Thursday, 30 June 2011

Fat Cow

Some of the guards here are not too bad.

They are respectful,
professional and generally do this like of work for one
reason and one reason only.

To get paid.

Others are not so cool.

The worst,
by far the worst guards we have,
are the ugly females.

Not because they're ugly..

These women have clearly little to
no male attention in their lives.

Now they're surrounded by a shitload of
men who are absolutely catting for some pussy,
(even if the owners face looks like an inverted asshole)
these chicks start bugging the fuck out.

They ain't used to the male attention, get a complex
and forget that if most of the guys in here were on the street,
they wouldn't throw cum in their face.

Me included.

I go out of my way NOT to run after these purely ugly ducklings,
in turn avoiding any possibiliy of inflating their already astronomically
misguided ego's.

Press Play




"If a dude in jail ain't checkin' for you,
you KNOW you ain't shit"

Real talk.

Wednesday, 29 June 2011

Enjoy the cake


So it's almost July.

Two things to look forward to..

My one year wedding anniversay,
and on the 31st July it's my birthday.

Joy.

One might come to the assumption that
considering my 'killer an gorilla' murderous surroundings,
no one gives a fuck about your birthday.

Negative..

It all depends on your status in the prison.

I've seen people have substantially dope meals
cooked for them, feasts that have taken a seriously
long time to prepare, which is really nice!

I've also seen people presented with birthday cakes
that are mostly comprised of stool softener and laxatives.

Also nice.

A couple months back,
it was a guys birthday that is pretty
respected/feared in the jail.

A large proportion of the inmates in here run around
after this guy like bloody slaves, doing everything he asks,
and in turn he publically abuses, humiliates and violates
them on a daily basis.

It's jokes.

Anyhow,
He's in his cell, brushing his teeth.

They baked him a cake for his birthday,
and had some kind of extremely retarded
plan of giving him birthday beats as a desert.

One of them boots his door open,
and shoves his freind, shouting

"HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!"

The guy flies straight into R,
who spits toothpaste onto the floor.

"You n****rs plannin' on givin' me beats yeh?"

They both smile.

Before either of them can actually answer,
he grabs foolio number two and starts smashing him,
head first, into every surface in the cell.

Sink.

Toilet.

Walls.

Table.

Corner of the bed.

Everything.

With brute force.

Then with one mighty lob, the guy goes
flying out the cell an splats onto the wall.

R Steps through the doorway,
still with toothbrush an toothpaste in his mouth,
and stars at the other bozo who is frozen..

..Then quickly places the cake on the floor, mutters

"Yo enjoy the cake"

..and runs off the tier.

I asked him later that day why he didn't go in first,
and also why he didn't help his freind.

He shrugged his shoulders, stared at me blankly and said
"Don't get it fucked up, i'm smarter than the average bear"

Fair play!

Come the 31st of July,
think of me.

Press Play



By the looks of things i'll either be fighting numerous goons,
hiding in my cell or shitting white hot,
softened stool.



Good times.

Monday, 27 June 2011

He chain-smokes dicks

I'm locked in my cell.

It's real bate.

My cellie is snoring away below me on his bed,
he doesn't give a fuck.

I do.

It's the middle of the day, they should have let
us out over an HOUR ago for chow.

They didn't.

I'm trying to occupy myself listening to tunes
and sketches, but after the one gwillionth variation
of a throwup i know i'm not painting for at least A BLOODY YEAR,
it get's a tad tedious.

I want to check my email.

At this time of day, due to the time differences and this
email system being a COMPLETE PILE OF SHIT, i usually
get a couple emails around now.

I checked earlier, i didn't have none.

As you might imagine, that was fucking dry.

Moving on!

The cell is really hot.

I've resorted to flossing only a pair of very small shorts,
and a t-shirt that i crudely tore the arms off.

Rude.

My cellie got me some African Pride for my
hair and beard the other day.

You know what's coming right?

