After Roger Robinson

Swimming underneath the freshly crisp
crust of a crème brûlée with a straw.

The man with biceps on his biceps
in the gym changing room singing along to
Girls Just Wanna Have Fun on Smooth Radio.
His socks are even whiter than his teeth.

A previously unseen directors cut
of the Lord of the Rings film trilogy.
Each one is 17 hours long. I’m alone.
The sofa is a cricodiles mouth.

“Why are dolphins not fish?”
“Why do toilets have water in them?”
“Why do I have lips?”

An endless sudden phone call in Southampton.
I’m sitting on a windowsill of the room
above a house party of people
unaware this life is over.

The memory of the man
who has never met my child
but remember’s my child name
because he has chosen to be someone
who treasures what people treasure.

“Here’s your salted popcorn
and large peppermint tea, sir.
Enjoy the film.”

Carl Burkitt 2026

Erling Haaland is lying
on his trampoline, looking up
at the sky wondering
if he chose the right career.
Imagine flying a plane –
having actual life
and death in your hands.
The chance to rest
your soles as they fly
over continents excited
to have you explore them.
No one has ever told
a pilot they’re shit
based on the airline
who hired them.

Carl Burkitt 2026

He’s making an astronaut out of A4 white paper
for show and tell next Friday. Gravity pulls
my heart through my intestines as I watch him
navigate scissors around what he tells me

are space boots and space gloves. Worry
is a black hole. A place for me to imagine him
fingerless in A&E, wowing nurses with jokes.
“What’s an astronaut’s favourite button on a keyboard?”

Carl Burkitt 2026

My shadow is a 5-year-old boy
attached to the bottom of my spine
asking questions of my bones.

Are dinosaurs in heaven?
How do you touch the moon?
When will I have an operation?

It’s followed me into the bathroom
to show me how the bumps on the top
of its salt and vinegar rice cake
looks a bit like the outline of a duck’s face.

Do planes have windscreen wipers?
Do bungalows have attics?
Do you know anyone who is invisible?

The sun has gone to bed and convinced
my shadow to do the same. The silence
in the house is a miserable, century long.

Carl Burkitt 2026

He can’t spell halloumi
but who cares
when he can make

my sister laugh
while the world ends
with a cheesy jokes.

Carl Burkitt 2026

Give me the confidence of the 15-year-old
on this train at Stroud announcing to his six mates:

“You know what I think would be
a really fun feature for an edition of FIFA?

“Referee Career Mode… Just think about
all the tough decisions you’d get to make.”

Carl Burkitt 2026

I am a seed stuck
in someone’s front teeth.
I am a clump of snot
clinging to untrimmed nose hairs.
I am a smoking car engine
T-boning the M6 central reservation.
I am two pigeons having sex.

Why else has the 9-year-old girl
with yogurt around her chops
not stopped staring at me
since Macclesfield train station?
We’re just pulling in Cheltenham Spa.

Carl Burkitt 2026

Slugs love our hallway. They sneak in most nights
to relax on our rug and wait for the morning to wake
up and bound downstairs with questions.

‘What are worms for?’
‘Why are dolphins not fish?’
‘Were pirates after the dinosaurs?’
‘When will I have an operation?’

The slugs melt in the light of the morning.
They watch it fiddle with its tight blonde curls
on top of a head bursting with imagery.

‘Tree roots travel beneath manmade
paths like London underground trains.’
‘Imagine if there was a person called Tuesday
and they were only alive on Tuesdays.’
‘My hair is a funfair.’

Slugs love our hallway. They sneak in most nights
knowing these mornings will not last forever.

Carl Burkitt 2026

I have fed my son Shreddies,
played three rounds of the London
Underground board game,

put the outdoor furniture cover back on
after the wind unwrapped it like a present,
unloaded and loaded the dishwasher,

remembered to wash tomorrow’s PE kit,
made a questionable balloon animal,
and wiped down the kitchen counter.

164 miles away
my mum is asleep in her bed,
unaware a phone call of recognition
is desperately awaiting her.

Carl Burkitt 2026

He walked past me, smelling
like a bloke who washes himself
in good deeds and mint.

His t-shirt looked lucky.
His watch gave up counting away
the time it gets to spend with him.

The tarmac was all too happy
to help him float down the street,
beyond the chip shop he waved at,

the green park he whistled hello to,
the bus stop he saluted and wished
good luck. I find myself thinking

about how few people have the time
to acknowledge each other as we walk by.
Then I remember the stranger

who shouted “You look like Greg James,”
at me recently after a Big Special gig,
“In a proper sexy way, mind”.

Carl Burkitt 2026