Stark white light in corridors of blank and endless time

squeal with soles that trod these paths

a thousand times before

and their joking and jeers, heavy handed slaps.

In regulation grey and green they go,

inked-in necks and hands,

medicine eyeballs spinning slow.

A merry-go-round of men;

nothing moves in here,

the pale green walls crumbling year by year,

the tables in the classrooms tattooed

with names and dates and cities,

football teams and slogans too,

swollen cartoon titties,

threats and symbols :

BEECHY OV OPE

JACKO IS A NONCE

a swastika, a ganja leaf

a tumescent cock spitting tears

and, as night time descends and the shadows

lengthen like the years

the TVs burn themselves blank

and the banging on the pipes

the voices at the windows,

shouting sideways

up and down :

Ey mate! Give us a song!

Ey! Lad!

Yeah, you!

Next pad down,

go on, give us all a song.

And this is what he sang:

Prison stinks of bleach and sweat,

boiled up cabbage and regret,

prison stinks of wild-eyed plans,

of easy money in far off lands.

Prison stinks like seeping gas

sleep and sympathy,

neither last.

Prison stinks of bodies packed

in tiny halls and tiny pads,

of toilet pans and burning foil,

sour milk and twice fried oil,

laundry bags and bags of burn

and bags of time as clock hands turn.

The showers stop at half past six,

they stop your meds if you’re not sick,

but tablets melt the days away

and subbie stops the drag of days,

the desperate stink of empty hours

behind the doors where bullies cower.

Piss break when the screws about,

Stand-Fast when they can't keep count.

Prison stinks like an egg gone black

so take big sniffs

and don’t come back.