The Ramingo’s Porch – “Drinking Again” and “A Morning Routine” Two Poems By Bradford Middleton

Ramingo Unknown Author's Immage


I been drinking, drinking too much again as the days
pass in a blur of dependency as the witching hour
comes around again until late last night I stumbled
on home from another wrecked afternoon of drinking,
damn drinking with the realisation that not a poetic
word had been written in over a month.

I woke up this morning and felt alright for the first
day in a fair while knowing a day would pass without
any of that damn drinking, that thing that used to help
but of late has become more of a hindrance as I
sit here now struggling to remember where this is
going, how to get the words out for you to read.

But right now that mind is so drenched in fumes
and spilt drink that it doesn’t even feel like mine as
it contemplates a move, a time to get on and get
some much needed writing done and ignore the
call of the pub every time i walk pass, and the rude
wake-up call that could come through a dry new start for 2018.



It never mattered to her, either way it was always the same
Every morning would start off the same way
She’d wake and her ear-splitting scream down the stairs
To her son would gain every part of my attention
“Get in here,” she would say as, under the sheets we’d
Both lay naked, “and roll us a joint, then you can fuck off
And make us both a coffee…”

It was that kind of life and I never really minded, most of the
Twenty years previous had started with me undertaking
A similar routine except I would do it alone more often than not.
He’d roll a three-skinner so the coffee always had something
To kick against but once he’d gone after being our barista
She’d climb from our bed, our psychedelic playground as she
Used to call it, pull on a long t-shirt and move to her cabinet
Often pulling from it a large bottle of Paddys, that terrible
Irish whiskey.

“Care for me to Irish up your caffeine?” she would always ask
And I never did, often having work only a few short hours later
Knowing once I got a taste it wouldn’t just be the one I could
Do. It never mattered how we’d fallen into bed the night before,
Horny, desperate to fuck or drunk or stoned she almost always
Followed this routine and again I knew here was a messed-up
One who, if it hadn’t been for her gorgeous lithe body, I would
Have ended it all way sooner but that body well it just got to me
Until the point when she eventually dumped me. I cried for a
Few hours then got right back on it, few smokes and then down
The pub, hoping to find another one. I never have, doubt I ever will
But regardless will continue searching…


Bradford Middleton was born in south London during the summer of 1971 and won his first poetry prize aged nine.  He then gave up writing for over twenty-five years and only began again once he’d landed in Brighton not knowing anyone and having no money he holed up in his room writing and drinking.  Since then he’s had three chapbooks of poetry published, the latest from Analog Submissions Press, as well as a novel from New Pulp Press.  Go be his friend if you like by finding him on Facebook @bradfordmiddleton1.


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