Sunday, 31 July 2011

E*t * d*c*

I spend a good quantity of time lying on my bed staring at the ceiling..

Sometimes i listen to music.

A lot of the time, i don't.

I just think..

It saddens me to think how many people might have been
in the same skiddy situation as i am,

Imprisoned in this very cell,

Staring at the same view.

It's far from clean..

Plastered in random splodges above me are
the skelletal remnants of naked women..

At some point,
this must have been someone's little piece of paradise..

A utopian masterbationary spread of breasts,
butts, thighs and hot, moist vaginas..

Now it's just ripped up random pieces of paper..

There's a green piece that looks a bit like a duck,
who has been decapitated while airborn..

To the left,
a long sharp-edged blob.

Reminds me of that crusty stealth bomber
Decepticon's head from the second Transformers movie..

Also dotted around the ceiling,
random shit inmates have scratched,
daubed and scrawled..

Most of it is in Spanish.

I ain't got a fucking clue what any of it means..

"  D I O S S
Loque para el hombre es imposible, para 'dios' es posible!
Buscalo para que tedes cuente la grandioso que es!
 Si sios no lopuede quien lo vas a ponder!"

To the right,

"Caerse esto permitido pero levanse es una obligacion!"

No clue..

If you do,
let knowledge be born!

Since i got flung in the cell,
the ceiling and walls have had a
few new additions.

No reaches.


Not many..

Freinds of mine that have done bids back
in the Big Smoke told me that if you ever go to jail,
don't hit no reaches.

They said If you do,
one day you might be seeing them again..

Not likely in my predicament.

But still..

Other than sloppy reaches,
Quotes and advice that get me through each day.

Some, from books i've read.

Others, jewels of wisdom that have been dropped on me
from random inmates..

Or my Cellie..


Pretty self explanitory..

 Worrying myself into an early grave
ain't going to fix shit. The only thing i can do,
take initiative an get the shit that is in my control,
done. Shit that isn't in my control, isn't my problem.

"Your attachments are the source of all your problems"

"wisdom is avoiding all thoughts that weaken you"

"Never make your happyness depend on an attachment
to Any place or Any person"

Most of them,
Wayne dyer bars..

"If you can let go of all your attachments,
your spirit will be the guiding force in your life.

Then as a spiritual being, you can observe your body and be
a compassionate witness to your own existence"


I made a list just before Christmas last year
of things i wanted to do everyday.

A daily routine that would keep me busy
and productive, not just in a constant state
of vibrantly aggressive masterbation..

Around the time i made it,
it lasted about a day, but nowdays,
most of these things do actually get done.

MOST of them..

There is one addition someone decided to add
that ain't part of my daily routine..

See if u can guess which one..

AnD EaT A DiCk


Tuesday, 26 July 2011

Utterly Fantastic

Another day down.

As i sit cross legged on my bed,
i survey my all too familiar surroundings.

The cell is a mess.

Despite it being a glorified public lavatory,
one tries to keep it in a somewhat orderly

It certainly ain't no fresh pad, condo,
apartment or any other typical living
quarters that you might inhabit, but
for now it is all i have at the moment,
and i try to keep things tidy,
organised and presentable.

At this very moment,
it's seen better days.

An anonymous baffoon knocked my shelf down earlier
today, sending plastic cutlery, stamps, bottles of vitamins and
sugar packets all over the fuckin' gaff.

i havn't bothered to pick them up.

In front of me sits my bag of clean laundry.

It's stuffed into my pillowcase,
as i don't quite have the funds for a 'proper'
laundry bag.

Man's gotta make do.

My boy dropped it off before we where
abruptly locked down a few hours ago,
due to someone getting humourously
slapped up on the floor..

My clothes are still warm from the dryer.

I just put my shorts on, now my dick is warm.

It feels good.

I should probably take my clothes out and fold them
instead of sitting here scribbling away.

That would be way more productive,
but i want to enjoy this penis warming sensation
a little longer.

It feels somewhat similar to having your balls cupped.

Which is nice.

Considering i jerked off earlier today,
i really shouldn't be feeling this horny.

Jerking off in prison requires expert timing.

Me and my cellie have such a rapour,
that if he's shitting and i need to get something
out of the cell, i just go in and get it.

An vice versa.

It's got to the point where knocking is a thing
of the past..

..Which can lead to problems if you're not shitting...

You get me.


It'd been about a week i hadn't jerked off.

It was time to deplete my rapidly rising semen levels.

My cellie was nowhere to be seen.

I assumed he was at work, so put the 'shit sign' up.

This consists of wedging a t-shirt or towel over the
glass with a toothbrush or spoon.


A brief terminator style scan of the room revealed two
possible sources of visual stimulation.

A celebrity gossip magazine and a copy of Vogue.

In no time at all,
i swiftly unsheash a length of Turkish Sujuk and begin
the laborious process of milking ones member.

Oh how the mighty hath fallen..

..In less than a year i've gone from a lifestyle consisting of
unadultered daily doses of blowjobs and butthole to masterbating
once a week in a prison cell over a picture of Jessica Alba buying a coffee..

In between me strangling this one eyed Turkish snake while
squeezing my balls, i hear someone approaching the door.


I'm about ten seconds away from firing off millions
of kids and now someone is fucking banging at the door.


Utterly fantastic.




I need to think FAST.

If i say yes, he's going to come in the cell.

If i say no, he's going to come in the cell.


I'm too close to cumming to even consider
whacking my gun back in the holster, i've
got to say something..

"errr...gimme a minute?!"


Cum is reluctantly shot.

Anti-climax of biblical proportions.

I need to get the fuck out of jail.

picturesque utopia

It's a Sunday.

