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Mike Huett

Updated: 14 days ago

mikehuett@hotmail.com

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Biography

I write, but poetry is sort of new for me .. thing is, it's a bit addictive isn't it? I started dabbling, now it's taking up more and more of my time. Originally, I just wanted to learn how to pare down my words, in such a way, that the essence of the piece is in clear relief .. it's got out of hand now .. I have poems scattered all over my laptop - even creating a file called Poetry, has only caused it to spread; I write more of 'em. I don't want to stop. Is this healthy?

Poem 1

Fuck Me Shoes Many left, unseen Yet amongst the numbers, tags, boxes, drawers, and bags real people with names, and stories She used to wear fuck me shoes, gave her a bigger thrill than any man Her sister’s not far from here, also dead He, he was into gardening, liked a pint, paid his dues That one over there, a funny bugger Once rode his bike naked on a cobbled street, for a bet Bakers, butchers Tinker, tailor, ex-soldier, spy? Heard of herd immunity? Here’s the herd that died Tell me, what shoes wore Death? Fuck you shoes, fuck you over good and proper shoes Fuck you over lacking ventilator shoes Come everybody, Lean out windows, clap your hands Now for the nurses, paid shite Not even a priority for tests, gloves, masks Tomorrow, for a brave politician (I kid you not) Culpable architect to victim/hero, in the blink of an edit Move along now Nothing to see here except emergency powers (the devil’s in the detail) Now’s not the time to question Thoughts and prayers We’ll hold an inquiry in a bit My cousin sir whatnot can be the judge; good egg Or maybe that woman with the sulky face, yes, that one The one who feigns empathy, doesn’t reek of old money She’ll do … The media? All me, ya, no problem Super rich monarch talks about hardship, a nice change from paedophilia (of which she never speaks) Headlines on a war theme The blitz spirit; still milking it for all they can Now we must as a nation rally, or an essential worker sally? Definitely not Sally who worked in Sport Direct – though the owner fucking tried Well, sally forth to work and back The show must go on Internet? Fund the conspiracy sites; man-made, Agenda 21, Icke, 5G Iguanas, Illuminati, whatever Fill it up with shit Ooh, you don’t know what to believe these days, do you? Extensive research involving psychedelics, hours of Youtube Area 51, whole thing a distraction from what’s really going down Her in the fuck me shoes, yeah right Paid actor, There’s a video Do you want to scream yet? Lots of people were wearing shoes, they’re bare-foot now, with labels attached Real people Dead, and buried in a modern plague pit Not available on PlayStation yet, but no doubt coming soon, with a film to follow That’s how it is these days, it’s all a game Tell me, does that help? Bake a cake, put candles on it Light them Then blow them out, one by one, with those lovely working lungs Make a wish, for Gran. I don’t like to think of her at the end, all alone Whatever next? Put the kettle on Make a cup of magic fucking tea Take your shoes off, put your feet up Isolate socially in OVERCROWDED, OVERPRICED, tiny, PRIVATELY RENTED Lest we forget, what time is EastEnders?

All poems are copyright of the originating author. Permission must be obtained before using or performing others' poems.

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Comments

Nicola Beckett

Mon 29th Jun 2020 06:29

As a man without a profile pic why do you need a reply?

Nicola Beckett

Sun 28th Jun 2020 22:39

None of that is my fault..........

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