ALL THE SMOKE HAS BEEN SMOKED
It’s another damn day in the heart of addiction
And I’m dry, out of smokes and
That ain’t good as I sit here, feeling my nerves
Shredded as if I ain’t been here before.
Last night was a strange one but it’s the daylight
Hours that always seem to be the hardest
As night brings cover with under which I can
Operate normally, as if any of this life is ordinary.
I smoked the last of the smoke last night and
Then went out, unsure of what I might find
Out there on a wet and windy Saturday night
As I stepped out deep in the heart of addiction
I walked the street of ill-repute desperate for
Something, desperate for, well I wasn’t sure
As the young and beautiful, so full of confidence
In their own youthful naivety went out to party.
I walked on down and the street seemed almost
Quiet considering it was packed just a few hours
Earlier when the beggars were out begging and the
Street drinkers were out of their minds drinking.
One old local came and went as I made my way
All the way to the bitter end, pass another that I
Regularly hole up in recently and then a brief
Contemplation of a return to another old haunt of mine
But then I discover that one was full and it
Didn’t look good as immaculately bearded men
Stood vaping at the front door so I wandered on
Round, pass some poor soul working and just
For a moment I thought about hitting town but
On a Saturday night at the end of freshers’ week
An old soak like me would stand out and be primed
For ridicule so I turned on back and returned to my usual stool.
I walked on in and immediately felt at home as I
Made my way to the bar where, I couldn’t believe it,
The barman had saved me my usual stool and at last
I settled right on in, a beer and rum to get me started.
The DJ was the good one but he seemed tired and the
Music he played seemed to fit in with the mood, one
Of downbeat desperation for the night to be over as
The drink went down and my wallet emptied until
That moment when it finally was and at last I could
Go on home and sleep, hating the idea of waking
In the morning, out of smokes and not even hungover
And as the day begun I knew I’d have to call my dealer.
Bradford Middleton lives in Brighton, England and began writing poetry about 13 years ago at the age of 35. Since then he’s been published widely in the small press world and if you like these poems why not go follow him on Twitter for sporadic updates @BradfordMiddle5.