Not that you can tell, mind.

As one might imagine,
the difference betweem the days is barely recognisable
in a situation as amazingly fortunate as the one i am
currently being held against my will in.

On the weekdays,
at least we are given a little glimmer
of the outside world, in the form of mail.

In theory anyway.

Mine never comes,
if it does it's weeks or possibly months late,
and when i send shit out it either turns up months
later, or simply disapears.

Great stuff.

Other than that,
it's the same shit,
day in day out.

Staring up at the ceiling while laying
on my bed is one of my most exciting
hobbies i've got.

I'm pretty good at it too.

Whoever might be reading this,
picture the nearest toilet to where you
are at this very present moment.

imagine being forced to 'live' in the confines
of that toilet for at LEAST two years.


To make matters even more enjoyable,
cut that space in half as you're sharing
it with another dude.

Take this picturesque utopian setting,
and now transport it to a foreign country,
thousands of miles away from anyone that
gives a flying fuck about you,
can help you,
give you advice
and come and see you.

Welcome to my world.

Some days i feel like i'm on the cusp of completely
losing my fucking brain in here.

Staring up at the ceiling with my headphones blaring jazz
music and a bladder full of coffee, i find myself fighting a
constant battle with my over-active imagination..

I think about what i will do when i am eventually free,
where i will go and the various things i will be sticking
my penis into.

That naturally leads one to thoughts of time,
how long to go, how much time has passed,
which then transcends into the same old spiral
of mulling over how utterly DISGUSTING it is that
i am being punished for other people's actions,
while they escape jailtime altogether..

..and other healthy thinking habits of
a similar caliber.

My cellie has just come into the cell,
and predictably wants to take a shit.

The door isn't locked,
it isn't close to lockdown.

I don't even bother to leave the room.

What the fuck is the point.

"The n****r who's shittin' don't give a fuck,
the n****r who ain't leavin' the room don't give
a fuck, nobody gives a fuck"

No shit.

Thursday, 21 July 2011


people make jokes about me in here.

Me included,
this place is full of pricks so it's to be expected.

"Timdog when you came in the jail,
surrounded by all these n****rs, you was
shakin' like vegas dice!"


Yeh, i was, it wasn't exactly your everyday
fucking situation..

One doesn't think that circumstances could take such
a swiftly downward turn in a mear 24 hours.

I was not expecting it,
nor had i thought about what i might do if one day
i was sleeping soundly in my apartment and find myself
woken by Secret Service agents wielding shotguns,
didn't plan for that one.

Just as i hadn't done any research into
what i might do if i found myself flung
head first into a maximum security federal

Wasn't prepared,
definitely wasn't schooled for this type
of a jam.

One of my Jamaican brethren has a fondness for pointing
out that i allegedly look more stressed than anyone in the unit,
and has crowned me the coveted title of..

"Most worried man in the jail"


Do i not have reason to be worried or stressed?!

It's a yes and no answer..

 If i'm focussing on how terrible this predicament is,
how badly i fucked up a lot of things over the last few years
and that my immediate future seems to be situated behind
these grey prison bars,
 then yes i should be stressed.

 On the other hand,
If i just accept my situation for what it is,
a temporary stopping point in my life to sharpen up,
focus on bettering myself physically and mentally,
continue planning my future, stop acting like a pussy
and simply hold my big Turkish balls an staunch this
fucking bullshit chapter of my life out until its
inevitable conclusion,
 then no i have absolutely no reason to be worrying
or bitching about being in this jail.

Yes and No.

It all depends how i'm feeling on any given day.

Today i'm going to say no.

It's all good.

 I ain't sweatin' shit.

I can do this.

 Life is good.

I look great.

 I feel great.

I have support.

The heads that love me show me each
and every day.

 The heads that don't clearly didn't have
love for me from the beginning,
so they can royally fuck off.



I'm talking all this cad shit now..

 It's more than likely i will wake up tomorrow
in a funk, convince myself that the world is over,
the girl who completely deserted me is ACTUALLY
my soul mate and should've had my kids,
and in short act like a pussy..

Place your bets!


Once upon a time,
in England, i used to play football
In short,
i was obismal.

Like a dog running after a laser pen,
i just ran around the place not really knowing
what the fuck i was doing.

I was so shit it got to the point
that i would just observe, rolling joints from a distance.



I now play football again.

Being raised in England,
one makes the assumption i would be good.

That'd be a negative.

The standards in the prison are so bad,
people actually do seem to believe that i am a somewhat decent 'sarcur' player.

This ain't no normal game of football though..


Prison Football:

A mix of standard 4-a-side, mixed martial arts and thai boxing.

There are NO fouls.

If you knock someone down, pick em up.

If you don't, be prepared to put em up cos you're gonna be rockin'.

Winner stays on,

ten minutes each match,

first goal wins.


We have 'recreation' every other day of the week.

Most of the time it's just basketball,
but on Wednesdays and Sundays,

Today is Wednesday.

I got woken up just before lunch,
to the sight of Burgers and Chips..

That was the 'official' explanation for the dry donkey tongue
sandwhiched between two green, damp, mould-ridden pieces
of liver flavoured bread.

 For a salad we were told to pick up some brown pieces of lettuce,
green tomatoes and packs of solid mayonaise,
that happen to taste like Cathedral City Cheese,
out of a dumpster filled with dead, sodomised rodents.
In protest,
i threw my hamburger on the floor and stamped on it,
bare foot, to the amusement of the large crowd amassed in my vicinity.

After watching me stomp out my meal with dirty bare feet,
someone actually asked me

"You gon' eat that?"

