**Spaghetti Garlic Oil**
"Teemmy you gatta onderstand, any fokin' jail you go to you can make-a diss, no prablem!"
------------------------------
*Ingredients*
-Sardino or Macaral
-Butter
-Salt + Pepper
-grated cheese
--------------------------------
Take da spaghetti deez bozos give you for dinner,
rinse it, then put it in da bowl.
Cook mac for five minutes in microwave,
adding oil from the mac packet ana some garlic.
Put six pieces of butter on de pasta,
reheat for two minutes then dump-a da cooked
mac on the pasta, mix it trough!
Then put all the pasta an mac, all togeder now,
into the fokin' microwave.
Take it out, salt an a pepper,
an a liddle bid o grated cheese.
Mangia!
Saturday, 11 February 2012
Unarmed Combat
I like to run.
Fast.
Always have.
Long distances? Steep hills?
No problemo..
I've taken this and tried to apply it to my bid.
We got roof?
I'm running..
Sub zero temperatures? Rain? Snow?
Again..
I'm still working on trying to get my body fat as low as possible,
hence all the running..
One day someone decided to physically stop me in my tracks,
pull his shirt off an flex an obscenely roided bicep in my face..
Timothy let knowledge be born..
"..i don't want to look like you.."
His proud toothless grin quickly morphed into an uneducated offended gurn..
"This what a n****r 'POSED to look like MOTHERFUCKER!"
:/
There was an audience.
I had no choice but to shoot back.
"This what a motherfuckin' CRACKER 'posed to look like, quit jerkin' my motherfuckin' rec.."
He returned fire.
"YOU EVER BEEN TO WAR WITH A N****R!?"
I'm out of ammo.
"My n****r, you's in the terrordome, you goin' to war you gonna need some motherfuckin' grenades"
Perhaps he has a point..
I have this desire to workout at the crack of dawn when i get out,
somewhere high up.
Roof top in London, mountain in Turkey,
doesn't matter..
I can picture it pretty clearly..
I'm wearing a vest,
my prison issue glasses an quite possibly sporting
a long beard..
I'm sporting a few more tattoos,
after all i'm planning on getting my hands, knuckles,
wrists, palms, neck and feet done upon release..
I imagine the London skyline,
grey, grimey an covered in a thick cloud of smoke..
I can taste the morning air..
It's cool, crisp air that i can feel entering my lungs like
a glass of cold ice water on a hot summer afternoon..
I see the my breath leaving my body,
like a cloud of thick smoke that takes with it all the dust,
dirt and horse shit i've had to inhale the last few years..
I can feel each bead of sweat dripping from my forehead,
each individual muscle stretching and expanding,
the gravel underneath my knuckles as i lift my chest from the floor,
it's a very vivid image that i carry with me..
The accuracy and realistic expectations of this fantasy are questionable.
But it's a nice image never the less..
"Only in the darkest of night can you see the stars" - Dr. Martin Luther King Jr
Fast.
Always have.
Long distances? Steep hills?
No problemo..
I've taken this and tried to apply it to my bid.
We got roof?
I'm running..
Sub zero temperatures? Rain? Snow?
Again..
I'm still working on trying to get my body fat as low as possible,
hence all the running..
One day someone decided to physically stop me in my tracks,
pull his shirt off an flex an obscenely roided bicep in my face..
Timothy let knowledge be born..
"..i don't want to look like you.."
His proud toothless grin quickly morphed into an uneducated offended gurn..
"This what a n****r 'POSED to look like MOTHERFUCKER!"
:/
There was an audience.
I had no choice but to shoot back.
"This what a motherfuckin' CRACKER 'posed to look like, quit jerkin' my motherfuckin' rec.."
He returned fire.
"YOU EVER BEEN TO WAR WITH A N****R!?"
I'm out of ammo.
"My n****r, you's in the terrordome, you goin' to war you gonna need some motherfuckin' grenades"
Perhaps he has a point..
I have this desire to workout at the crack of dawn when i get out,
somewhere high up.
Roof top in London, mountain in Turkey,
doesn't matter..
I can picture it pretty clearly..
I'm wearing a vest,
my prison issue glasses an quite possibly sporting
a long beard..
I'm sporting a few more tattoos,
after all i'm planning on getting my hands, knuckles,
wrists, palms, neck and feet done upon release..
