by Paul Tristram
I once scraped that sentence
into the grey depressing paint
of a wall in the far-end detention cell
underneath Neath Magistrates Courts.
I then forgot all about it!
Until 18 months later
when I was again thrown backwards
in through its angry door
after first being upstairs
where I was remanded in the custody
of ‘Her Majesty’s Prison Swansea.’
I chuckled (Which played havoc with
my broken ribs!) as I glanced
at my old drunken handwriting.
There were at least 30 different
names written and scraped under it.
I smiled as I finally added
my own name to my 18 month old petition.
Then I layed down gingerly
upon the concrete and wooden bunk.
There would be no jumping around
for me until I got through
them Gates at Oystermouth Road
and got me some DF118’s on the wing.
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