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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. . . .
Bradford Middleton lives in Brighton on the
UK’s southeast coast. He was born in London during the long hot summer of 1971
and growing up on a council estate and attending the local school, he learnt two things;
if he didn’t kick back he’d never get anywhere in this life, merely becoming
another cog in the wheel, and has been kicking against those pricks his entire
life. He began writing when he arrived in Brighton in the early years of the new century
and began reading his poems to often stunned and confused onlookers until one day Mad
Swirl asked to publish one of his poems. He’s had four chapbooks published
since then and has hundreds of poems dotted all over the internet. His
work has featured in the Chiron Review, Evening Street Review,
New Reader Magazine, Paper & Ink Lit Zine, Horror Sleaze
Trash, and Razur Cuts, amongst other places including, of course, Yellow
Mama. Follow him on Twitter @BradfordMiddle5.
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