Peter Doherty conceptual art (hair) piece to be auctioned

sample of hair with scissors (boxed)

Peter Doherty prison journals soon to be published

Wandsworth by Peter Doherty

excerpt book one.

p1 

Lonely Villein

(It is always the unreadable that occurs)

Afternoon ... 

Windows crusted with dry summer's flake and

a lonely fly. All a screen ignored by the 

viewer who though facing it, stares and 

stares straight throughout his silence - 

he sits cross-legged on a low wooden chair 

his back rest softened by green towels. 

The close horizon is pale and blue, misty in 

the late afternoon sun that is bright and 

hidden in the white aqua sky. A river 

and sea, islanding the close region of 

Sheppey is the base of the mists drift 

that rises gently and still like in a still. 

Mostly sky, the canvas is supported by 

strips of low bumpy ground in light greens 

and yellows. Few runs of trees line elongated 

buildings and wonky fencing.

There is a knock on the door. He slowly 

rises and opens it, rolling his eyes to his 

surprise, no one is there. He glances up and 

down the landing quickly and returns into 

the small room.

A thin gangly bed runs from the door to the 

window of the cell, tightly wrapped in a 

fire blanket with a hard white pillow. It 

looks like a hospital bed. The rest of the 

confine is cramped with a spindly table, a 

small cupboard and child sized wardrobe.

An illusion

The window appears clear now and the sky a 

rich definitive biro purple, the light in the 

room is deceptively dull, as villein has 

hung a pale green sheet from crooked screws, 

soothing the harsh electric white that blares 

from the plasticised case.

Blue smoke from the reflection curls in on 

itself and his fingers (held in tobacco mould 

this hour and again) lazily, in pose, 

tweezer the roll-up's roach. He breaks wind 

and flicks ash into an orange peel.

Wormwood Scrubs 

excerpt book two.

Sorrow bound; the mornings are depressed, the nights are depressed, the momentary magnificence of melody swept up in all the dirt and pity of the landing. Times past rage up like lies—can I have been there? Seen her? Who dares not to tell me how sweet and special love could be. How daft I am now; belly numb in torments. It’s a Wednesday. I don’t care for dates anymore; it doesn’t matter so much. 

My achievements are meals, answering letters. How I dread visits (supervised anyway). The resentment is hollow. I know how well I have to swallow this one, for there is no getting out of it. I once had an idea that, because of my surname and regardless of my father’s progression, the IRA could bust me out of Wandsworth—I'm sure they’ve got enough on their plate. London is dreamily showered in ... late April? I hear the guards laughing like schoolboys every morning without fail. There’s no getting back to sleep once the light floods in and the banging starts. 

Well shelved now, all plums and glories. Perhaps I’ll detonate, explode in these endless agonies and then piece myself together in defiance of mesmerizing dullness of depression and the repression of liberty. Occasionally the keys jangle right outside the door, pricking up my arms and ears. It rarely reburns in the cock, just the doctor who looks like James Brown dishing out the Gavascon. 

Caribbeans on exercise; someone shows up to the window.

"Pete! Peter?!" A few pebbles clatter against the bars and plastic glass. I can’t fathom a response. "Fuck you then, cunt. Moody cunt!" comes their response. "Fuck earthen cunt … Moody cunt!" comes their reply to themselves.

Torrent of disgust, heartfelt and rotten oranges for dessert that I’d rather were unsmelt. We rot together here. Godforsaken drivel. I’ll stretch & yawn and suddenly topple over the table all dizzy from numbness in the heady soul.

[first page Pentonville diaries]BOOK Three

Saturday 28th January 2006

The story starts here with a slap 

in the mush from some unsympathetic magistrate ……

So the latest is I'm banged up in Pentonville 

with more than a tailors dozen charges

on me tail, which the justice system seem to

be making a taper out of. God knows

why, the band should be mashing up

the toon, Glasgae and Shepherds Bush this weekend

and instead I'm birded off on remand after 

a slow clucking duck walk (sitting too)

through the bowels of Bethnal Green nick,

Thames Magistrates and now da 'Ville. Innit

bleeding marvellous.

And for what, a few joeys in me sky

while on bail on bail on bail ……. Fuck'em.

In replying to this letter, please write on the envelop:

Number RG 7750 Name Doherty

H.M.Prison

PENTONVILLE

CALEDONIAN RROAD

LONDON

N7 OTT

Arcady, my love, therein we'll again

don't know where, don't know when

So in reality its tea and roll-ups until the

8th and then all prayers my way Mamma

p2

January 2006

29th Sunday (29-336) Fourth Sunday of Epiphany New Moon Chinese New Year

I see paint cracked walls

stained with shite

long long lock up days

cold lonely nights

and I think to myself

what a wonderful world

I see men touching fists

saying "watcha bruv"

screams from below

shit parcels from above

and I think to myself …

I see my true love

on a Rimmel advert

THE HMP WAYLAND PRISON JOURNAL

BY
PETER DOHERTY
2011

++++++++++++++++++

A/ A maj 7 / G / C F / C / G / A

A / C*7 / F* (Bm / E ) - (D / Dm )

cheap shott  A/ C

I stole a love song my love

for you, coz you said you wanted to

fly along to a song

so heartfelt and new

Now I'm in the dock up against the crown

and it's along drop to stir pot

they're taking away my come-down

 and if a fair cop I think not

a cheap shott that was

now it's gaol, oh I'm jail-bound

bail oh bail, bail me or I'm jail bound

bail oh gaoler, I'm jail bound

I'm gaol bound oh oh ….

page 2 HMP WAYLAND

Hearts are full of contempt here, the 

familiarity or the distance is immaterial,

scrawny little fellas, or huge heaving 

mountains of men - there's a slight 

of bitterness to us all. A resentment 

when I was coming here everyone told 

me that it was a drug free jail.

Blimey they were right.

-----------------------------------------

Its all pharmaceutical bits, and even 

then trade is slow. There's nay gear 

about it all. Madness. A more scheming 

group of minds you won't find, and 

still it's a slow build. There's more gear 

down the block at the 'ville than in 

the main locations at this place.

---------------------------------------------

Did a stupid thing just now. I 

spat out the window not seeing the 

shapes of some fellas beneath, with 

their pick up sticks doing their cleaning 

rounds. He came off the wall slowly, 

tattoos grizzly with hair in the spiteful 

morning sun. He looked up.I looked 

down. He looked at the little bubble 

of spit on the concrete slab.

"Sorry mate, it was an accident -