It's only a matter of time..

I'm not the only one annoyed by this libertarionist
lockdown of doorinary pisstaketions..

My fellow inmates are not happy.

They're letting it be known,
in the form of punching, kicking and
running shoulder barging their doors.

The guard keeps screaming at everyone to
shut the fuck up.

Good luck with that scrap.

I'm really, really bored.

When i get this bored,
i do really stupid shit.

Like spontaneously shaving my facial hair into
new, possible utterly retarded combinations.

My beard is long, MAD long, the longest it's
ever been, by a long shot.

Someone said i look like 'Captain Morgan' the other day.

I told him he looked like he chain-smoked dicks.

My cellie just farted,
and it fucking stinks.

Subsequently,
i am now writing with a t-shirt tightly bound
around my face.

He's now taking a piss, with his back turned to me.

Farted again.

Joy.

The guard has now opened the door..

With precision timing,
non-fecally fragranced, stale air is flowing through the room
like diarrea in an incontenant mans pants..

Time for chow.

My day is getting better and better.

I'm expecting the type of feast the likes man hath never fathomed,
something similar to that next level yamdown in Hook, except without
that fat kid that makes MC's wanna resort to violence..

Ain't happening.

We've been given a bread roll, some lettuce, what looks like
tuna that has been steamed in a tramps asshole and some soap.

The icing on the cake?

My cellies tray has a cockroach in it.

A live one.

The guy in the cell opposite to me isn't keen on his food either.

He is bald, has many missing teeth,
is a methodone addict and has numerous
chunks of flesh missing from his face.

"If my wife ever fed me some shit like this, i'd slap the shit out of her"

:O

"An i ain't slapped that bitch in 35 motherfuckin' years."

Friday, 24 June 2011

Give it to her like THIS my G

A couple days ago,
i'm sitting by the computer typing away,
and i feel someone tap me on the shoulder.

It's my freind H.

He's about 6 foot tall,
Puerto rican, and i fuck with him on the regs.

My dude usually blags me a spot on the computer
when the line is rammo.

He's a nice guy.

"Yo Timmy, what you doin' my n****r? Writin' to one o' them fly-ass London bitches?"

He's clearly bored and looking for attention.

"Erm, yeah, yeah i am. Why, you got some woman advice for me?"

His eyes light up.

"My n****r! If you wanna tell the girl to go fuck herself,
you gotta give it to her like THIS my G.."

Press Play



He then proceeds to sing this song.

Loudly.

One hand placed in the middle of his chest,
the other reaching high in the air in a very
dramatic fashion.

Everyone is watching.

Laughing.

He finishes the song,
but he ain't done yet.

"Yo Timmy, i'm tellin' you my G,
if you wanna tell her she's a bird, you know she's a bird,
she knows she's a bird and you know she knows she's a bird,
you tell her like THIS.."

Press Play





Joker.

Singing is pretty common in this unit.

Most people can't sing, but try anyway.

My cellie CAN sing.

Well.

Press Play



He has a very, VERY deep voice.

Closest thing i could liken it to is the late, great,
Isaac Hayes.

I find his singing very relaxing.

Late at night,
the inmates are all locked up in
their cells and tucked up in bed.

The guards are sitting in the bubble,
flicking through confiscated copies of
Buttman Magazine.

The jail is quiet, serene and peaceful.

The only sound you can hear,
is the silky smooth voice of my cellie,
crooning away into the night.

He's sending all the gangsters, murderers.
gang bangers and drug dealers to sleep
on a cloud of pure soul.

Press Play. This is his favourite.


Word.

Sometimes i think i can hear people
in the distance faintly singing along.

Either that, or someone's getting raped.

Documentaton

Before i left South London,
i was not in posession of a working camera.




One of my good freinds kindly offered to spot me a camera before i departed
for the States, asking for one small favour in return..

"Make sure you take shitloads of flicks"




No problem.