I get ready for Rec as quickly as possible,
the officers in charge of taking the inmates up have a tendancy
of sneaking into the unit, whispering that it's rec time and running
away before anyone can get ready in time.

After an ultra quick dump,
i brush my teeth and grab my cup to fill up with ice on the
way out the door.

It has a cool Spiderman sticker
on the handle, someone living in Serbia
sent it to me a while back, safe for that!
The line of inmates awaiting transport to the roof is epic proportions.

The sun is shining,
this is the closest thing we get to being outside
so it's no suprise that everyone is going up today..

In the elevator,
everyone is smiling, cracking jokes.

Most of the inmates attitudes change rather drastically
when they find out it's 'Soccer Day' today, they came up
here thinking they were going to play basketball..

Tough shit.

It's not basketball, it's football today,
so fuck off next door.



I walk out onto the jailhouse roof.

I can't help squinting my eyes,
the sun is damn bright today.

My eyes are not used to the natural light
beaming through the cage above me.

It takes a few minutes to adjust to the
drastic difference in i been
wearing this hyper nerdy specs recently..

I can feel the heat beaming onto my skin.

I take deep, slow breaths, filling my claustrophobic
dirty lungs with cool summer air.

 After a few sets of push-ups,
sit-ups and other silly bollocks, i'm ready to play.

 To my dismay,
my fellow players have formed some kind of
cock smoking, cum snorting alliance against me.

 Sick of losing,
all the best players have got together,
leaving me with the rejects and ultra mugs.


Despite my fierce, relentless determination,
ankle twisting footwork, feeble attempts at organisation
and untold amounts of wasted energy running up and down
the pitch trying to defend the goal and correct all of our mistakes,
we're losing every match.


The ball is being given away, effortlessly,
goals are being let in and all my 'team mates'
can say is,

"Sorry Jimmy"


I'm playing with a 6 ft tall Dominican kick boxer,
that had to be told he can't use his hands to shoot,
 a 5 ft tall Mexican who seems terrified of any contact
with the ball,
 and an Italian who is absolutely terrible, but is sporting
such a jokes cheesy grin on his bonce that i can't even
begin to get mad at him..

After the third embaressingly bad loss,
i'm about to bun it off an go work out..

Out of the shadows,
a couple of dudes stand up from the surrounding benches
an step to manz...

They want to form a new team..

Apart from my brother straight outta Newburg,
most of my team is made up of non-English speaking
 Considering the motley crue of bozo clown-cake motherfuckers
i was rolling with previously, this shit is looking bonafidingly promising.

We got me,
my buddy from Newburg.
a new, older Israeli gentleman,
and a Columbian..

I'm playing defence,
Israel's in goal and Columbia and Newburg
are up front, shit is poppin' OFF!

We win TWO games back to back,
both goals sneaky little set-ups from
Columbia finished by toe-punts off of

Third game is a draw.

Time out.

We take a breather.

It's SCORCHINGLY hot outside,
i'm sweating like a paedo in a kids playground,
so throw my t-shirt to the side.

The sight of my tattoos leads to a few whispers between
the older Spanish dudes.

"El Diablo! Ci! Ci! timoty El Diablo!"

Time to finnish these FUCKS.

The superstar team is good.

Real good.

Their main striker is an incredibly muscular Dominican,
who's special move is running into people full speed.

Even so, we're playing ultra dope,
we got these cum-snorters
on the run..

All is going well until some dude,
that i JUST HAPPEN to owe a load of shit to this week an didn't pay,
boots the ball straight into my bollocks.

His debt was instantly paid in full.

Manz tries to front like it weren't a ting, u get me..

TRIES to front..

My legs are shaking, my stomach is fucked and
i feel like i wanna barf chunks all over the pitch.


I shake it off,
an get back into the mix.

We're runnin' tings.


Then the same bozo boots the ball high up into the air..

Time instantly slows down..

Silence fills the air...

Everyone on the roof pauses to watch the ball fly majestically through the air
in slow motion..

..It lands directly on top of the cage housing the guards,
that just so happens to be covered in razor wire,
which in turn instantly pierces the ball.

The whole roof lets out a joint sigh of disapointment
at this utter baffoons idiotic manouvre.

Don't get it fucked up though,
we kept on playing!

The ball might be deflating more and more by the second,
but that ain't stoppin' the match,
fuck that.

Our determination pays off,
Newburg boots the now deflated pigs bladder into the goal
last minute, insuring our team finishes Recreation as
the winners..


Monday, 18 July 2011

fly English shit

All the guys i have been working out with have started to flake.

Each gives relatively poor excuses for why they can no longer
'get that money'.


i still ain't slacking.

Each day they but it off,
i work out on my own.

"Check Timdog, thas my n****r!
Gettin' that motherfuckin' money!"


Today, After chow,
i made my way down to F Tier to see what's poppin'..

It's a Saturday.

We usually work out on weekdays,
but i'm bored.

Puttin' some work in is as good a use of
one's time as any i guess.

The tier is ultra rammed,
everyone is jammin' down there chatting shit,
playing cards, dominoes, usual bullshit..

I'm carrying a matt.

I use it to do planks,
and pushups on my knuckles.

Timmboy's come to get that motherfuckin' money!"

I start my warm up.

25 pushups,
followed by ten pullups,
ten times.

I used to struggle doing pullups when i first came here.

I had lost a shitload of weight in a VERY short amount of time,
plus i hadn't really done any heavy lifting since my days as an
office messenger, lugging speakers and untold other crap
and Manhatton..

I used to purposely carry things by hand.

We had a cart,
i just didn't like using it.

My boss didn't clock why i would opt to carry
heavy equipment by hand.

I'd come back from jobs red faced, sweatin my balls off,
i could've comfortably rolled the crap around on that cart,
but manz was tryin' to get in shape!

