Poet – Mikee B
The Site creator and ex jazz dancer and a love for the spoken word. 46 yrs of age and still biggin up all things urban. Currently at UCBC in Blackburn teaching degree students geeky stuff (Computing Degrees).
Its about the taking part and not about the competition. To me its the getting involved in the site and helping it grow that matters. And down with elite arty farty analysis. Poetry means Something to Someone at Sometime .
Pick up your pen and put your creative mind to work!!!
Recently had the pleasure of being a guest speaker for some english students at University Centre Blackburn College (UCBC). Was good to show those guys how we can lift poetry off the page and make it live. Big ups to my friend Suzanne Greenwood Livesey for the opportunity. The folks in the class seemed to love my poem The Piss Monster…..
You can also check out my monthly Deep House mixes at my other site – www.deephouseproject.co.uk/mixes.html
I post a monthly 80 minute deep house / house mix to sooth your ears (if you are a bit of a house head of course!)
Share and enrich the world……..
Post Recession Depression
Ah man the flow of a broken society hemmed in by a historic financial insanity. Broke broken awoken no hopin for a return to better financial times and bigger hopes and warmer climbs..
Victims of the big man’s greed and addiction for success and fine wines.
Devastation of a nation pilaged like some historic tale of deeds of marauding hordes this time though just gestures, calls,corrupt pens and no need for swords.
Social fabric bereft of once financial security surety purity and decency.
Survival comes part of a daily chore no longer the yearn for the bright possessions and more… More … More.. More of all the inanimate fruitless empty “things” searched for yearned like a universal google and bing……. Unfound… alas. A “hole” lost situation profound. …….. Time
A slow thump and bass, hugging to the sinews of a wasted fool.
No further wanderings through the chemical highway of a non existant swimming pool.
Slipping back and becoming enveloped by a personified couch.
And then, ah man.
Dose Mellow house beats ouze out.
Chasing away the sweat and highly strung interaction.
Time now, to withdraw within, and gather those paranoid factions.
On the 4.30am session, its cool beats and chill.
As my eyes catch the yellow devil kissing a white gloss window sill.
Yet no one knows the destiny of the slow beat’s intent.
Ah man, I’d know, if only the beats would relent.
Da cat on da wheels slips in another gem.
Its too late man
We’re on for a deep session again.
Who’s For Another Half Then
Who’s for another half then?
As a chewing gum festered tooth
Snips through another of our chemical friends.
We’ve got DJ god knows who pumping toons
To the mind set of a group round a chemical bend.
Who’s for another half then?
As we all think. Shall we?
There are those who volunteer for the mission
And those who fuck off for a pee.
As the night wanders into another dawn chorus of
“What the fuck was that you pulled?”
Some slink off to vehicles full of chewing gum wrappers
And now half empty skulls.
So who’s for another half then?
As the main caner does the rounds.
Ah fuck it man, I will.
And Oi turn up tha sounds.
Another half and the scene
Gets more bizarre
Pupils dilate, head sinks back
And brain functions
Are away off with the stars.
So who had another half then.
Man they did the trick.
As I stare across the room and think
These chemical analysts really get on my wick.
Kind of trippy with a loved up edge.
Spine tingling overtures
With a hint of boxed hedge.
Listen man just enjoy
Let the magic work
As another paranoid chewing gum emerges
From ma shirt
So where art thou ambition?
Now, let me sample the corners of my mind
See where the winds blow hard
Casting off the shadows from the years
That are behind.
Regret and unfulfilled ambition bite real deep
And around each corner
With a wry smile and knowing wink
Those shadows are glad to meet.
The wudda’s shudda’s cudda’s
Are plentiful in supply
As aspirations are distant
And the cup has run dry.
The Piss Monster
Have you ever asked yourself
Who pisses piss in such a place?
And as I reach the bottom of these steps
Will it drop and splash my face?
What creature is it that lurks
In Car Parks
And pisses this piss?
And causes such an aroma that makes you remenis
About car parks and their piss.
And who is it in the lift
That pisses piss
Just like the steps?
As doors close and journey begins
You dare not take a breath.
Is there a piss monster that lurks
In some lonely moonlight hour?
That tours these lonely levels all
Blessing each with a golden shower!
Concrete conquests melt into one
Where nothing of any age
Has ever lasted for long.