After a week or so on American soil,
i got to work.




I made a conscious effort to always carry my freinds camera with me,
snapping anything and everything that took my fancy.


As time passed, I was starting to look at things in a different light.



Everything seemed to have more significance, and all of it was worthy of documenting.



For some reason i had a strong urge to capture this chapter
of my life in as much detail as possible.




Previously insignificant moments of my day to day life
now had new meaning, and i wanted to capture every piece,
for what reason, i do not know.






I'm just glad that i did.

Although looking back at them in my current
delapedated situation can be painful and somewhat
difficult, it is a reminder of the life i had led.

The choices i made.

It reminds me of the limitless possibilities
at my fingertips once upon my inevitable release..



Wednesday, 22 June 2011

Chomp on the hammer

Being in jail is fucking bate.

I'm surrounded by ignorant cock smoking retards that
constantly polute my precious breathing space with their foul,
fecal infused breath.
 They force me to relenquish the precious little
moments of the time i have left on this earth answering border-line
retarded questions such as..

"where is Paris in England?"

and

"how do you spell mhmm?"

There is some form of temporary salvation from
this brain destroying shithole, in the form of visitations..

I've been lucky enough to have some people jump on planes to come
and keep me company for a few hours.

This usually consists of catching
jokes, eating some biscuits, my visitor getting groped, my penis profusely
ejaculating into my brown standard-issue prison jumpsuit, me getting
groped by my visitor, then with a sticky ectoplasmic hand i wave them
farewell as they return to the human realm, leaving me in the demon realm
waiting for the Chojin.

Long.

On a serious note, i love getting visits.

:)

The thought of spending some time with another human being that i
know has made the effort to travel all the way just to see how i am doing,
knowing that someone gives that much of a fuck about me,
makes me very happy and my time in here way more bareable.

To those that have made the effort, i love you all, thankyou.

x

It's always a fucking creasefest on the dancefloor,
you never know what the fuck you are going to see or hear.

..The standard of conversational pleasantries exchanged between
the magnificent stock of male cattle imprisoned in this institution and the
high class amazonian godesses accompanying them on their 'bids' is always
something one can marvel at and really aspire to, such a magnificent
level of class and respectability..

"Fuck you talkin' bout n****r,
i ain't fuckin' your mother no more,
tell that fat bitch to holla!"

Word.

I have a potential visit coming up.

My partners in the unit have been dropping jewels of wisdom on me,
with the intent of passing down the knowledge on how i can maximise
this opportunity for female contact as much as humanly possible..

"Yo son, first cut a hole in your jumpsuit."

..Sounds promising..

"You can get a bitch to jerk the bone on the sly, no problem Kid"

As you can tell, i'm getting advice from the best.

The cream of the crop.

I'm talking about dudes that have actually managed to FUCK on
the visitors floor, in front of a room full of wives, grandmothers,
children, great grandmothers, like it ain't a ting. U get me.

Pure. Jokers.

However,
despite me and my ever erect Sujuk's insatiable craving for any
type of female contact, i am still trying to carry myself with some of
the class and dignity i was was known for pon road..

..this doesn't go down well with my 'killer and gorilla' buddies..

"N****R, you wanna be down with a pack of silverbacks, you
gotta start acting like a mother fuckin' baby gorilla, shit.."


"N****r, a fly English motherfucker like you could easily
get a blowjob on the dancefloor"

Yeah?

"for real my n****r, you just gotta be fly about it,
sit under the camera and just let everyone know
'yo, no disrespect but you don't want the kids to see this'"


"Trust me dog, once a minute she chomps on the hammer for like, ten seconds, whatever"

If coming to a federal holding facility to keep
an Englishman company for an hour sounds up
your street..

..or you fancy your chances chomping on a Turkish
hammer in front of a visiting room full of children and grandmothers..

write to me.

Timothy Guvercin
63906054
MCC New York
150 park row
New York, NY
10007

8====> - - - -

working in the shitty

I loved working in the city.