You get me!

The closest thing i came to lifting weights after that job,
was after many a night out, carrying my drunken wife up
the three frightfully steep flights of stairs in our Bushwhick
apartment building, upto to our smokey little yard on the
top floor
After a few months in here,
i started to eat at least a meal a day,
take vitamins everyday (pronounced vit-a-mins, not vite-a-mins)
and spend time on the roof breathing fresh air and
soaking up some of the suns beautiful goodness.

Slowly, i was starting to look and feel healthier.

Pushups helped give my arms what one can only describe as
microscopic, hollow, atom sized particles of muscles.

They looked like pimples.

One on each arm.

The more work i put in,
the more these miniscule muscles started to grow.

In no time,
i was able to lift single grains of rise, a pube,
sweetcorn, paracetamol, eventually graduating
to weights of CONSIDERABLY larger and heavier

An orange peel, lip balm, even a plastic fork.

Reak talk.

Now i can do pullups with relative ease.

I finished todays warm up quick fast.

By now, i'm aware i will not be joined by anyone else.

I dont particularly care.

Everyone is standing around spittin' bars to Hot 97.

It's keeping me amused for now,
plus they're throwing the odd motivational
comment my way every few minutes..

"Check this Turkish n****r here!
This n****r's goin' back to England lookin'
like motherfuckin RAMBO!"

Soon, the conversation turns to mockery.

Mainly focussing on how polite i am when requesting
a product, question, querie or favour from my fellow
incarcerated dribbling neanderthols.

"Yo, Yo, check this, 'excuse me do you possible have any sugar',
thas what that n****r Tim asked me"

" 'would you happen to know who is last for the computer' haha that
n****r Tim's stupid yo!"

My reply?

"The thing you fail to realise, everytime i'm polite i always get what i want. I win, you lose."

I'm confronted by ten fulled grown (apart from mentally) men sporting puzzled,
confused looks on their faces.

One by one,
gradually, they understand what i said, and that politeness has been blagging
me all of their shit for almost a year.

before it sinks in,
the annoying female guard turns up.

She takes it upon herself to join in the conversation.

"You're always pullin' that fly English shit Guvercin"

"Yeah, an it always works. Especially on you."

Her asshole shaped face starts winking at me.

Instantaneously, homegirl transforms into what looks
like a bulldog chewing a mouthful of scorned female wasps,
drenched in vinegar and fermented tramps urine.

"Some somethin' funny Guvercin, ask me somethin' stupid soundin' in English,
ask me if i have any grey poupon"

All the inmates stop what they're doing,
turn and wait for my response.

I crack my knuckles.

Drop to the push-up position.

Pause, then reply.

"i don't do requests. I ain't a clown here to amuse you"

An continue my workout..

..followed by the sound of her hoofs clip cloppin' on the floor
as she gallops away sportin' the Gucci face,
 and a squadron of baffoons fallin' around laughin', stomping
their feet on the freshly waxed floor..

The guys spittin' bars in the corner paid it all no mind..

Sunday, 17 July 2011

Legendary Peanut butter joint

Today is the fourth of July.

As an Englishman,
especially one being held against his will in an American prison,
surrounded by such breathtakingly intelligent, culturally diverse, open minded clientelle,
this has about as much meaning and emotional value as a tissue
full of freshly shot semen.

To celebrate this day,
the inmates have arrange a chess tournament.

At this very moment,
i'm watching a stick-up kid from Philly locking horns
with a Columbian Coccaine smuggler.

As you do.

Sitting next to them is a Nigerian gentleman know as either
'The Black Cat' or 'Vibes Killer'.

 He's known for suddenly appearing behind people
while they are playing cards, chess, checkers, dominoes,
then they lose.

Despite correcting him every day for the last two months,
he calls me Jimmy.

"Hey Jimmy woz good"

When he thinks he is winning an any chosen sport,
everytime he moves a piece he mutters to himself

"moose on tha loose"

He's a weird guy.

 Blatantly the type of guy that would arrange to
do a drug deal on a pier at 2am, have you robbed at gunpoint,
then chopped into pieces.

It's safe to say i don't trust him.

He just won,
and is now laughing like a maniac.

As i finished my workout earlier,
they gave out ice cream.

What a sight.

90 'fully grown men' scrambling to the kitchen
just for a pathetically undersized pot of boiled
puss flavoured sludge.

The hero of the hour?

One of my partners.

He managed to bum-rush the kitchen,
and returned to our tier with a whole box,
we got like four joints each,
it was jokes!

People where chanting..

"S** for president! S** for president!"

In one of the first cells on my tier,
is a dude known as Big B.

He's a super morbidly obese gang banger.

We get on very well.

He's a good guy,
a stereotypically jolly fat kid.

Last night before we got locked in,
he came to my cell looking for my cellie.

He was elsewhere.

I on the other than was putting together a very crude

 Two slices of bread,
on one a slab of peanut butter,
the other a unhealthy dose of Nutella,
whack em together,

Tramp sandwhich!

Big B felt the presence of food.

"Whatcha makin!?"

I told him,
and he just got uncontrollably excited.

I offered to make him a sandwhich of his own,
but before i could get my Ramsey on and put his
joint together the guard appeared to lock us in..

As my door was closing,
i dashed my own sandwhich out like a frisbee..

Of course he caught it.

In his eyes,
his life depended on it.

If women and children were in the way,
they would've got stomped for that sandwhich.


Off he waddled to his cell,
licking his lips, holding that shitty sandwhich
like it was his best freind in the whole world.

About an hour ago he asked me

"Hey Timmy, can you make me another one of
them Legendary peanut butter joints?"

