Monday, March 30, 2015


THE GREAT POETS
 
The great poets meet late at night and get their groove on after beers in a goldfish bowl
People walking past and gawping through the window as we lay our souls bare for all to hear
Battling against the chimes of St Peters we do our best to prevail over the religious din
 
One night, the last night, it all falls together; the right people, the right setting and one hell of a night
We have poems about dead fathers that leave the audience in pieces, the poet stands firm as they take the applause
The wild, unrestrained thanks for a poem that talks to anyone who’s lost someone dear
 
To have been part of such a special night I feel a pride and grateful for the chance I’ve had
To read some of my poems to such an appreciative and appealing audience
They laugh in all the right spots and occasionally they’ll see an insight in to what my life is really like
 
Eventually when it all comes to an end we’re all buzzing, needing more talk before heading in to the night
But at the time we finish everywhere else is closed so we hit the street, hoping for an off-licence
Or even just another pub in which we can hide away in the corner talking the talk until we’re done
 
But alas not tonight, there’s simply no place left to go
Everywhere is shut so I must go home, self-medicate myself to attempt some sleep
And when I wake in the morning it all comes back and I know I’ve got to get it down to celebrate such a glorious night




A CRAZY BEAUTY IN A BAR

Stunning red hair and a body with curves
I recognise she looks like my kind the moment my eyes see her
But before any interaction I really need a beer
And then before I can even turn she’s on my shoulder
Chatting like an old friend and I think that maybe I met her
But no, not this one, that much I am sure
Her eyes like saucers and a body to kill for
She would have been remembered, emblazoned in my mind

As the chat builds to a frenzy
I get a desire that I ain’t felt for a long while
Not since another red head with a great body and curves
She became the one for me until well just now
When I met an older version of her
This one likes to drink and she does it well
Keeping pace with me ain’t for the faint-hearted
She knocks down pints as quick as they come

The night is then transformed by a tale of woe
That leaves everyone feeling kind of maudlin and sad
At things and people who’ve been lost on the way
I sit back and think of the old flame but she ain’t here now
Sat next to me and desiring some attention
I want her so bad this woman by my side; she looks simply stunning
And completely out my league but then it happens
She bursts in to tears at nothing at all

I knew she liked me then as she had to be mad
The mad ones love me I think as she rushes for the door.

SYMPHONY FOR THE PATIENT

The boy genius plays the piano like a tortured soul of significantly older years
Taking me back to the rhapsody in blue on the most French of afternoons
A place where it seems anything can happen even if time seems to stand still
The relaxed, take your time I’m in no rush mentality would work wonders
For those customers in my shop who can’t stand to queue for their lunch for longer than a couple of minutes
When the stares grow more intense and some just crash out, thinking their lives are too important to wait in line
Just show some goddamn patience I think as another hipster flounces out leaving their shopping in the aisle

Why can’t we all just slow down a little, take our time with things and relax
It’s pointless getting stressed about losing a couple of minutes when it could be of so much use to someone else
Just imagine if aged seventy-five you only leave the house once a day to go to the shop to buy your paper and a pint of milk
How would you feel if you were just processed like cattle in a slaughter house?
Wouldn’t you want the person who’s serving you to chat, even just say hi? I know I would
But people over here in little old England are just so important they need instant attention
Making me wish the seagulls attack, steal their lunch and have a feast for themselves

NORMAL SERVICE IS ON STAND-BY

Sitting in my room
With the sun pouring in through my window
All I want to do is get out of this place
But the insanity has taken hold
And all I can really do is this

Insane lines of paramount boredom
I’ve nothing to say for once
As things are not bad;
I met a woman at the weekend
And I’m seeing her again

Saturday afternoon is the time of our date
So doubtless by evening
Normal service will have resumed
I’ll be distraught and angry
Looking out only to get drunk

I’VE BEEN BEATEN

The streets round this way have grown all too familiar now that I know every nook and cranny
From my home to town I know every single step and I’m bored of doing it every single day
But when there is no reason to turn the other way it’s just plain dull round here these days
No matter which way I go it’ll be the same, the same faces, the same buildings, the same everyday
The only surprise now is what those same faces will be up to today
The street-drinkers on St Jimmy’s begging for change to get their next fix
The crazies who I pass doing the same thing in the same place everyday
They could almost be me because every day is the same round this way
Where the only people I know are the damaged, the deranged or those at work