From the time i got up in the morning, to opening the office,
running around the city all day then heading home after a long day,
i really enjoyed my job.



 Most jobs i've had in my short time on this earth,
i usually habitually take the piss and turn up late everyday.

For some reason,
this never happened while i was working as an office messenger
in Manhattan. I guess it was the first job i've ever had that i truly
gave a flying fuck about.




I'd get off the train at 42nd street and actually
be happy to arrive at work.

After a quick stop to yoink my daily sugar supply
from one of the many unfortunate local cafe's,




it was time to start delivering some shit.

I think the secretary had a soft spot for me. I had told her
how i didn't really have much dough, and back when i first started
the job i was eating about a meal a day at BEST, so whenever she was in,
i wasn't going anywhere until i'd eaten a proper breakfast.


The business was located on West 37th street,
and most of my deliveries were based around central
Manhatton.




Our biggest,
or should i say the most business that came in,
was from the Conde Naste Publishing,
which required yours truly to dash between their
many different locations dropping off and collecting
all manner of utterly useless, unimportant and meaningless
documentations..

..But i enjoyed it...




I was always on my feet,
moving from one building to the next,
rinsing the English accent on as many
of the interns at Vogue, Architectual Digest
and GQ as possible



I was a wide eyed 25 year old,
living his dream in the big city.

Nothing seemed out of reach for me.




Speaking of reaches,
as i was always on the move, i constantly spotted
anything new that had been blammed around the city,






a lot of nice shit was happening on the streets of New York City,





I just tried my best to keep my eyes open to capture it all..



Saturday, 18 June 2011

Im Good

It's a thursday night.

There is some kind of basketball game on,
so most of the inmates are sitting in front of
the televisions in a brain decaying trance, dribbling
away in a stereotypically ultra spasticated fashion,
only stopping to scratch their shitty, cling-on infested
rusty assholes, then with the same peanut clad skiddy
excuse for a finger, picking pieces of liver and raw
fish retinas out of their cavity ridden, hollow black teeth.

I'm good thanks.

Instead of sitting around to witness this bizarre, mass fecal
ingesting ritual, i've taken residency in the pathetic excuse
for a toilet that is my current residence.

It's raining outside.

Proper raining.

As the lightning flashes and the thunder booms,
just a meager few feet from where i am huddled
on my bunk,
 i imagine how fucking beautiful it would be to
actually stand in the street and FEEL this storm
that has me captivated on this merky Thursday
evening in New York City..

 Being kept in this scatty dungeon full of
fucking retards is bad enough, but after nine months
of not being able to go outside in the rain, i'm starting
to fucking lose the plot.

Staring out this bullshit excuse for a window at the world
passing me by, i can now fully sympathise with dogs that
get locked in cars or kept in houses for excessive amounts
of time, and have no other choice other than to patiently
wait for someone to take them outside so they can politely
empty their bladder. urinate.
 Like my canine brethren,
i know if i flip out in here my current owner will get pissed off,
and it'll only take longer.
 I guess i should just do what a dog would do in this situation,
go and take a shit somewhere in protest.

"Them n****r's be shittin' by the frige, trying to hide the motherfucker,
dog's be straight violatin' son"

Word.

Monday, 13 June 2011

It wasnt cool

My day was certainly eventful.

Someone got killed in the unit.



No jokes.

The motherfucker got his dome smashed against the wall
of a cell, and of all the places for this unlucky soul to lose
his life, the beating took place in MY fucking cell.

Great.

To add insult to injury,
i was given the grim task of cleaning the splattered blood
off our once pristine egg-white walls.

It wasn't cool.

At the very least,
i did my best to prevent the guys demise,
but sadly his fate was well and truly sealed.
 I did managed to delay his skull shattering
fatality until sunrise though..



Many times over the past few months,
this cock-strong habitual liberty taker has
violated protocal, running up into the castle
and inhaling as much yamadacious munch as
possible before getting chased the fuck out.

