Peter was bitten by a strange looking spider.
He began to speak of responsibility, grippy fingers and sticky webs.
The doctor prescribed copious amounts of sedatives and anti depressants
As Peter slowly died of radiation poisoning.
© Carl Burkitt 2013
Geraldine hadn’t had sex for six years until the afternoon she met Harvey.
Barely a word had been spoken before the two pounced on each other like animals.
Geraldine clutched Harvey’s penis and went to lower to her knees,
But Harvey removed her hand, kissed her neck and whispered:
“Today is about you.”
As she lay on her back
Harvey complimented Geraldine’s wrinkles,
And gently caressed each and every curve of her ageing flesh,
Claiming her skin belonged to a goddess.
Harvey defied his 19 years and used his tongue in ways Geraldine could barely dream of.
He nuzzled on her breasts as his fingers danced between her legs.
Geraldine’s back formed an arch and goosebumps began to stir.
She knew her time was coming to an end so she moaned and scratched and begged to feel Harvey.
He soon obliged.
All the colours of the rainbow shot around her eyes as Harvey,
Tender, but firm,
Rolled back the years for her.
Flashbacks of hot pants, peace symbols, bouncing headboards and the Beatles rang inside Geraldine’s head.
Her awoken body tightened
And tightened
And tightened before the two of them exploded into a flurry of shooting stars.
Geraldine clung on to Harvey, her breath becoming a pant.
She leant in and went to thank him,
Before the crash of Harvey’s till
Startled her.
Harvey smiled politely as he
Slid the last item into her bag.
Geraldine nodded, grabbed her shopping and
Headed to the bank.
© Carl Burkitt 2013
Simon coughed as he felt the lump for a second time.
His eyes looked into those of his wife, struggling to hold back her tears.
She nervously placed her hand on Simon’s,
Took a deep breath,
And swore to never be in charge of the custard again.
© Carl Burkitt 2013
Michael Micky Michael is a confusing old man,
He’s tough to describe but let’s see if I can:
He feels sorry for his uncle, who’s bullied by his mother,
Then he’ll spend every Sunday, punching his own brother.
He’s been an ambassador for Crufts for nigh on 10 years,
But sells dodgy dog fur and pints of puppy tears.
He has a sexy young wife who was born in France,
Yet he fellates his best mate, a plumber called Lance.
He tells his kids to “get an honest job”,
But he didn’t go to school and he kills for the mob.
He’s a God fearing man and preaches to the choir,
Yet he touches young boys screaming: ‘Hate and hell fire!’
Now I know he sounds mean,
That I’m sure you’ll agree,
But I can’t knock the bloke,
He’s just so sweet to me.
© Carl Burkitt 2013
Jizz egg,
Dribbling discharge,
Fuck pig,
Barry Gibb Blow Job.
The game was simple:
Create a sentence with the magnetic letters.
Custard tit wank,
Foldable fanny fart,
Raul Moat’s bargain bucket,
Constipated condom.
The life and soul stepped up to the fridge as
a hush
descended
upon the room.
He’d already put his penis in a friend’s pint,
Given his best mate’s girlfriend a deep wedgie,
Eaten three raw chillies,
Smashed all of the crockery,
And fed the dog a bunch of bananas.
He placed his letters:
Together
we
trudge.
A hush
descended
upon the room
as a fresh set of Jäger bombs
flowed through the party.
© Carl Burkitt 2013
No-one, nothing;
Not a mistress,
A wife,
A brother,
A “friend”,
A politician,
The red, amber and green circles on supermarket food packaging,
My dreams, talents, health,
The train timetables,
Has lied to me as ruthlessly and consistently as my English, bedroom window.
© Carl Burkitt 2013
I’ve never had a wife
But I’ve always had a knife;
It sits inside my pocket,
Whispering my name.
© Carl Burkitt 2013
They misbehave,
She watches.
They trip and fall,
She catches.
They act like strangers,
She remains.
They snap and curse,
She refrains.
They bitch and moan,
She listens.
They need an arm,
She glistens.
© Carl Burkitt 2013
But what about that side of my brain?
The side I try hard to restrain
From causing him unworldly pain.
The side that wants to grab his head
And smash it through the garden shed.
The side that wants to slice his leg
And pinch his penis with a wooden peg.
The side that wants to peel his skin
And rub his flesh with salt and gin.
The side that wants to snap his jaw
And chop his cheeks with a rusty saw.
The side that wants to set him on fire
And lash his arms with sharp barbed wire.
The side that wants to tear off his bum
And staple it to his fat, right thumb.
The side that wants to carve out his lungs
And fill the gap with two cow dungs.
The side that wants to stab his heart
And rip his testicles apart.
The side that leaves me stunned with fear
Wondering how my path led here…
So in response to your question,
One I’ve thoroughly thought through,
Do I take this man beside me?
My answer is: ‘I do’.
© Carl Burkitt 2013
It was the first sunny day of the year and a man was handing out bags of rain to passersby.
Hot and flustered Londoners flocked to him, desperate for a freebie; thirsty for the familiar.
© Carl Burkitt 2013
