two shoes to tight, 

One jumper that sparks in the dark, 

18 hours daily of torture by smoke,

The punishment of being detained in her majesty’s prism.

RADIO ONE

Blah.. blah.. rah.. rah… radio one, radio one, 

Hours of torture every day, makes you dumb, makes us dumb, 

Golden oldies, modern crap, repeating weather, tragic news, 

country and western, spewing fourth, rock ‘n’ roll, rhythm and blues.

DJs ramble, corny jokes, phony laughs and desperate dribble,

Heart throb tunes, true sob stories, life and times of Basil and Sybil, 

Phone quiz questions, easy as pie, here’s your clue, you can’t go wrong, 

Another jingle fading out to the music of that same old song. 

Flashback time, remember him, he’s divorced, it’s 62, 

Or 65 or 73 golden oldies with nothing new, 

Once in awhile, with a bit of luck, you’ll hear the hits from the last five years, 

If it’s true to form and like the rest, its on top for a week then disappears.

AGE OLD 

Family photos sit fading on the shelf, 

Medals and memories are wearing thin, 

The coronation portrait is in bad health, 

While radio one plays Vera Lynn. 

Hitler is dead, the Germans befriended,

Japan is wealthy since the mushroom cloud, 

Treaties were signed, the war chant ended, 

But the forties songs still blare out loud.

When will we learn to look forward not back? 

Leave the killing behind and get on the peace track

The war is over even the 60’s have gone, 

It’s time to look forward and sing a new song