Last night, however,
his luck finally ran out..


It's about three in the morning and i'm asleep.

A deep sleep.

I'm dreaming too,
and my dreams consist of ultra realistic fantasies
of putting my Turkish dick to good use on all kinds
of exotically fictional pussy.
 Just as penetration commences,
i am woken by the sounds of shouting,
and screaching.

Joy.

The utopian image of freedom,
pussy and pleasure have been swiftly
replaced in the blink of an eye by prison,
the smell of poo and my cellie shouting at the top of
his lungs..

"FUCK YOU N****R! I GOT YOU NOW MOTHERFUCKER! WHAT! WHAT!:

I reluctantly peer over the side of my 'bed',
and staring back up at my with his legs stuck
on the mousetrap is Topo Gigio.


"NOW WHAT MOTHERFUCKER!"

*sigh*

Despite him racking untold little niblets
from my food, i don't want to see this
little guy get merked.

He's looking up at me.

:(

There is no way i can get him out of this
jam, no fucking way!

The poor fuck knows what's coming his way too.

For some reason i feel like i should at least TRY
to bide this guy a little time to attempt escape
from the jaws of death..

"c'mon man for fuck sake, leave it til the morning"

It worked,
my cellie farts and goes back to sleep.

I've done my part,
thanks to me he's now got a few hours to
try and get the fuck out before judgement day.

I hope he uses this little time wisely..

Morning comes,
and i peek over hoping to see an empty mouse trap,
with a little thankyou note for my devine intervention..

Instead,
this silly sod is now spread across the whole trap.
 Clearly, the more he tried to wriggle out and free
himself, the more body parts got stuck.

Oh dear.

Press Play


I can't remember what happened after this,
i'm pretty sure it all worked out ok in the end though.

Probably.

Yo

Yo

What did you wake up to today?

Anything live?

A naked chick?

Some nice breakfast?

A fryup perhaps?

Some hot pussy?

I hope something good.


The image that got barbarically scarred into
my still quivering, half functioning eyeballs this morning.
was anything but 'live'..

As i kissed the little taste of freedom i get every time i sleep goodbye,
i was confronted by a sight that would terrify most men in my position.

Timothy Guvercin woke to the sight of a naked 220 pound
six foot tall african american.

 At first i couldn't understand what the fuck he was doing,
it looked like he was washing his leg,
and in his other hand had managed to get hold of a
large pair of coconuts..

Negative.

He was actually standing there, bollock naked,
soaping up his cock and balls.

Not cool.

Really not cool.

Don't get alarmed though,
i'm not about to start describing some next level nightmarish
bum raping scenario that one might fear being incarcerated in
a maximum security federal holding facility, nono,
far from it.

There was no need for me to reach for the assorted mass of
crude weaponry stashed in arms reach, this situation requires
nothing to fear, or the need to defend one's honour (and asshole)
with brute force.

It's only my cellie.

He's washing his penis in the sink,
and thought it rude to disturb my slumber,
so didn't bother waking me up.

Bless.

To make matters worse,
a couple seconds after i clock him standing there,
another inmate busts open the door, looks at me,
looks at my cellie standing there naked with a soaped
up hammer, and completely unfased asks if we have any
sugar, like it ain't a ting.

An in all fairness, it ain't.

Just another day.

On a serious note though,
i feel a part of me died today.

In the early afternoon, i made a cup of coffee.

I put a wee bit too much milk in it, and sadly,
it didn't quite agree with my digestive track as
well as one would've hoped.
 My breakfast consisted mostly of a rather arrogantly
large bowl of strawberry (gimme a break) oatmeal,
again, comprised mostly of milk.

This totally ingenious combination could only lead to
one thing, and one thing only..

..an aggresively turbulent exercise in secreting scatty
logs down the toilet canal, at top speed.