Either he genuinely thought a dollop of Nutella
and peanut butter wedged between two slices of
bread that are teetering on the brink of being
stale is a legendary sandwhich,
 or he's just ultra hungry and is gassing me up
so i'll make him some food..

I have nothing else to do.

He's clearly hungry.

Why not.

Tonight was pretty cool......

Just after we got locked the fuck down,
faintly in the distance i could hear some
kind of comotion a'gwarn.

As the noise grew louder,
i could hear the guard squarking at the
inmates 'not to play with their lights' or
we'd stay locked down for the whole evening.

I didn't get it.

Moments later,
a large crowd appeard on Pearl Street, blowing
whistles, banging drums, royally kickin' off!

As soon as they're in sight,
the surrounding cells turn into the drum n bass room at Fabric,
complete with their own Turkish operated strobe light.
The crowd below starts to point up,
which sends the strobe into maximum overdrive,
banishing the putrid stench of bordom that had been
lingering in the air like one of my cellies boiled egg
infused farts for the last few hours..

After what seems like about five minutes of pure stroberies,
the crowd below starts to chant in unison..


There have been a few big cases that have gone to trial recently.

And lost.

The well-wishers below are most likely here to show
some support to the someone who just got handed a
rather lengthy, possibly undeserved jail term.

Whatever the case may be,
seeing those people standing out in the rain, representing,
doing something positive to instil hope into someone
that has found themselves in a situation as bad as this,
was really cool and heart warming.

It definitely made me feel a hell of a lot better about
being in jail on a bloody friday night.

The last thing that they sang before leaving was,

"We'll be back! We'll be back!"

I hope so.

Thursday, 14 July 2011

It's easy cos you're beautiful

It's pouring with rain outside.

Thick, heavy rain.

Every couple of minutes thunder is booming,
it's really nice outside.

Summer showers.

I miss them.

People are running around outside trying
to find cover from the storm,
desperately trying to evade the
falling rain.

I'm locked up in this dump,
staring out the bars of my cell at the
downpour, wishing i could be out in the street,
and people out there are doing everything to
shelter themselves and escape the rain.

They'll probably go home an complain about it too..

Unbeknownst to them,
here sits a man a stones throw away,
holding his nuts, praying for the day he is lucky enough
to get caught in a summer shower..


This cell is fucking boiling.

Wearing only a pair of shorts and semi-retarded facial expression,
i'm actually trying NOT to look out the window.

What's the point?

There is no inspiration to be found.

No awesome sights to behold.

Only irritation in its purest form.

Trust me,
no enjoyment is to be found staring at
unreachable females, lets get that
established first and foremost.

I understand that the chick across the street
has a seriously dope rack, hourglass figure and
long sexy hair.
 I comprehend that it's more than likely she's
flossing one hell of a cute coochie under that
slutty suit she's wearing..

..but what good is it to me in here?


Staring at shit like that doesn't make my
time any easier, if anything it just makes it harder.



Now we have that Firmly established,
what else is there worth eyeballing out
my porthole style view of this world?

I'm certainly not one to laugh at other human
beings inability to choose fresh garments.

Pointing out freshly flossing individuals is an
astronomically stupid waste of time.

It's akin to a double leg amputee flicking
through sneaker magazines.

Not a worthwhile practice.

So what can be gained from staring out of your prison window,
into a busy street filled with beautiful women, huge breasts
and amazing weather,
 all in a city that you will never legally be able
to step foot in for the rest of your life without risking
being thrown in this very same facility for an ANOTHER
extended period of time?

Fuck knows.

Doesn't stop me from looking,
penis in hand, furiously masturbating for an answer..


Wednesday, 13 July 2011

July 13th 2010

Today would have been my one year wedding anniversary.

Not quite how i thought i'd be spending it,
surrounded by cartel bosses, gang bangers and
perpetually sweating, conniving, snivelling weazels,
but it is what it is..

I had a lot of trouble finding the right ring..

Press Play

I spent a good few days running around the diamond district
in Manhatton, all to no avail.

Most of the stores i went in, if my arms were not covered,
i'd get spoken to like pure riff-raff.

A scallywag.

These utter mugs would sarcastically smirk when i told them
my price range, what i was looking for or chuckle when i asked for prices.

Returning to their store with a super soaker filled
with piss would've wiped that smile away
REAL quick.

Prices aside, nothing actually took my fancy.

I wanted something unique and tasteful,
something with meaning behind it,
not just a rock with a hefty price tag.

So i sent a kite to Turkey..

One day, girl wasn't feeling very well and we were very hungry,
so i took a walk to Williamsburg to pick up some dinner.



I was waiting outside the restaurant listening to
some Stevie Wonder, probably a joint off Talking Books,
an noticed the opposite building to where i was pirched
had a dope looking roof.

I made my way upto the top floor, an opened up the fire escape..

I was right.

This place was dope.

It had couches, barbeques, chairs, all kinds of shit,
and the view was really nice..

Months passed,
then one day i woke up and said to myself,
i'm going to propose.

That simple.

Well..the slurpy blowjob from the night before was more
than likely a contributing factor, but that's besides the point..

Before i left to go pick up girl from her job,
i quickly dashed to the store to get some candy.

Press Play

Strawberry sour laces and tropical skittles.

Girl loved sweets.

I would hide packs around the yard.

Under fitteds, in draws, on top of shelves,
in cupboards, anywhere i could think of.

"Yo can you have a look under that fitted
for my wallet?"


Girl's job was only a few blocks away,
she worked in the kitchen of some bar making
burgers an chips.


Not fries, chips.

The food was ultra rude,
and was the definitive reason i was
carrying so many spare tires
upon my incarceration..