I imagine the London skyline,
grey, grimey an covered in a thick cloud of smoke..
I can taste the morning air..
It's cool, crisp air that i can feel entering my lungs like
a glass of cold ice water on a hot summer afternoon..
I see the my breath leaving my body,
like a cloud of thick smoke that takes with it all the dust,
dirt and horse shit i've had to inhale the last few years..
I can feel each bead of sweat dripping from my forehead,
each individual muscle stretching and expanding,
the gravel underneath my knuckles as i lift my chest from the floor,
it's a very vivid image that i carry with me..
The accuracy and realistic expectations of this fantasy are questionable.
But it's a nice image never the less..
"Only in the darkest of night can you see the stars" - Dr. Martin Luther King Jr
I was listening to mambo
It's very late.
There's a lot of condensation on my window,
so much so i can't see anything.
Not the street below..
The pavement..
Trees..
Buildings..
Hookers..
Nothing.
I can just about squeeze my fingers
through the bars on the window.
My fingertips relish the cold touch of the glass,
sometimes i try drawing shapes or words and watch
the drips of water run down the window pane..
I can't see anything out the window,
but it's okay though.
Faint blurry lights somehow make their way upto my cell,
golden light from the street lamps below.
Sometimes i try to imagine the view outside might have changed,
asif i'm on some kind of boat that's docked in a small town somewhere..
I'm lying on my side.
One arm is at a right angle supporting my head,
the other clutching my blue biro pen.
My eyes are squinting at the paper,
reading glasses in the dark is not a good look.
My ultra nerd prison issue glasses are not a good look
in any situation but that's besides the point.
My mum and dad sent me a couple pads of paper (thankyou x)
so i'm doing my best to put them to good use.
It's hard right now as the page is barely lit
and my attempts to manouvre it to catch a bit more
of the street light below is not working very well..
The shaky hand holding my head has given up..
Relocated..
Taken up a new, less responsible vocation,
clutching the top of the page as i move closer
to the pad to get a little more clarity.
My words are becoming increasingly mumbled,
almost undecipherable, as they leak from my brain
onto the paper.
Things often pop in and out of my head
at this time of the morning.
If i don't write them down,
they rarely come back to me.
For some reason if i manage to catch the thought,
i always feel better about it in the morning.
Asif the act of writing it down,
making the decision to blindly dig through the piles of paper,
magazines, cumrags and letters at the end of my bed instead of just going the fuck to sleep,
has some kind of significant importance or validity..
I guess that's upto you to decide.
There's a lot of condensation on my window,
so much so i can't see anything.
Not the street below..
The pavement..
Trees..
Buildings..
Hookers..
Nothing.
I can just about squeeze my fingers
through the bars on the window.
My fingertips relish the cold touch of the glass,
sometimes i try drawing shapes or words and watch
the drips of water run down the window pane..
I can't see anything out the window,
but it's okay though.
Faint blurry lights somehow make their way upto my cell,
golden light from the street lamps below.
Sometimes i try to imagine the view outside might have changed,
asif i'm on some kind of boat that's docked in a small town somewhere..
I'm lying on my side.
One arm is at a right angle supporting my head,
the other clutching my blue biro pen.
My eyes are squinting at the paper,
reading glasses in the dark is not a good look.
My ultra nerd prison issue glasses are not a good look
in any situation but that's besides the point.
My mum and dad sent me a couple pads of paper (thankyou x)
so i'm doing my best to put them to good use.
It's hard right now as the page is barely lit
and my attempts to manouvre it to catch a bit more
of the street light below is not working very well..
The shaky hand holding my head has given up..
Relocated..
Taken up a new, less responsible vocation,
clutching the top of the page as i move closer
to the pad to get a little more clarity.
My words are becoming increasingly mumbled,
almost undecipherable, as they leak from my brain
onto the paper.
Things often pop in and out of my head
at this time of the morning.
If i don't write them down,
they rarely come back to me.
For some reason if i manage to catch the thought,
i always feel better about it in the morning.
Asif the act of writing it down,
making the decision to blindly dig through the piles of paper,
magazines, cumrags and letters at the end of my bed instead of just going the fuck to sleep,
has some kind of significant importance or validity..
I guess that's upto you to decide.
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