I knew this epically biblical battle with a milky shit
demon was inevitable, but my stubborn Turkish side of
me told me to try and staunch it out as long as possible, hoping
the delay might have some kind of magical solidifying effect on
the molten stream of hot shit awaiting to erupt at any moment.

..made it about half way through lockdown,
before reluctantly submitting..

I did it.

I shat in front of my cellie.

The gates of Mordor opened,
releasing a hellish shower of diaria,
a meager five feet away from where
my cellie was sitting.

he pointed at me.

Laughed at me.

He was laughing at a broken man,
pirched upon a gleaming metal throne,
looking down at the shattered pieces of what
was left of my dignity and self respect, which
where now sprawled across the floor in tatters.

Amazing.

Monday, 6 June 2011

Barry Slater

Barry put together this amazing book
go check it out here  http://barryslater.blogspot.com/


Saturday, 4 June 2011

Happy Mothers Day

Everybody has their own hustle in jail.

Whether it's making garments,
fixing radios, constructing shelves, loan sharking, playing cards, loaning out porn,
cutting hair, washing clothes, cleaning cells, cooking/preparing food, making cards,
writing letters, typing emails, the list is endless..

Some people are incredibly talented at their chosen craft,
creating masterpieces of work, the like of which the world
hath never seen..

..On the other hand,
some people clearly used to smoke a lot of crack in the street,
and it has left them burnt the FUCK out.
 Crack and 'angeldust', which i was kindly informed is apparently 'embalming fluid',
used to stop dead bodies from decomposing.

These people smoke it.

Nice
Anhow,
a couple weeks back i was scavenging around the baron post apocalyptic wasteland
known as F tier for some sweetener, and i bump into a mysterious fortune teller dressed in rags..well,
not really. He was dressed in some extremely shabby garms, but he weren't no fortune teller.

It was my buddy Cash Money

This extremely burnt out individual is about five foot tall, and looks and sounds like a
Jamaican version of Yoda.

He usually shouts my name whenever i am in his vicinity.

Not my real name.

Timboktwo, B, Timclaat, Teem, Tim Daggy dag etc..

He has made astronomically accurate statements concerning
ones appearance and demeanor.

One can only marvel in the presence of such inbridled intelligence and
eye for detail this humorous individual has been blessed with..

"timdag ain't no pussyclaat whiteboy"

Everytime he sees me after i've had a shower and combed my hair,

"Yo B, you look like Hitler! "

Not so sure about the second statement..

So..

I ask him for some sugar, and my pattwa spitting bredren happily
obliges.

..but before he hands it over, lets me in on a secret of biblically epic proportions..

"Yo B, you seen ma cards mon?"

"Nah man"

"Come to da lab !"




This was his mothers day card.

I bought it on the spot.

Two batteries and a stamp.

To my mother,
Happy belated mothers day!
even though you are a pain in the ass and drive me up the fucking wall,
i'm sure i'm an even bigger one, and the insane situations i get myself into (they don't really get much more fucked that this)
are always down to my own actions and behaviour, not yours.
 I love you dearly,
i know i can act like a complete idiot at times and have problems accepting fault, but i'm only human. Not only that, i'm a turkish human, and we all know how stubborn they can be (DAD)
 Despite my many flaws, you did a beautiful job raising me.
I love you and dad very dearly, you are the best
parents i could ever have dreamed of being blessed with,
and i wouldn't change you for the world.
Your idiot son
Timothy
xxx

