Poetry Muster

Muster


We’re like cattle, and the screws are calling us to muster

Right on time, every day

I’m wedged between Murder and Petty Theft

Staring at the rows of green Dunlops

A perfect match to the green shirts, the green trackies

The only thing we truly own is our underwear

And even that can be taken if we appear too weak

Or too kind

The whole line-up seems staged, as it always does

Each inmate a specimen of good behaviour and decorum

But only for as long as the screws are taking our names

Up at the dinner line the kitchen workers shuffle the meals about

Making sure the standovers get the best portions

They are earning favour, and simultaneously making dicks of themselves

Perpetuating the prison hierarchy

Sucking their way into a social contract that will bind them

For the entirety of their sentence

I eat alone

Picking at the stuff in the tin tray

Tuna, absurdly thick slices of cucumber

A smattering of grated cheese

I never see the sun go down as much as it falls behind the wall

The colour of terracotta

A fight breaks out

It's about cereal

And my senses are all alert, as they must be when a fight breaks out

I crunch cucumber between my teeth

And wear a vaguely amused look on my face

But I am not amused

I am tired

If I had a home, I’d want to go back to it

The shouting dies down after punches are thrown

The argument settled in the most primitive way

A commotion about the TV channel and the women settle in to watch the news

I’m bunking with Fraud

I’ve cushioned our cell with books, paints, canvass and guitar

But it will never be comfortable

A flip through the pages of my brief justifies it all

Red to the hilt

Red on the carpet

Red on the towel

After lock-in the girl in isolation begins her twilight rant

I can see through my window into her cell

The lights stay on all night

Suicide watch

Tonight, she’s painting the walls with her own excrement

And screaming without end about the vengeance she will one day wreak

The screws finally comprehend

The girl needs a doctor

They strap her to a stretcher, and I watch them wheel her away

And I think

We are all of us just one bad day away from being strapped to that stretcher

One bad day away from losing what little we still have




​

 

[Dorm Ant]

I love the way this reads like a list of statements. That gives it a claustrophobic feel, which is presumably what you're going for.

I especially like this bit:

I never see the sun go down as much as it falls behind the wall

The colour of terracotta

A fight breaks out

It's about cereal

I'd keep the tone of the prisoner's monologue consistent, by avoiding words like "excrement". Would "shit" work better? You refer to prisoners "making dicks of themselves", so she (I assume) has an informal tone.

Nerdy point: Prisoners would never be allowed to keep a guitar in their cell. There would possibly be a music room, where they could play under supervision, but a guitar is a potential lethal weapon in the hands of a frustrated prisoner with a score to settle (can pull the strings out and choke a cellmate.) Prisoners aren't even allowed to wear shoes with laces - they're given sliders (mules) in Britain, and I doubt it's much different in Australia.

 

[Serra K]

Yeah I wanted to use shit but excrement rolled off my tongue.
This was a medium security prison and I did, indeed, have a guitar in my cell. It was the only instrument on the compound so I was lucky to snatch it up. It was supposed to be locked away at night but this often didn't happen. You're right about maximum security though, the first port of call for all inmates in the cities. There are no musical instruments there.

 

[Dorm Ant]

Yeah I wanted to use shit but excrement rolled off my tongue.
This was a medium security prison and I did, indeed, have a guitar in my cell. It was the only instrument on the compound so I was lucky to snatch it up. It was supposed to be locked away at night but this often didn't happen. You're right about maximum security though, the first port of call for all inmates in the cities. There are no musical instruments there.

Ah, so it's based on personal experience. Rules probably vary from country to country about what prisoners can keep hold of.

 

[Serra K]

Rules probably vary from country to country about what prisoners can keep hold of.

Yes, we weren't permitted to have regular sized toothbrushes (I was able to get hold of one but it was confiscated in a cell toss), or to freeze water as we liked to do in summer (blunt force weapon), but the guitar seemed a sacred object and if you played the right tune, even the worst of enemies would sit side by side to hear it. Such is the nature of deprivation, and music is a balm for people who have nothing else.