After meeting her outside an giving her a kiss,
she handed me a very strong cup of Jack an Coke,
an we shared it on our short walk home together.

I open the door to our apartment building,
and suggest she checks the mailbox..

"How did they get there!?"

We get upto the apartment,
it smells like a mixture of incense and cannabis..

At least it was tidy..

Around lunchtime i had smoked a joint,
put on some Al Green, yellow washing up gloves,
and cleaned the yard from top to bottom.

By that i mean most visible places in the yard.

Press Play

The bedroom was full of clothes, and since we broke the bed
not much time was spent in there anyway.

Working in a kitchen leaves one rather fragrant and greasy.

Time for a shower..

The 9 months we lived in that apartment,
we didn't own a kettle.

After i put girl in the shower,
i threw some water in a pan and put it on to boil.

Minutes later,
i've made us some tea.

We sit down, drink some tea and talk
about how her day went.

I tell her we should go out tonight,
and to dress up real nice.

i'm in a new fitted, a fresh pair of jeans and some new sneakers.

Girl has put on a really pretty dress, her favourite beat-up old boots
and has her hair done really nice.

She looks beautiful..

Time to go!

I thought it would be nice to start the evening off at a
particular bar in Williamsburg.

We had gone to this place a few times when we first
started dating..

When i was living in Maspeth,
for a long time i felt very isolated.

I didn't know anyone,
was staying in a strangers home in what can
only be described as ultra skiddy living conditions,
and spent most of my time on my jaes.

Things changed when i met the girl.

I started to look forward to leaving work
and returning to my tiny rented room.

I had someone to share it with.

After work we would head to this bar,
then jump on a bus back to mine.

Of all the things that crappy room didn't have,
we had eachother.

It meant a lot having her there to share
that period in my life..

..After knocking back many tequila and beers,
we leave the bar and start walking towards Bedford Avenue.

Since coming to New York,
i hadn't eaten steak in over a year.

For some reason i really fancied a steak that night.

Perhaps i was thinking of my father, who knows,
either way it resulted in me taking girl to a swanky restaurant,
and ordering a steak.

As the meal was wrapping up,
i felt i had enough courage to dun the dance
i had set out to do that night.

Press Play

Payed the tab,
bombed the bathroom,
and left.

I took a quick bop down the road and eyed up the entrance
to the rooftop..

I noticed someone leaving,
so dashed through the door before it closed.

Girl followed.

We made our way up the stairs to the top floor.

The whole staircase was completely bombed to fuck,
as we climbed to the top, each floor got a new addition.

..nice to think that those reaches might be still there..

We busted open the fire escape,
and strolled out onto an empty roof..

Heads just left.

There was still smoke rising from one
of the barbeques and the smell of beer, bourbon and
lingering wafts of bullshit still hung in the air..

I jumped over a fence onto the adjacent building.

Girl followed.

I took her by the hand and walked to the corner
of the roof, overlooking Bedford Avenue..

It was a hot summers evening.

Bright lights from dive bars and bodegas below,
passing taxis, drunk idiots shouting in the street,
i remember it clearly..

She stood there smiling at me.

Girl looked beautiful.

Same wide-eyed way she smiled
at me the first night we got together.

Girl always stood with her feet pointing inwards.
It looked goofy as hell but for some reason i thought it was cute.

Looking down at her beat-up old boots,
i saw those silly feet staring back up at me.

The roof was dirty as hell,
caked in a thick layer of black muck
which was now imprinted onto my jeans
as i got down on one knee.

I dug deep into my jeans' pocket,
all the while holding her hand telling
girl how much she meant to me..

Despite how the broad turned out,
it's a memory i will always treasure.

It was perfect.

Sunday, 10 July 2011

Eh! Abdula!

I miss my father.

There is no one like him in the world.

You can always spot him in a crowd.

Everybody is rushing around,
but my father moves at his own pace.

According to him, the world can wait.

The last time i set eyes on him,
he was leaned against the lamppost on Pearl Street,
opposite the window of my cell.


Flossing a fitted.


It's obvious we are father and son.

The only differences between the way i look now and how he looked at
my age, is i have blue/green eyes.
 Due to my skin not being cooked under a Turkish sun for most of my upbringing,
my complexion is also little lighter.

As of this moment,
my dad resides in Turkey with my mother,
and my dog.

His name is Fred.

I miss spending time with my dad.

Before my now infamous trip to the Big Apple,
i'd go to Turkey once a year.

The pace of life there is relaxed.

VERY relaxed.

Good food.

Beautiful weather.

I think when i have children i will
call it my home for a good few years..

Press Play

Most of my time there is either spent exploring
on a moped with a bag full of paint, or with my dad.

He likes to take me with him on his daily bops
around town.

This usually consists of nothing more than meetings with
his business partners, Friends and associates.

NONE of them speak English.

Apart from being able to tell someone to suck a donkeys dick,
which shockingly isn't as helpful as one would imagine,
i can't speak, write or understand any Turkish.

I know it involves a lot of waving your arms around
in an angry fashion, pointing at people aggressively
and tutting very loudly, but that's as far as my knowledge
of the Turkish language goes

Spending your whole day standing around while everyone
talks a language you don't understand, is very boring.

I'll give them this much,
the few loose words of broken English
my dad has taught his Friends is pretty
on point.

"Timmy, you want a chai?"

That means it's time for some tea.

"Timmy, you want a weed?"

That means it's time for a hench zoot of Turkish mersh.

Even though i find days like this incredibly boring,
i know it makes my dad happy having me there.

I get the feeling,
even though i am covered in tattoos
(because of this, people in Turkey assume i've been to jail. How ironic),
i do not have a career and have spent most of my life
chasing after things that most people see as an utter waste of time,
i think my dad is proud of me.