Wednesday, 1 June 2011

A note from a recent visiter

I'd known from day one there could be some kind of issue or that something somewhere along the line could go wrong and the visit would fall through, but it would be rude not to visit Tim while I was on the eastcoast with my other half for a holiday largely funded by my redundancy package.  Weeks in advance I'd been sent the forms so I could be approved to visit him, I'd filled them out and posted them back then heard... nothing.  Neither had Tim.  I checked the night before we left for New York just to make sure, so with a will and a prayer boarded our flight holding on to "When he finds out, he'll let you know."
It's 10pm and I'm staring out the window of our hotel room on the 23rd floor of the Trump Plaza, Altlantic City.  I can't see shit.  America's in the middle of the worst start to hurricane season in it's history, TV is nothing but death and upside-down houses buried in piles of other houses, all I can see from the window is thick grey soup.  It's like Stephen King's The Mist out there, there would be no way of telling if we were on the 23rd or ground floor if it were not for the occasional light from a building side advert screen bellow us and the emergency lights on a helicopter pad.  We should have gone to Florida.  It's late on a Wednesday, I've just dragged my girlfriend's impossibly heavy luggage to our room and I can't wait to hit the free drinks and shit some money away on slots.  Lou's in the bathroom having a post drive shower and I absent-mindedly meander the internet and checking emails on my dog while we've got free wifi.  That's when I find it, I've been approved, I need to be at MCC in New York at 11am the next morning.  Fuck.

Skipping over leaving at 5am, how Atlantic City Grayhounds are full of the broken hearted and hungover at dumb o'clock on a Thursday morning and how my journey through NYC to the MCC was event free and breezy, we can get to the meat and chips.  I'm the first to arrived at the MCC and standing outside on a beautiful, warm New York lunchtime I'm regretting the hooded leather coat I'm now dragging around.  The guards are firm but human, they crack the occasional joke and one returns with their lunch of giant pizza boxes and calzones.  I fill out the day visitor form and read over the many signs about what's acceptable and what's not.  I was warned in advance not to wear anything with a logo or slogan on it, no hats, 'designer alterations' to clothing (including rips in jeans) etc.  There's also an entire section of signs here about women and what's acceptable, boiling down to no flesh on display, nothing figure enhancing or suggestive, etc.  As others arrive, there's a nice atmosphere.  Plenty of family or women with kids (two women are sent away to get changed, one asks what's wrong with what she's wearing to be told "Oh honey, it's all wrong!") and after a wait outdoors we're allowed in to the reception area where we have our bags x-rayed and receive our locker keys to dump everything we're not taking in with us.  We are then drug tested via a pocket swipe system like they use at airports and go upstairs to the visiting area.  There's a couple of vending machines but I forget to bring $1 bills to get snacks for me and Tim because I'm an idiot.  A guard asks if I'm on my own, I reply I am and she tells me to take a seat inside and wait for Tim.  The room's got a limit of thirty odd people and is empty aside from a ring of plastic school style chairs around the outside of the room and a trash can in the middle.  I'm sitting on my own watching families meet and dudes in prison grab bounce babies on their knees.  

Ten mins later Tim comes in.  I've not seen the guy in years but it suddenly feels like it's been months.  He hug and the first thing I say is that he's looking good, cos he is.  He's looking healthy and within moments of sitting to talk it's clear he's in a good place of mind.  The dude's positive, relaxed and as funny as ever.  He tells me the entire story from back to before he even moved to NY and I let him know what I've been doing the past couple of years.  It's kind of surreal, but can't be half as weird as it is for him waking up each day in prison.  He tells me loads of hilarious stories that haven't made the blog yet and I tell him about our time up and downtown.  As I didn't bring any $ we both watch everyone else drink orange sodas and eat crisps slightly enviously.  After an hour or two the visitors are ushered out except me and I'm the only civi left in a room of prisoners, who aside from Tim are assembled infront of us waving through the window behind us at their loved ones.  It's humbling. Tim tells me we've been given additional time because he's only had one other visitor and cos I've come from England.  We make use of the time talking about music and how he sometimes gets people to play tunes to him down the phone as he's severely limited in selection inside, tattoos and how two members of my old band are now good inkers, graf, magical Jamaican spices and how they make everything delicious, the limited availability of sneakers in prisons, how everything you'll eat or drink in America is really fucking sweet, you know...  the usual shit mates talk about.  Time goes too quickly though and before I know it we're shaking hands, hugging and then I'm waving to him from the otherside of the window like the guys before me were.  

