The three leopards went clothes shopping.
They all bought human print miniskirts
and looked fucking tacky.

© Carl Burkitt 2014

The busking saxophonist played
Spandau Ballet’s ‘Gold’
and earned £673.
She had deft finger work,
a seemingly bottomless lung capacity
and wasn’t wearing a bra.

© Carl Burkitt 2014

I am Minky.
I am yours.

You use me for them.
You burn my soul.
That is why I was born.

I am Minky.
I am yours.

*Minky is an ironing board.

© Carl Burkitt 2014

The Olympian got a personal best
and took home the gold
in her home town.

The crowd cheered for her,
Clare Balding high-fived her
and Colin Jackson wept.

As her proud husband took her out for her favourite meal,
several hundred people tweeted her death threats
and called her a bloke.

© Carl Burkitt 2014

thing.*

*Isn’t it beautiful?**

**I like the little ‘t’. It’s so soft.

© Carl Burkitt 2014

It was one of those hot days.
The kind when strangers are confident enough
to talk to strangers.
The kind when fair-haired boys like me
should stay inside
where they’re meant to be.

I had been in the ice-cream queue, blowing on my face,
as sunbeams drowned my eyes,
for almost four minutes before I met the man,
the man I met beside the van.

“Warm,” he said, warmly.
“Indeed,” I said, indeedly.
“Fancy an adventure? I promise it’ll be cool.”

Sweat trickled from my nipples.
“Cool?” I asked.
“Very cool,” he said.

I grabbed the hand of the man,
the man I met beside the van,
and off we went.

We didn’t walk,
we didn’t run;
the way we left was much more fun.

Our bodies melted into two small
puddles and
seeped into the Earth.
We travelled through the soil,
past a corpse or two,
and dripped in to a strange little place.

There were no people
in the strange little place,
just two greasy worms.
One had an ice cold Pepsi,
the other lay in a hammock below an air conditioning unit.

The worms moaned;
they whispered and spat
what sounded like an archaic code.
They stared at me
and as the hammock swang, swung, swinged
a song sang from the wind:

“Schnebdeb, Schnebdeb,
it’s time to meet the Schnebded.”

The worm in the hammock hummed along
and nodded at the man,
the man I met beside the van,
who opened up a hidden door
and dropped to his knees on the wet, muddy floor.

“Schnebdeb, Schnebdeb,
it’s time to meet the Schnebded.”

I shuffled through unsure what to do
until a crooked figure appeared before me.

“Schnebdeb, Schnebdeb,
it’s time to meet the Schnebded.”

The crooked figure looked a thousand years old,
surrounded by boys painted in gold.
The boys had no facial features,
just a burnt “S” shape where their noses should be.

I looked behind me in fear but the man,
the man I met beside the van,
was gone
and the worms were now aflame;
their blood smelling of sickly strawberry sauce.

My ears popped as the song rang out:
“Schnebdeb, Schnebdeb,
it’s time to meet the Schnebded.”

A wrinkled palm caressed my cheek
and turned me back around.
The Schenbded shoved his face into mine
and squealed like a spit-roasting swine.

Heat began to rise up my neck
as the crooked old Schnebdeb
ran a finger down my spine.
He parted his lips and blew
a breath onto mine.

A taste of vanilla filled my mouth,
as sun beams drowned my eyes.
I felt a kiss upon my hand;
it was the man,
the man I met beside the van.

© Carl Burkitt 2014

On the windiest day of the year
Laura-Leigh was wearing a massive hat.
She looked ridiculous
as a huge gust of wind
threw her under a speeding lorry.

© Carl Burkitt 2014

64 men tried opening the jar,
so when Beatrice finally did it
they were absolutely fucking gutted.

© Carl Burkitt 2014