Darren was a bit of a lad.

He loved necking pints,
starting fights,
and slapping female bums.

He once built a wall with his bare hands
just so he could kick it down.

I saw him smash a glass in a pub by accident one night
and not even tell a member of staff.

He was tough.

If he was a biscuit
he would definitely have been a HobNob.
A concrete covered HobNob.

Last Mother’s Day
Darren wrote his mum a poem.

It read: “Mother, your beauty is beyond compare;
I mean the beauty that’s within in you,
not just your hair.
You’re a woman I admire,
Full of love and desire,
And you’re so thoughtful and gentle and fair.”

A silence hung in the air
as Darren waited for his Mother’s reaction to the limerick,
and it was as soon as the laughter left her lips
that Darren dropped dead from a broken heart.

© Carl Burkitt 2013

Silvia was having the most wonderful dream
in which by day she was a celebrity dentist;
fixing the teeth of A-Listers,
giving sugar-free lollies to the good boys and girls,
and making the whole world smile,

Whilst by night she was a fish;
swimming through the beautiful blue ocean,
dancing with the dolphins
and laughing with the crabs.

But like all good things,
Silvia’s dream came to an end
as she awoke from her slumber;
still the same old blob of freshwater bacteria
stuck to the side of the tropical tank
in Hackney’s Dental Practice.

© Carl Burkitt 2013

There once was a man who repeated himself.
There once was a man who repeated himself.
He tried hard to quit.
He tried hard to quit.
There once was a man who repeated himself.

© Carl Burkitt 2013

Your daughter’s boyfriends
Always called you Big Bad Mike.
You bloody loved it.

*

Hands like dinner plates.
Fingers like cooked sausages.
A heart like soft mash.

*

I would do pull-ups
Using your arm as the bar.
I grew, you stayed still.

*

You kiss my mother
Every day of the week.
I shan’t forget that.

*

You taught me to pun,
Like a leopard taught to run.
Try and spot the joke.

*

Buttering the bread
With your six-year-old grandson,
Unsure who’s in charge.

*

Red Jelly Baby
Left in the pack ’til the end.
One tasty murder.

© Carl Burkitt 2013

After a series of unfortunate television shows
and poor investments,
Ant and Dec fell on financial hard times.

Years of underpaid student union gigs
dressed as PJ and Duncan ensued
as the Geordie duo’s relationship
slowly deteriorated.

One evening, after a particularly unsuccessful performance at a
Working Men’s Club in St. Helens,
their agent reminded Ant about
the insurance policy they took out many moons ago
that stated if one of them were to die,
the other was entitled to £1million.

Ant smiled as he understood their crafty agent’s
sinister suggestion and began plotting ways to
murder his best friend;
oblivious to the fact that Dec was doing the same
after having a similar chat with their agent.

Unfortunately, due to many alcohol and
drug-fuelled supermarket openings
where Dec would stand on stage right instead of the usual stage left, in an attempt to reinvent themselves as Dec and Ant,
on the day they had planned to carry out the killings
they drunkenly struggled with the age old dilemma
of trying to work out which one of the double act they actually were
and both ended up accidentally killing themselves.

© Carl Burkitt 2013