Friday, February 8, 2019


The night is young but I’ve deduced that tonight,
Amateur night in the theatre of nightmares,
I am feeling particularly old, as is the music I now
Sit here finding myself listen to and for the first
Time in this lifetime a new year spent alone
As work is finally out and the beer and whiskey
Is slowly, at this age everything starts slowly,
Begin to work its magic.
Tonight belongs to the word and the drink
And the smoke and now work is out all the
Things I love to do are here before me; laid
Out for me to devour, abuse and just get
Plain crazy on.  Jimi sings about letting the
Good times roll and tonight, lets hope, those
Times come around as this, I hope, becomes
A pattern, a behaviour, a routine.

If it does expect more words and more
Good times a-come rolling down this new life
This new path, another damn routine that
Will hopefully see me finally escape this
Dreaded place to a bar with cheap drink and
Cheaper women who love my words and
These damn songs that I’ve spent a life
Culminating into this, the final perfect cut.


Happy new year I say to myself as there is
No one else around.  I pop a cap off
Another beer as I begin to build another
Smoke and the year is here, in a state
It had better get used to.  Wasted is how I
Entered last year and wasted is how I left

So that’s another year done, another year
Proving the doctor’s to be damn wrong again
But this year I may well slow down, wait a
While before kicking it all off.  Now, ten-to-
Eight, Wednesday night, the second day, time
To pop that cap and start building all over again.


My room has been refreshed
After last weeks’ efforts in the
Records department, a new old
Bed on which I can really rest
And a mad Monday morning
Turnaround.  It seems this
Refreshment has fallen at a time
When I think heavily about my

My drinking doesn’t refresh me
Anymore but the efforts in my
Room bring about great change
As the muse returns as well as
Some level of confidence that
Eventually everything will be
Okay.  These words will get
Written and work will carry on
And maybe, eventually, happiness will return.


The seventh poem tonight brings to mind the
Month of my birth.  July I came along, late
As is so often the way, the largest in the ward
From the moment I came out. 

“How old is he?” they would ask my Mum
Looking down at me smoking in my cot
Eyeing his wallet for any loose change with
My legs hanging over.
“I only had him this morning,” she told
Everyone who asked no doubt aware that from
Now on my life was going to be difficult.


Another morning spent wasted,
Listening to idiots talk on the radio
Who it seems will go on and on and on
Never-ending just like the game of
Solitaire I play against my laptop.
I should be sat working
On these words but without the
Experience to write about
What is there?

This particular distraction has
Occurred a whole bunch of times.
Today I played twenty games,
Keeping my win percentage at
53, and finally grew tired just
In time for a wee smoke before
Lunch and then that new place
Round the corner the place that
Don't feel like its work.


Beep it goes
The damn smoke alarm cries
As at last I put out my
Last joint tonight.

Bed beckons,
Thank fuck for that
Hopefully no beeps
Will keep me awake

For tonight the dark
Clouds gather and I
Hope that tomorrow
Will bring great news
From overseas.

Bradford Middleton

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