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ILLNESS KILLS MY SOUL BUT POETRY
COMES TO SAVE MY MIND by Bradford Middleton i cough and splutter and feel like shit
but i type these words as a reminder of how i stay out the loony bin.
YOUR TELEVISION SUCKS by Bradford
Middleton I've lost myself in TV the last couple of
weeks and I got to say Fuck
me it's bad! I ain't just talking Bad, I'm talking pull your eyeballs out
just so you don't have to carry on watching it, whatever it is. I watch the
old and familiar and it makes me remember how I got lost all the way back then but now it just drives me to utter despair and wanting to throw my laptop out my one and only window.
50 QUID
DOWN THE DRAIN, OR A NIGHT OF DELINQUENT SAVAGERY by Bradford Middleton My damn tooth has been playing up
again And,
as usual in this frugal existence of This lowest of poets, I worry. Not about Infection
or pain but money as is always The way in this kinda life. Now from past Experience,
a couple of months ago in fact, I know it'll cost me 50 quid to get the damn Thing
taken out but last night it came to me, A cunning plan, to outdo even the cheapest Of
dentists. I reckon about half of that in Just the right bad boozer could get
it done And offer another new poem to mark my Descent into gummy toothlessness at the, Right
now, seemingly never-ending nightmare Of suffering and pain and nights of punching Yourself
in the side of the face hoping to Release it just to end the damn vicious pain.
PARISIAN
DIVE by Bradford Middleton In 2 & 1/2 weeks i’ll Be drinking in a Parisian dive bar Dreaming of meeting My Beatrice Dalle; You know, her that Was in Betty Blue All those years ago. Mad, bad, gap-toothed Beauty who, maybe, Will show me some Much needed darkness Outside the poetry Section of a nearby English bookshop i Plan on visiting.
A MESS OF STUFF by Bradford Middleton My
mess of stuff; my books, my records, My
films, everything that a life like this needs To
persist. Now I see what a mess it’s Become,
as a new vacuum cleaner sits idle In yet another of my corners,
but right now A higher calling has my attention
as the words Tumble from my fingers onto this
screen.
HOME IS
WHERE THE SIREN SINGS HER SONG by Bradford Middleton The siren sings her
song of lost love To
a chorus of lonely drunk sad old men And, at last, I feel it That
feeling, that sense that at long last I am home and the good times have returned. . . .
BEER-CRAVING ZOMBIE by Bradford
Middleton As
the clock counted down at work, typical Of
my luck of late it was the first day we Stay
open late, I stood counting the seconds Until
I could get out because tonight wasn’t Going
to be just another night of smoke and Losing
myself in some soap opera. It was Going to be the
night I had grown desperate For during the whole prolonged
nightmare Of drinking out on the pavement battling all That
goddamn wind and rain, hence only Venturing out a
couple of times but trust me There was almost temptation
every single One of those days counting . . . Counting
. . . Counting . . . Until that moment
when they’d let us back Inside and tonight, well
tonight, was that Night and almost instantly, upon walking Back
through that hallowed door I felt myself Grow
calm and like a King returning to take Up
his throne. I found an empty table looking Out
on the street of ill-repute and as my drinks Came
over I saw her. One for the age A green-haired
creature of dizzying size and Shape, and suddenly I was
back living the life Of the bars’ living dead.
THEY
ALL HATE MY HERO by Bradford
Middleton “Oh, I hate him,” they’ll snarl whenever he comes
near and I know My hero has returned. The
local misanthrope who hates almost Everyone and everything
and who comes in my shop whenever I’m Working and I can just
stand on the check-out dreaming, in a few Decades time, about how
I’d take being just like him. The kids I work With all hate his guts,
despise him, always questioning his use of so many Bags but as someone who’s had a lifetime to prepare he’s
always got A response and it always
brings a smile to my face. “People
forget about the plastics industry,” he’ll retort to the eye- Rolling youth who’ll hurry him out the store whilst when he
comes To me it’ll always
end in fun & games. “You’ve taken all my money!” He’ll
claim, whilst peering over a wallet stuffed full of 20s, after his Regulation 2 bottles of wine which I’m guessing he’ll
do every day After a long lunch-hour
in the pub. “You
kids don’t get it!” I’ll scream at them all as soon as he leaves
and As they roll their eyes at me, “Lunch
in the pub every afternoon and 2 Sweet bottles of wine every
night, now that’s what I call living!” I’ll Respond before they
tell me I’m already halfway to living the dream Of being just like him and I don’t know if they mean in age
or in Levels of hatred and, in
all honesty, I couldn’t give a damn!
