500 POEMS

So here it is, a moment I thought would

Never come around, sitting here now

Trying to express how it feels to have

Finally reached this milestone, with who

Knows how many more to come. 

That first night I sat at home, drank beer

& Smoked weed just like tonight really, I

Struggled on in, words long lost by now,

And wrote, just for the pleasure of seeing

New words on a bit of paper.

Tonight though I sit here writing this,

NUMBER FIVE HUNDRED; how did it

Ever come to this?  I guess its down to

All the drink that's been drunk as well

As all the smoke that's been smoked.

AWAKE & SMOKING

Life often revolves around the routine

Or at least this one does but of late

Mine has been thrown all of a flummox

As I often sit here waiting...

Waiting for another damn nano-blast

From the smoke alarm out of reach

Attached to my high ceiling leaving me

Confused,

Is it my actual smoke?  If so, how come

Just like now I've smoked one in here

In the last ten hours and that was nearly

An hour ago now...

Is it just another test as it goes off again

Another test sent for me to conquer

In this life of mine or does it mean

The damn thing is dying?

But that would bring about another damn

Philosophical question to difficult

For this sleep deprived brain of mine

To deal with

Since I began writing these words it's

Gone off four times and I don't know

What to do except hope another large

Mug of wine and a final joint will help

Cos right now I need it, a good one

Restful nights sleep but what chance

Is there of that if I got a blast coming

Every so often, seemingly whenever it wants...

BAD NEWS COMES FOR A WHILE

I sit at home, alone

Free at last from the dreaded infernal beep

And now the only thing to distract me

Well, tonight at any rate,

Is the radio droning on

And on, bad news coming from everywhere.

The world is going to end it screams

Whether it be through some false diplomacy

From across the pond, which as the nukes

Are launched will be greeted with cries

Of ‘fake news’, or the idea that soon we

Will all be homeless as we lose

Control of this planet due to seismic

Climate changes.

Even when I switch over to sports radio

The bad news keeps coming back and

It really feels like the end of the world.

Millwall are losing, yet again, and right

Now I pray for a drunken Donald to

Live his dream, press the button and put

Me out of my misery!

Fortunately, things in life of late, have

Been not too bad, the week since I

Reclaimed this room from the dreaded

Infernal beep I’ve slept and drank and

Read and smoked in between those times

I had to be at work and those, still

Hoping it remains as such for all my time

To come, have pass in a dream of unforgettable

Ease in the friendliest retail environment

I’ve ever had to experience.

But just now news comes through of an

Equaliser, an early second-half penalty,

So maybe it ain’t all lost, not tonight

Anyway as this fickle football fan

Turns his thoughts to possible positive

Outcomes.

LUCIDITY RETURNS

Today has passed in a flurry of words

As the muse returns; my brain lucid at last

To frame these words into a new verse.

This here being today’s number eight;

An incredible day for the creative self

That’s been locked away for three weeks now.

Tomorrow may bring more or it could

Mean a nice long walk, maybe if the sun

Shines a stroll taken down the coast, I guess

I’ll have to wait and see.

SLEEP COMES EASILY (AT LAST)

The nights of this last week have gone in the blink of an eye

As, at last, sleep comes easily and with comfort as at last I've

Moved on and gone and landed myself a futon mattress; a lovely

Comforting beauty that I get to lie on for hours at end.

Sleep comes easily now and can last, it can really last

As, at last, I remember my very favourite place where I

Can spend hours and not wake feeling like death

Here in the confines of my lovely wonderful bed.

Before this beauty arrived I was forced to sleep on a

Flimsy pale excuse of a sofabed that made my back

Ache like the old man I now hope of becoming, it

Got so bad that I'd walk pass one of the homeless masses

Out there on our streets and some of them would have

Better, more comforting, places that they could sleep

Than I could back here in my room.   But now, well I've

At last found peace and would like to thank whoever it

Was that invented the futon and generous friends.