So i do it to make him happy.

He's a cool dad.

I can be sitting in his yard in Turkey and he'll just appear at the door
in a cloud of vanilla flavoured cigar smoke and spit

"Timoty, get your paints and a weed"

What will follow, who knows.

My father doesn't usually have any type of plan.

This time last year,
i was looking forward to my parents coming
to visit me an the Mrs.

I knew they were very proud of what i had achieved
in the last few years.

Moving to New York,
getting myself a good job, a nice apartment,
not to mention getting married.

I was very excited to show them the life
i had built myself, and introduce them to
their new daughter in law.

Press Play


That didn't quite pan out!


I guess i'll just have to go pay them a visit instead.


50 Dent

The tier is pretty empty.

On the weekends,
the powers that be pacify the inmates for
the evening like children, by showing a movie.

but no thankyou.

I'm waiting for my food to settle,
then i'm going to do some exercise.

Ten sets of pushups, pulls, nothing
remotely impressive.

Until then, i'm organising my photo album.

It's mostly photos of family, special freinds (you know exactly who you are)
and a few shots that i like from my time in New York and overseas.

Thanks to one of my old buddies, i have some re-arranging to do
and some very nice new additions to add to my collection..

I started writing graffiti in around 2003.

For the first few years,
i more or less only painted on my own.

I'll be honest, back then, i used to drink.

A lot.


I'd pack a bag full of beer and paint,
and wouldn't come home until i had emptied
the bag or the sun had come up.

This resulted in two things.

The first being a shitload of throwups in a very
short amount of time, mostly on shop shutters.

I've always had a thing for painting fill-ins on shutters,
i'm not quite sure why either.

I guess it's fun,
you're trying to listen for approaching footsteps, cars
and clock whether the people who live above the shop
in question dun start throwing shit out the windows
or turn Superprick and try catch mans..

Sometimes they try and do that.

It's long.

the second thing that resulted in this beer and aerosols combination, i turned into a fatso.

It wasn't cool.

I looked like i was expecting.

After a short period of time,
most of my ends was covered in very sloppy throwups
and bone crunchingly slippy reaches.

Practically all of my freinds i used to hang around with loathed graffiti.


One of my freinds who i used to regularly, brutally violate at pro evo (8-0)
told me about a freind of his that writes and had been asking about me,

I'd heard of him, seen him up,
dude was about his business.

A week or so later,
we linked up and it was all go from there.

The years that followed,
me and this guy would paint as much as possible,
whenever possible.

I was ULTRA toy when i met him,
and i feel like in the years we spent painting
together i learnt a lot from this guy.

He's a good dude,
and i'm proud to call him on of my freinds.

Earlier this week,
i'm waiting for the daily disapointment fest
that is the 'mail call'.


That means me!

I skank over to this barely coherant hairy faced
excuse for a woman and beaming up at me from
her greasy pube-clad hands i see a letter flossing
a name that instantly makes me smile..

I open it up to find a really nice letter,
some DOPE sketches and a stack of flicks that
now take pride of place in my photo album.

Thanks buddy.

keep em coming.

Thursday, 7 July 2011

Abraham Putin

Another day is drawing to a close.

I just waved goodbye to the guard.

she closes the door to my cell,
signifying another day down.

She's a nice lass..

Whenever i do something wrong,
i quickly put on my most polite Ye Olde London town
chimney sweep accent..

"Sorry m'lady!"

Shit like that.

"Silly, that fly English shit don't work no more"

It clearly does.

My body is sore as hell,
one might come to the conclusion that i've been brutally beaten
with cricket bats for a considerable
amount of time..

Just to clarify to my freinds, family and goons, i havn't.

It's the result of the Herculian workout
the man dem have me doing every morning.

Each day it gets harder.

Anytime they sense i am in anything
remotely close to being pain-free,
they make me do double. Or Triple.

"Do it for the queen, motherfucker"

"Look at this bitch ass n****r, tweny' more motherfucker"


I chopped my beard off today too.

It looks really good.
My spanish barber was cutting my hair,
and my Jamaican buddy Cash Money walked
by spouting..

"Teem, you look like Abraham from de bibal, hahaa!"

There an then, i decided to cut it off.

Ever since,
almost every inmate in the unit has felt
the need to comment on my freshly shaven

Mostly good.

Cash Money's verdict?

"Moch better B, you look like Vladamir Putin!"


The guard likes it though.

She said i look like a Calvin Klein model.

Tuesday, 5 July 2011

Bosh Some Garys

Another day down.

It's almost midnight.

I'm sitting on my bed listening to some obscenely rubbish
R n B.

I like to take a shower just before we get in,
it helps me to relax and wind down after a day
of pure bullshit.

I washed my blanket and bedsheet today too.

I think we have an inspection tomorrow,
if you're shit ain't spick and span,
they throw you in solitary confinement.

Situations like that,
one tends to avoid at all costs.

I got bored earlier this week,
and in a moment of madness,
decided to cut up most of my clothing.

Now all my tshirts have no sleeves,
and i am sporting a pair of sweat pants
which resemble a pair of the incredible
hulk's shorts.

Pure rudeness.

Today hasn't been to bad to be honest.

The only low point was having to call one
of my freinds who is currently in Paris.

Today is shop day,
and my account was dryer than my sex life.

I was expecting a few pounds from someone but it didn't
materialise in time, and things where looking critical,
so in a last ditch attempt to save me from a week of pure
beef i called my buddy to see if she could save the day!

By the time i had paxed my way through untold goons to get
on the blammer, it was pretty late.

I think it was about 4am where she was,
and i woke her up.

