I swallowed my rum and pineapple
(fizzy drinks give me chronic gas)
whilst surrounded by jaded porn star lookalikes.

I sipped my straw
(it limits the amount of sugar hitting your teeth)
and a muscly man barged in to me.

“I found love in a hopeless place” played over the speakers
(at a volume that slightly hurt my ears)
whilst the DJ flicked my girlfriend a wink.

“Happy birthday!” cheered the gang
(people who weren’t in the gang also cheered “happy birthday”)
as I wrote this poem in my iPhone notes.

© Carl Burkitt 2013

Archibald stared in despair
at the news of Vivianne’s affair.
Unsure of what to do
he hugged his dead puppy.
“I’m sorry to have to tell you today,”
his wife tried.
As she slammed the front door
a massive piece of chandelier fell on Archibald’s head,
sending him into a much welcomed coma.

© Carl Burkitt 2013

Once he had calmed down
Alexander Pallister
popped a pound in the vending machine’s slot.
E9, his sweaty fingers pressed.

The conductor,
Murray Whitbread,
was still visibly ticked off
as a Sinckers chocolate bar was placed in his hand.
“I’m sorry I called you a cunt,”
admitted Alexander Pallister
before boarding the train.

Murray Whitbread
wiped a tear from his eye
as he watched the delayed 7.30 service depart
and cursed his lifelong peanut allergy.

© Carl Burkitt 2013

When 6 foot 8 Reginald woke up
and found himself to be 1 inch tall,
he was delighted.
“Look at all of this leg room!” he squealed,
looking down at his Queen sized bed.

Reginald kicked his legs up and down.
He waved his limbs around to make duvet angels.
He stood on his tiptoes, reached out his arms and giggled at being nowhere near
the ceiling.

Reginald was in his element.
He danced and sang
and roly-polied the morning away
until his wife came in search for him.

Unable to hear her husband’s tiny yelps,
or see his miniature gestures,
she sat down on the bed, bemused,
and swallowed him whole.

Reginald sniggered as he suffocated to death
inside the one place he was always forbidden.

© Carl Burkitt 2013

Jemima’s favourite cat died.
She held a funeral in her garden
but no-one attended.*

* because she had ostracised all of her mates

© Carl Burkitt 2013

Jesus’s mortgage advisor was
dead chuffed with himself.
“We’re almost there now, sir,” he smiled.
“Just a few I’s left to dot and T’s to cross…”
An awkward silence hung in the air
as the mortgage advisor
squirmed in his chair.

Jesus laughed.
“OK, Tony,” he said.
“And then I can finally stop being a thorn in your side!”

The pair chuckled and clinked their coffees
before Jesus finished his tuna sandwich.

© Carl Burkitt 2013

The sun was shining
as Marcus dived into the pint of cider.
He smiled as he enjoyed the sweet taste of apples,
before joining the rest of his family
in wasp heaven.

© Carl Burkitt 2013

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