TEASING
IN THE LIGHT by Bradford
Middleton That
night, oh, boy, what a night, it had all seemed like a dream, a
dream made real on a night of worm-induced tequila madness at the Saint Mark’s bar
as Melody fell into Jack’s warm embrace for the first time and, at last, Jack had
something to live for beyond his crappy little job and his shitty little room as he had
her. From the very first moment
he had said “hi,” it had all moved so quickly.
Within a week, he’d practically moved in; that first week, that magical time of never-ending
pleasure, went by in a flurry of sexual adventure and they’d barely left her room,
their boudoir of delight, and Jack couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt
happier. She
told him everything and he did the same, and when he admitted he
loved being teased, she took that as a personal challenge. The next night, Jack returned
from work and there she was, stood in front of their floor lamp gyrating to some wild ‘60s
song wearing a dress almost transparent. She looked astonishing, or at least that’s
what he thought, as he began salivating before moving in tight and taking her in his arms. They went to bed and made love
like they’d never done before, with feeling, with soul, but most of all with love
and again Jack fell asleep dreaming of a life that he was currently living. Again, he couldn’t remember
a time when he’d been happier; hell, not in this lifetime anyway, and the next morning
she went off to work and he simply sat around getting high and watching daytime TV. That
afternoon when Melody had returned from work Jack was so high, he
barely noticed as she changed into a pair of her darkest jeans and a long baggy jumper
that showed off absolutely nothing at all but as the evening came into view she turned
to him. “Jack,” she says, making
sure he’s firmly back on terra firma after his intergalactic odyssey, “Jack,
I’ve got something I need to do with work tonight. . . .” “Oh
sure,” he responds, not having any idea that this, well, this was to
be the end of the happy life, at least his. She
started going out and a lot as well and soon Jack is sat in the
armchair in their living room, struggling to remember the last time he’d seen her
until, at last, he hears the shuffling of a key in the lock. “Oh, Jack,”
she says, as she stumbles into the living room with a new
friend in tow, “Oh, Jack . . .” she says unwilling, or possibly unable due to
drink, to complete her sentence. “Look,” the other
woman suddenly says, “we’re in love, me and Mel is where it’s at now,
you get it? Good,” she says before he even has a chance to respond, “well,
you know what to do then, don’t you?” “But . . .” “No
buts, fucker, just get the hell out of here . . . understand me?” “Mel???”
he drawls, wishing he could sit and roll another big fat joint
as tears begin to pour from his eyes. “Ah, now, come on man,
get with it,” she says, as she begins throwing some of his clothes into a bag. Melody simply ignores
what is going on and disappears into the bedroom and
before her head even hits the pillow, Jack is out on the street and that first raindrop
sobers him up better than anything had done in years.
BEEN DOWN SO LOW IT
NOW SOUNDS GREAT by Bradford Middleton The down-low is here and boy does it Sound good, hell great even, as the guitar Wails with an insanity I love & the Voice just comes out of the blue violating Everything in sight with a scream that Leaves even me startled as it ricochets Around my room & no doubt bringing Great annoyance to my upstairs neighbor!
Bradford Middleton lives in
Brighton, England. Recent poems have, or
will shortly appear, at Dear Booze, Cajun Mutt’s Night Owl Narrative
#1, Mad Swirl, Stink Eye Magazine, Beatnik Cowboy, and Fixator
Press. His most recent chapbook, The
Whiskey Stings Good Tonight…, came out last year through Alien Buddha
Press.
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