I'm sorry.


Other than that,
today has been pretty hassle free.

Managed to get on the computer and send some
slippery mispelt emails to a few unlucky souls
dotted around the globe,
which was nice!

I woke up in a bit of a funk today though.

It's only natural, given the obvious.

Luckily for me,
i was blessed to be able to make a cup of tea
and read some really good advice and inspirational
words from a good freind that had the positive effect
of putting me back on the straight and narrow.



Most of the questions i have in life,
i already know the answers to.

One of my flaws, however,
is that i doubt myself.

Smoking an unadulterated amount of trees over
the last few years definitely added to this.

Since i've stopped smoking trees,
my confidence in my actions, potential and
ability to make intelligent, thoughtful decisions
on my life has slowly returned..

..but it never hurts to get a second opinion

Sunday, 3 July 2011

Chaps, Chain

When i write,
i'm usually in my cell.

When we've been locked in,
i'm sittin' crossed legged on my bed,
sippin' some coffee.

Or in the afternoon,
again, sippin' on some coffee.

I drink a lot of coffee..

I ain't in the cell today though.

I was.

My cellie just ran into the room,
covered in sweat.

Bursting through the door,
without saying a word,
he shed his jumpsuit and leaped through
the air onto the toilet.

So i left.

Now i'm sittin' on my tier.

It's suprisingly quiet.

A lot of people have left for Jumaah prayer,
the majority of the remaining inmates are mostly
Spanish, and are tucking into their lunch.

These guys do it BIG.

whenever i walk past their cells,
someone is always preparing some
kind of next level munch.

Spicing meats, mixing sauce, chopping vegetables,
layering cakes, marinating chicken,
all kinds of shit.

I don't have the patience.

Cooking in here is a lot of effort,
in many ways.

To get a spot in line on the microwave
is BEYOND long.

In short,
if i'm gonna be mixing it up with someone,
it isn't going to be over a spot on the microwave,
just so i can nuke some bullshit that ultimately
is going to produce project molten shit from my
asshole in an hour or so..

Lau dat.

I've jumped in the Spanish whip a couple of times though.

Then i learnt my lesson.

if you're not Spanish, they will ask you for most of the ingredients
for your meal, AND theirs, in advance.
 Then when the meals are cooked,
you are handed a pathetically small portion of food in return.

Not cool.

This happened twice.

Then i learnt my lesson.

So did they.

They did this shit to one of my partners a
couple weeks ago.

He didn't take it lightly.

After hearing from an unknown source that
they pull this bamboozlidge type of fuckrie
on the regs, he went Rambo, punched up the chef,
and Stole all his bowls

Non stop working

it ain't all it's cracked up to be.

This prison bullshit.


'doing time'

'doing a bid'


I want you to know,
it really really fucking sucks.

Late at night,
while my cellie is snoring away like a sedated rhino,
my thoughts wander.

I can't sleep.

I stare out the window at the empty street below.

The jail is completely silent,
i feel like the only person awake for fucking miles.

I hate times like this.

There is no one around to talk to me,
make me laugh or smile, no tv or any kind of visual stimulation,
no one to help me take my mind off the obvious.

It's not a good feeling.


I've felt this way for quite a while now.

Looking out my cell window into the quiet street,
knowing that i am thousands of miles away from anyone
that gives a fuck about me, really sucks.


Not being able to sit face to face and talk to someone
i know, ask them for advice on matters as incredibly serious
as the situation i find myself in, is not easy.

It takes its toll on you, i feel weak,
like my bones have hollowed due to stress.

It's not a good feeling at all.

The rare times i get some kind of good news,
i'm not quite sure how to take it.
 So much of my time is spent either praying for guidance
or for things simply not get worse, when a bit of good news
finally trickles through it isn't really good, i don't actually feel like something
positive has happened, more a brief sense of relief..

..Like some of the pressure has slightly dropped, or that
i have one less thing to worry about off the list..

I'm going to try and take my mind of things.

There isn't much food in the cell,
so i'm going to improvise.

I have crackers, some nutella. Bosh.

At the moment, i'm making notes.

A lot of notes.

Which is a first.

Most of my time in high school was spent smoking weed
and catching jokes instead of studying.

Most of my time in college was spent smoking weed
and drawing graffiti instead of doing course work.

While i was at University..

You get the picture.

Most teachers i have had in life have given
me the exact same report.

"He has great potential, but doesn't use it"

Like a moron, i thought that was a good thing.

That was my reasoning for the times
that i didn't  make the effort,
the fact that i knew i had the potential,
i didn't have to use it.

"I know i have it, that's good enough"

Real clever.

I never put my all into school work.

Never did the best i could.

i basically didn't really give a fuck.

Things seem to have changed,
now the stakes have been so catastrophically raised..

The situation i am in now,
it isn't quite a bullshit test i need to pass or a certificate
that i can win, some kind of shitty course to graduate from.

This is my fucking life at stake.

I don't have the option to just sit around and hope for the best.

I have to do EVERYTHING in my power to fight this shit,
because if i don't, nobody will.

The consequences of failure are so serious,
i can't even consider defeat.

There won't be a second chance.

So for the first time in my life,
i'm putting the work in.



Every single part of my life at the moment, i make notes.

Then plans are put together,
lists are made, ideas are noted down,
shit is getting done.


As my cellie told me a long time ago,

"it's not the outcome that's important in life, it's the effort you put in."

..i am doing absolutely everything in my power
to fix the problems i am currently faced with in life.

If in the end i don't get the result i was hoping for,
in whatever part of my life that might be,
at least i will know that i truly did my best.

I will be able to hold my head up high knowing
i did all i could, and be at peace.