GOOD NIGHT

With Willie Nelson playing a song

And a fresh mug of wine poured

I get around to rolling and with that

There is nothing left to say

Except 'good night'...

But maybe not just yet as the rolling

Is still to be done and it still ain't 1

And the alarm ain't gone off for a while

So maybe we'll see if this'll turn into

Another of those eight poem nights.

-----------------------------------------------

 Bradford Middleton

THE GANGSTER

For a majority of his time,

from early on he’d known

institutions, children’s

homes, youth detention

centres, prisons,

temporary hostels but one

time he rented his own

pad and he kept it

exquisitely beautiful,

he also dealt drugs and

protection; the paintings

that adorned his walls

captured me first

glance: bright, alive,

moving portraits of

landscapes and

people: ‘I painted

them’ he told me;

‘I painted them in

prison’ he said:

a gangster that had

smashed several faces

with a knuckle-duster,

shattered knee-caps

and supplying misery

in cellophane wraps

and now he sits

motionless in a chair,

doubly-incontinent,

talking gibberish and

doesn’t know what

fucking day it is,

has no awareness or

memory of his

childhood, friends

or lovers,

completely robbed

of the vicious images of

the pain and suffering

he caused for so many.

                                             THE LONGEST ROUTE

I took the longest,

the hardest and

toughest route

and that’s what I

write about:

it wasn’t a

deliberated decision

to take the bumpy

road, that shit

just happened,

there was no fate,

dream or plan

with anything

at all: nothing I

was reaching for,

I threw myself into

what was there in

front of me and

found other worlds

and places within

them, most of them

brutal and

harrowing, self-

explosive and

ignorant and I came

to love,

to love them all

and that’s what I

write about.

                                             LISTEN, SPEAK, LISTEN

Learn to listen,

then,

learn to speak,

and then,

learn to listen again,

most stop

at the 2^nd lesson.

MATTHEW H LARES

I’d hustled my way into a

college trip to London:

although we weren’t

lovers, Stephanie and I

were very close and

wanted to be lovers:

we were in Covent

Garden when I saw him,

6ft, wearing a crumpled

black suit and eye-liner,

holding a sheaf of stapled

pamphlets of poetry

titled ‘Beauty and the

Beast’

‘Poetry for sale’! he

cried out in a north

american accent:

I approached and

asked how much:

through a booze breath

‘Whatever you can give’

said Matthew H Lares,

selling his life on the

streets, hip beatnik

poetry: I admired his

presence and kept his

zeal and inspiration

and his pamphlet but

Stephanie has gone from

my life, another tale

of

beauty and the beast.

A POEM STARRING STEVE McQUEEN

‘Shall we mark this one down as

a future success’ I said to my

colleague as we drove away:

‘Fuck!, he was like ‘Wolverine’

fingernails and toenails like

talons, he could never put on

a pair of gloves or shoes’ I

said:

he was 6ft, overweight, late

30’s, long thin black hair

with strands dyed pink, blue

and green, a long thin scraggly

beard, unwashed for weeks,

kills his time 24/7 watching

t.v. on his parents sofa: no

motivation or interest in

life: never known romance

or friendship, a virgin

for shit-sure, never worked,

never drank, smoked or

swallowed, never taken

any kind of responsibility

for life’s needs, completely

dependent on mummy

and daddy for his every

whim:

‘Have you seen the movie,

‘Papillon’ I asked my

colleague : ‘No’ she

replied: I briefly outlined

the film, before, ‘Steve McQueen

becomes feverishly ill, he’s

hallucinating: he’s staggering

through a desert when

suddenly, before him, are 12

wig wearing judges sat

behind a semi circle of desks

and they collectively point

their fingers at McQueen

and simultaneously announce

that he is ‘Guilty of a

wasted life’: McQueen nods

his head, that asshole we’ve

just seen would nod his head’

she nodded her head and

smiled and then asked ‘Shall

I drop you at the liquor store?’

I nodded my head.

John D Robinson