The second instalment of Boring Haiku…

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Terrance Porter slipped
ever so slightly today,
but he was OK.

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“Cheese for just one pound!”
“Sorry? You’re selling off cheese?”
“For just one pound, yeah.”

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Brown sauce, mayonnaise,
mustard, tartar and ketchup
are good condiments.

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“Have you seen my coat?”
“The grey one or the beige one?”
“No, the yellow one.”

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I found thirteen pips
in my orange yesterday.
Thirteen pips. Thirteen!

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You can fold paper
length ways, width ways and also
diagonally.

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The woman stood still.
Her bus was so, so, so late.
The woman stood still.

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Jean was rather bored.
Her television was off.
She pulled the curtains.

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Bob’s umbrella broke.
The public bin was full up.
He took it back home.

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“Use the recipe.”
“I will use it, don’t worry.”
“Sorry. I panicked.”

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“That’s peculiar.”
“What’s peculiar, Fanny?”
“I’ve no treacle left.”

*

The tree’s leaves fell off.
They slowly grew back again.
And then they fell off.

*

Clive cleaned his molars,
then his premolars, canines
and his incisors.

© Carl Burkitt 2013

For more excitement, check out the first instalment of Boring Haiku.

As his fortnight, consisting of:
14 sleepless nights,
13 crates of beer,
12 lines of coke,
11 body piercings,
10 prostitutes,
9 bottles of vodka,
8 foreign countries,
7 house parties,
6 slaughtered pigs,
5 broken bones,
4 jail cells,
3 prank phone calls,
2 hits of heroin and
1 murdered stranger,
came to a close,
Nathan “The Square” Trowbridge scratched the four, sharp corners of his head,
pondering his nickname’s origin.

© Carl Burkitt 2013

A woman tripped over
on her way to work.

© Carl Burkitt 2013

Sixteen bananas fell to the ground.
The five monkeys laughed
watching their yellow foes nursing multiple bruises,
whilst Richard Green
(a blade of grass)
violently wept as his entire family
was crushed to death.

© Carl Burkitt 2013

Like a scene from a whacky teen film
the three cavemen – recently discovered frozen in a block of ice –
came to life
and escaped through the back door of the natural history museum.

Caveman number one,
the less smart of the trio,
was instantly killed by a bus.

Caveman number two,
the more masculine one of the trio,
got annihilated by a tube trying to hunt it for food.

And Caveman number three,
the most sensitive, more evolved of the trio,
was reminded by a commuter that you must
walk up the left hand side of the escalator
and subsequently died of embarrassment.

© Carl Burkitt 2013

As they stood,
cheek to cheek,
their hands caressing each other’s
in sporadic, nervous, intervals,
José and Nigel’s minds did backflips.

José had thoughts of his father back home mowing the lawn in Lisbon,
Nigel of his, rotting in a Catholic, Yorkshire graveyard.

What would they think of this?
Would they understand this
unlikely intimacy between two unlikely gropers?
Would they understand that this is not a choice
but a necessity;
a deep-rooted need,
a forgone conclusion?

José’s eyes remained locked on Nigel’s,
unable to escape;
the pair waited for the other to make the final move.

Nigel wetted his lips and prepared a gentle whisper
as the train pulled into Holborn ,
where José squeezed past Nigel and went to work.

© Carl Burkitt 2013

The road seems endless
and I’m just a little motor
with an L plate slapped on:
You see, my name’s Carl and I’m still learning.

I’m learning how to handle
Earth’s intricacies, dichotomies,
and 7 billion oxymorons.

I’m learning that knowledge isn’t everything
and all that work that you put in
does not automatically mean you win,
unless of course you have an A star in shouting
then you my friend will go as far as the stars
because it’s he who shouts loudest
who makes the big wigs proudest.

I’m learning that I must be soft and attentive,
loving and sensitive
as long dead are the days when men were men.
I’m now allowed to let it all out,
open up,
it’s no longer healthy to keep my mouth shut.
But God forbid I fall ill
or dare get sick,
Man flu will be mocked and I’ll feel less of a bloke
as I’m told:
“Just take some drugs and man the fuck up.”

I’m learning that I can say you’re pretty
but not that she’s pretty,
unless you says she’s pretty
then I can say she’s pretty
but I mustn’t say she’s pretty too passionately
because that means I think she’s too pretty,
but then if I say she’s not pretty
when you think she is pretty
then I clearly think that you’re not pretty
because you think she’s more pretty than you.

I’m learning that if I’m the only one walking one way down a two-way street
I’m obliged to step into the road
and let the passersby go
ensuring that the thank yous and excuse mes remain strictly a one-way street.

I’m learning that the fast lanes are full
and they keep getting fuller,
with the beeps and the honks
and the backseat bonks,
yet there’s no indication of a slow lane emerging

and as I grow older
and more soft tops and sports models
shove me in to the hard shoulder
I’m learning it’s true that nice guys do finish last
but the truly great ones
are the ones that let you past.
So please, be my guest,
after you;
I gratefully accept my wooden spoon
because I like where I am
and I love my little motor;
the one with an L plate slapped on.

© Carl Burkitt 2013

Getting to the moon was an arduous task,
but once they landed
the lads jumped out of the rocket
and continued showing off to the camera.

Marcus did the robot;
Joey performed one-finger push-ups
and Sid smashed out some teddy bear rolls.

Not one to be outdone,
Frank tore off his helmet
to sing some Barry White.

Back at base camp
Annabel twiddled her wedding ring
and laughed at the footage of Frank’s brain imploding.

© Carl Burkitt 2013