But what should I do?  Should I get out or shall I just move?
It’s over five years now in this sea-front hovel and this life of mine has grown dull
I sit around usually to write and smoke because round here I ain’t got much else
Some people I know aren’t exactly my favourites as they hang on for company in this town where we are all alone
Some others are struggling with issues that are beyond my influence and I can barely take care of myself on any night out
Asking me for support is tantamount to giving in, admitting it’s going to be a night you regret
And sometimes it happens to me; I’ll go out, get wild and come the next day will feel as down as you may well do

If I did go anywhere else, where could it be?
A tiny studio somewhere in London with less space and a whole lot more danger
Or a tiny house in the middle of nowhere France surrounded by forest and a farm
All that and a ridiculously small amount of dosh, the equivalent of all the rent I spent on living here...
Or Paris where a job awaits if I can get it together and sort it all out
But could I leave England this island I’ve called home without admitting defeat
I’ve lost my war with the machine in this old land and feel resigned to a life in the margins
No power, no influence to change anything even in my own life with the realisation that I’ve been beaten

SUICIDE, FEAR & ADDICTION RULE THIS HOUSE

Another drink down in this life set to self-destruct
Another smoke smoked in this life set to the complete derangement of my senses
And all this time I’ve never had enough
That is until now
Where paranoia has taken a firm grip of my mind
As every step I hear outside my room is something bad just waiting to happen
The start of the week saw someone take their own life
Hung, alone and depressed even more than me
It was two floors up from where I sit right now
But the essence of doom has taken over the whole house
Everyone wonders if they could have done more
Before realising that they barely knew her

When the reality of living here is so bad it drives people to such desperate extremes
I guess I’m lucky that I just have a couple of demons inside me
Ones that cost money and lead to a life where not much is achieved
But at least I hope it’ll never drive me to the point she reached
That moment when you can’t see any way forward
Of escaping the thing called your life
When your only option is to call it a day
End it now before it’s too late
Because any day now it could get a whole lot worse
The next time I drink to excess I pray my liver aches for days just to remind me
Or the next time I get high and the narrow thread of sanity leaves me, rudderless and afraid

I just hope that I never get into her state of mind
Because if I did I’d probably forsake the rope to buy yet more dope
This would only lead to more misery, paranoia and that awful fear

Bradford Middleton

Thursday, March 26, 2015

NOTES TO ANOTHER POET    [Stefanie Bennett]
 
 
It’s the enigma of it all. And, as they say
In this country – I’ve a tendency
To ‘bat the breeze’. Forsooth, I am
A talker but I also walk
My tongue into the heart of action.
 
Perhaps... it’s in the blood spilled
On other shores. The pedigree
I refuse to mock. There, the hand
                          Of Campania valour
Would slap me on the back –,
Project, ‘Speech is richer when life’s poor!’
 
So – verbose or no, critical to the lee-side
Of sullen human nature
[... A term I’d not invent nor let loose]
I specify, ‘a mouth was not meant
To yawn itself to comfortable ends.’
 
Countryman, never of the same barbarous roots –,
Rather my words be pulped
By the olive-press; by the grape-
Treader’s feet and thrashing elbow than
Forget to breathe free union of thought. And
 
These opinions drafted first as epigrams, con brio,
Deserve the roughest plywood case
To let the fearless elements in. Later – when
The last mask covers both our names, there’ll
Come a constant whirring...
 
‘No comforting ends!’ Just nardoo, thistle, fleur-de-lis.
 
 
 
DINGO LINEAGE    [Stefanie Bennett]
 
 
High-tech hermetic groans
From the parapet -
That’s an inner city paraphrase.
As they say, living’s diatomic.
 
Later, outbound where highway
Meets the sun
Head-on, a pencil line
Of long division calls me home.
 
Ladybird clinging to the windshield
- You migrate with finesse;
Colour strapped
In speed and earthen light.
 
Stopped outside a country pub,
The last groundswell
Before that spinifex
Regime takes over – you alight
 
With me. Taking your place
On the veranda rail
I hear you
                Click out
The most yellow of songs ...
 
Something to do with space
Molecular.