Chewing gum stained paving slabs
Cannot deny such abuse
As is applied by fag ends, shattered lives
And, expensive shoes.
Where no one pays attention to the
Strumming guitar’s lament
With a kagool and umbrella
That fashion a ruff made, Dog tent.
“Spare any change man?”
Questions this part gloved hand
But I know U man and
My money falls through your grasping fingers
Your fingers are ever grasping
For another ten pound bag.
Destined for a 30K needle
And a tooth drawn strap.
So spare any change man.
Nah, not I.
But I’ll extend to you my pity
As with each hit we watch you
How Sleep Thee
How sleep thee brother?
How does your slumber go?
Does your conscience prick
Each time you close your eyes?
Can you live with the filth you pedal
The deceit, the destruction and despise.
A bag o brown man
Ten pound a go
How sleep you brother
Knowing they stole Christmas presents
In the snow.
How sleep thee brother?
When you see souls waste
When you see the addiction
And when worlds collide
And another son or daughter crashes
Do you even take the time to
To read the days despatches.
Jimmy 42 loved by all……….
Saturday Night Guilt
Like fruit most precious.
Our chemical connection
Is that most coveted
A Most Wonderful adventure
It’s the music.
That you enhance
To bring such joy.
As from over yonder horizon
We see your ship ahoy.
And to modern day cathedrals
We march with fruit in hand
But none of us angelic
With our stash of contraband.
So who now do we idolize.
These four hour God’s?
The chemical or the DJ.
Or the beats and big bass throb?
Return Of the Jedi On Platform 3
I sit on platform 3 reading John Cooper Clarke
Eyes squint, brow creased
Why these stations so fekin’ dark!
Minds me full of Chicken Town
A works by poet said
Though cynics have always scorned my choices
As uncouth and poorly read.
As hands wander lazily around an ancient
Well worn station clock
I return to Mr Clarke again
Yet my mind hears the clock’s
Tic Toc Tic Toc
And the more I read Kung Fu International
The clock’s interruptions increasingly drop
As trains are always beyond time and reason
En route to your tiny stop.
And admitting defeat to the clock’s infectious persona
I tour platforms 1 thru four
As pigeons descend to assert their rule
Like the tide upon the shore
Every bill board is scrutinised
For bland nothing information
As the clock chirps up and again I condemn
It to hell and a great damnation
And with rhythmic hum I hear the clunks
Of steel on steel afar
Blue salvation lights ablaze
A solitary, two cars.
And the clock sighs and goes back to rest
As eyes no longer strain
Willing, wishing its hands would move
Pulling in this long awaited train.
And boarding I give back a glance
Until next time old clock
And time it says is always mine
And time will never stop!!!
Cider With Ruby……
Sat kerb side
Slurping cheap cider
That smells like piss
Shit stained rags
That are a blue bottle’s bliss
Finger nails like chisels
Long and very Black
And as well all detour around you
You hold out your hat
And a myriad of scenarios
Run through my mind
As to whether you like cider
Or are you saving up for wine
You get the fastest checkout
Hyper scanned and through
Cause there is a flaming great aroma
Emerging from your shoes
You scuttle and you shuffle
Your pavement abode is always clear
Because of your must not have aroma
We dare not venture near.
You are the abomination of mankind
With your dirty begging hands
And your cider and your wine
But how are we judgemental
We don’t know your tale
Oh we think we are so wonderful
But yet we let you fail!
Chain Gang Commuter
I want my piece of paradise
I want to touch the stars
I want a life beyond the race
Beyond the norm and holding bars.
Take a trip on some unknown highway
With a dusty cafe.
Where the brush it can roll for miles
Where a crackling radio plays
I want to see beyond the day
Beyond this grey I see
To Vision many a dream I have
Hear this commuter’s plea.
Sit and drink a sunset
Lavished in hues of gold
Embracing the horizons
The mighty dreamer’s stronghold
Placing all hopes in fancy
Spreading wings out wide
Lay back upon diamond shores
And being massaged by the tide.
But alas I will wallow as I do
As junction 4 appears
Traffic backs up and I hold back
Frustration and the tears…..
Ah man ….
Driving rains wash the strain from my face.
And paint my persona with a grimaced struggle
Grey with the weight of my battle against life in
Such ever decreasing circles.
Ah Man ….
Post men and post boxes post ever more depression
And ever increase the levels of this dead pan grey
That, like huge grey clouds that ever invade me, skip round me,
Misguide and beguile me, draw me ever further to the edge.
Ah Man ….
Surely that inner light I was blessed with could repel such invasions
Batter back at such a heavy load
And blurt out a “Fuck Off” to it all.
Drawing on profanity to aid in my defence against what they call
This modern life
Ah Man ….
I just want to lay my head to rest
And take a back seat from my unattainable goals
Take sleep and repeat “Fuck Off” to it all
But now man ….
I battle against driving rains that paint and repaint this grimace
On this troubled and tired face.
And curse again against time tables and unreliable public transport
That once scoffed at in pride provides such punishment in my demise…
Ahhh Man … Fucking Buses Man…
Need For Speed Viruses
Punto’s Corsa’s Saxo’s too
In red and yellow and metallic fucking blue
A cheap paint job with a look of orange peel.
Your sub bass annoyances
Knock me out of phase
MC noisy bastard is all you ever play.
Reving your puny engine so your exhaust pops
But do us all a favour and bastard stop.
You’re no Schumacher, you’re just called Dave
And to your need for speed persona
Your just a fucking slave
We all see you coming with your
Plastic and your grills
Those stupid neon lights
Lighting up those rusting sills
You’re saving up for Christmas
For the expected driving ban
But do us all a favour
And don’t move on to a
Big White Van!!!!
And am bereft of a reprise
And so my chemical activities
Bring on my demise
And knock upon the door
Of surreal ideals
Of trysts with a paranoid fringe
My fait is now sealed.
Slow down, crawl down
Lay this hammered head to rest
Once again I challenged
And once again I failed the test.
Am older now.
And still why do I search?
Find it necessary to visit
My past life’s tempting church.
And counting once again
The digits on a vigilant alarm clock
I question my morals
And an inability to stop.
My Little Haven of Green
Taking off work boots
Heavy with the perfume
Of the day’s cut grass
With a patterned rubber door mat
Applying one final insult
To tired feet
Hobbling over wooden floors
To patio doors
That welcome me through
To my hand’s loved work
Like a myriad of tiny suns
Marigolds scream for my attention
Whilst the Maple Tree sighs, busy avoiding the sun
And grass, cooling with its greatly tended green
Gives gentle caress to my blistered feet
Whilst I still curse those bloody work boots
And that barbed wire, rubber door mat.
Wandering my way across
My humble expanse
To a much laboured over dry stone seat
And reach out for a freshly poured beer.
The Maple whispers over
“Sure was hot today.”
And aching feet throb in agreement
Whilst the Begonias join the Marigold’s
Demand for water and attention.
As a young man (probably around aged 19) I worked in a shoe factory in a department full of women. One of the women there always had heavy makeup and tell tale bruises. Whilst I could never write in the 1st hand of such happenings – this poem is dedicated to all those women who are the victims of weak and un worthy men.
Straining to stand straight
Gripping to plates that are
Washed and then washed
Stains before eyes put there
By a battered mind
Cruel beats upon beats
Because the stain on a
Blue shirt was not just
Washed out so.
Bruises to half closed eyes
Throb and then throb again
Serving as a reminder that
This cycle is to serve for this
Days excuse – curry stain
Blue shirt washes.
Endeavours to redress
The beats upon beats
Received for an incorrect
Chosen through closed eyes
Heavily bruised by clenched
Fist and an angry forehead.
The uncouth, uneducated
Foul mouthed assault
Beats down, treading an already
That no longer shines, blonde hair
Inner glow, dulled and vacated.
Ironed in fear
Reminders of the last little
Thankless, door slams
Returns to tears
And an ever searching quest
To summon strength.
But strength sapped
Withdrawn by beat upon beat
Extracted by a weak and vulnerable
Hides such inadequacies
Behind each beat upon beat
Blue shirt returns
Stale beer and slurred words
That carry that edge to the
Brink of returning to
Sink is gripped
And waits for the assault
Verbal at first because Blue Shirt
Cannot find the remote.
Blue shirt removed, once again requiring
Program 5 and the requisite removal of
This week’s Curry Stain.
Blue shirt enters same cycle
Same shit and same pain.