On Australia Day, I had one too many drinks at a mate’s place and, long story short, I was arrested for obstructing a fire fighter. Because I was on court-ordered parole for being a drunken fool on a previous occasion and resisting arrest four months before, I was sent to jail for three months.
Over those three months, I had a lot of time to myself, and on occasion spent time writing poetry.
I’m surrounded by so many stories,
Some tales of bravery, derring-do and cunning.
Some tell of glorious times where the heists were perfect, women were plentiful and the drugs flowed endlessly.
Sadly, though, underpinning nearly all of them are some of the most horrific stories of how not to raise children I could never have imagined by myself. So much physical and sexual abuse directed at children.
So many stories of cooking meth, violence, long days of drug-fueled rampages, suicide attempts, lost loved ones, universal hatred of authority, paedophiles; “dogs”.
The “Boneyard” is where the dogs go.
Protective Custody. If you’re there, you know that everyone in “Mainstream” hates you, and doesn’t regret it.
Even though I’m still learning the ways of the prison system, I’ve found that I was always (somewhat) safe amongst convicted killers, fraudsters, drug-dealers and manufacturers, or people guilty of all manner of violent crimes and a myriad of other crimes.
I’m okay if I continue to abide the simple rules of the street: don’t tell the authorities anything, don’t steal from fellow criminals, and don’t make cheques that your arse can’t check.
If you break the unwritten rules (which is easy enough if you have no idea about the “criminal code”) then you may be able to get away with a quick apology. But, more often than not, you’d best be prepared to fight.
I’ve learnt a lot of things from my time in jail, both good and bad: