Thursday, March 1, 2018


The magic wheel stops turning and with it any hope is gone
of ever getting my machine back to how it was as it sits stalled
still at seventy-four percent, just like it has been now for the best
part of ten hours.

I write now with a deadline in mind as in a short while my
father will rise from his pit and want to listen to the news and
he'll need to get this machine back so time is of the essence
as I sit here in despair as to what the hell to do

The machine age was meant to be a blessing for human kind
but all it does is provoke angry responses as the updates bring
it all to a stop and leave us wondering if we wouldn't all be
better off going back to the old-fashioned typer

I could have scrawled these words on a nice glistening piece
of white paper but not even I could keep track of all the poems
written if they weren't stored somewhere, giving me the hope
that maybe they'll be there when the update has stopped

But now, as it still sits on our coffee table reading the same
god damn seventy-four percent, I wonder if it'll ever work again
as night turns to day and it still updates, for fuck sake
when will it end?


Damp creeps up my walls
As outside the winter comes calling
The long months ahead of
Chilled frozen nights coming
To wrap me with its refridgerated
Glove destined to keep me cold
Unless I dare venture outside
During those rare few days
When the sun comes to bless us
All with its warm irridescent glow

I just hope that the winter passes
Quickly so the damp don't
Completely overrun my room
And soon we will wake again
With the sun in the sky already
Not looking like 5a.m. at just
Five in the late afternoon as
Darkness comes to steal away
Our warm glorious light where
At least it's warmer than in my room


I sit in my room
A new room
But still stoned and a little hung-over
As if nothing has changed
But it clearly has as the hallway is calm
And the neighbour to be confirmed
Not yet a junky crack den
For that, I’m grateful
But here the view is just a wall
And the street so anonymous
A buddy who works around the corner
Didn’t even know where it was
When I told him to come visit me
And my phones’ GPS is whacked
As it tells me I sit about a half-mile
From where I actually am
Frankly, it’s all quite odd
As I settle in somewhere new
And still yet, two weeks in,
Still haven’t seen a neighbour
But really I don’t care as all I want
Is to get some rest
Away at last from the last resort
Of junkies and thieves
And the constant fear
Of worst case scenarios


On this cold-water Tuesday night
I sit alone
Dreaming of warmth
With a beer at my feet and
A mountain of smokes piled
Up in my ashtray
As winter grips hard
In this apparently moderate
November evening with
Football on my radio and
This laptop on which I work

Most nights are like this
Now deep in the hole
Of middle-aged oblivion
Another day at the shit-tip
Tomorrow is there to look
Forward to and that thrill
Comes just after dawn
And by the time I get
Out it'll already be dark
Before rewinding and doing
It all over again


I hate
How this makes me feel
When all I want
Is to feel your skin next
To mine
Embracing kissing
I just want you
To hold me
Like you used to do

The nights are now
Spent alone in bed
Hoping that the next
Time I wake up
The pillow I’m holding
Will have suddenly
Changed for the better
Into you meaning
Us, my first great hope
For a very long time

I want us to return to the psychedelic
Love boutique where nothing else will
Matter except pleasuring each other


I know I’m not ready for love again but sometimes the urge
The urge to just go out and find someone and fuck
Well it grows real strong some days and today and yesterday
And tomorrow almost inevitably will be the same
As at work they come straight from the beach and my eyes are on storks
Walking in she would buy her wine whilst simply wearing a tiny bikini
If I ask her for ID I wonder where she’ll pull it from or come to think of it
How she’s even going to pay for it.
Well, to that last question I got an answer but it would almost certainly result in me being sacked
And out on the streets it ain’t much better as the skirts grow shorter
Whilst the amount of bare flesh on display simply gives me a boner
So all I feel I can do is go home, wank and cry myself to sleep.

Bradford Middleton

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