When I leave I spark a snout and get a shit coffee in Tim's honour and think about how he said he was returning to his cell to consider what happens to today's chicken.  Then it starts to piss down as the storms catch NY.  Time to get a Grayhound back to Jersey and get shitfaced on free gin. 

Anyone reading this who's local, can or is visiting NYC should hit newyorkprisoner@hotmail.co.uk up and get the forms.  Even if you're unfamiliar with police, prisons and prisoners and feel reluctant or scared, don't be.  Everyone there's human and acts like it.  Even the cops and guards who were totally decent to me and much better than their British counterparts.  Infact much better than the airport police who later that week decided after putting me through the body scanner that my metrocard and zip in my back pocket looked like a concealed gun and rushed four guards over to make me empty paper from my pocket under threat of getting gatted. 

Listen... its not long

I have a tremendous amount of time on my hands.

Time that i try to use as constructively and positively as i can.

Every other day, i work out.

This is good for me physically and mentally, it keeps me in good shape,
and keeps my mindframe and train of thought on the straight an narrow.

There isn't a day that goes by that i don't spend a good few hours
hunched over in my cell, sweating, contorting my hand and wrist in
a zoned out haze of concentration..sketching.

 Feeble attempts at twisting familiar letter combinations
into new charicatures and shapes, knocking out birthday cards for a couple
tunas, most days i will try to create something.

i have been spending an increasing amount of time in solitary company
up in the castle.

 Some of this time is sadly spent very unproductively,
rehashing past events, thinking about all the things and people i took
for granted, horse shit like that.

It's almost like a form of torture, it just leaves me feeling
miserable and imbolised.

Great stuff!

i'm only human.

I make mistakes.

There is no point in me living in a constant state of regret and imobolisation.

It helps no one.

Not me, nor the people i didn't appreciate or treat them how they deserved.

All i can do is try to be a better person, and i am trying.

 Time alone in my cell also yields positive results,
i think about my behaviour and try to re-evaluate the way i
communicate with people, particularly my closest freinds and
family.

I am under a fucking ridiculous amount of stress,
and regrettably have been taking it out on those
closest to me.

I am sorry.

I feel exhausted by this whole ordeal.


i find myself snapping at people that care
about me, who are only trying to help me and get
me the fuck out of this EPIC toilet.

Considering the amount of people that ran the fuck out
on me when i needed them, i should be showing the ones
that represented how grateful i am for their unconditional
support of me and my Turkish balls.

They are not obliged to help me.

They don't owe me a motherfucking thing.

Sometimes i wonder why they have so much faith in me,
what it is i have done to deserve their love and support.

Replying to one of my recent idiotic, childish outbursts,
one of my freinds asked me the question..

"Why do you keep fucking up?"

Who knows

There is no question as to whether i am the one who fucked
up all the things that i was lucky enough to be blessed with in
my life, whether it was my life in the terror domre, my jobs,
my freedom, or even my marriage.

i fucked it up.

As a man, I must take responsibility for my actions.

Each day that passes, i am trying to more forward and
better myself as a person.

Don't get it fucked up, i'm not a bad guy, i just know
that i can and will be better.

i make very spontanious decisions, sometimes
they don't work out quite as well as i had planned.

No shit huh.

I can't answer the question as to why i keep fucking up,
nor can i answer why after all my fuckups, people are still
around and want to be part of my journey through life.

Whatever the case may be,
i know what it is i need to do to improve,

One of those things,
is i need more patience.

Being held INDEFINITELY in a maximum security
holding facility in New York City seems the place where
i have been destined to expand my capacity for patience.

I'm far from perfect,
i have many flaws, but i want to let the people in my life
know that i'm working on them, i am trying.

Please bare with me.

Like everything else in my life right now,
it's a work in progress.