Bradford Middleton

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 . . .

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!

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.