Gretna Green is grey today unless
you are in the café this woman works in.
The rain on the windows is the glass
crying because it has now mouth
to talk to her. She is a thumbs up
wearing a cap. Tea bags are crossing
their fingers to be picked up by hers.
You’d think only an octopus could
put their arm around eight
colleagues’ shoulders at once.
Nice walking boots, she says
as the laces promise to try their best.
© Carl Burkitt 2022
No doubt the barber is asked
to trim the length of traffic jams,
lift tires curls off hard shoulders.
Just imagine his Gregg’s and Costa banter,
dandruff making him crave pastry flakes.
There is a minibus waiting in the rain
carrying seats barely capable
of holding the knees of a 6 foot 4 hiker
or the brain of a broken over-thinker.
What can I do for you? the barber might ask.
Anything nice planned this afternoon?
© Carl Burkitt 2022
and out slid
a hair-thin piece of paper
telling me never to forget
the difference between
imagination and a lie.
© Carl Burkitt 2022
She’s pointing a camera
fit for a film studio at the window
of a deli selling egg mayonnaise baps.
She’s waving her left hand
and the man on the other side of the glass
is shuffling a few inches to his right
as if being flicked by magic.
He’s pretending to text on his phone.
His thumbs are moving too fast
to be realistic. She’s doesn’t say anything,
she just leans into the camera
as her tongue concentrates between her teeth.
I wonder who he‘s pretending to text.
I wonder if he’s pretending they will reply.
© Carl Burkitt 2022
Sleeping feet twitch
and process running
across pebbled beaches,
navigating gravel carparks,
greasy chip shop tiles,
that curb by the furniture place,
that slope by the train station.
They wobble and wonder
if it is them that are wonky.
© Carl Burkitt 2022
The Alsatian is running at the horse,
the brown one stood by the wire fence
not giving a shit. A cloud sneezes
and the horse immediately bolts
under a reliable tree to stand and stare
at the Alsatian’s tongue
trying to catch the rain.
© Carl Burkitt 2022
Raspberries sit at the feet of a T-Rex,
oats fly in rocket ships, a monkey
sticks its thumb up. Wheat in the shape of biscuits
rub shoulders with nut coated flakes.
A river of milk is painted across cardboard
holding a reason to wake up.
We probably shouldn’t touch the artwork,
but you haven’t yet developed
the flaw of not following your heart.
Every bowl you see is the morning
of someone you trust with your life;
why have fingers if you cannot point
and shout their names? This is a staff
announcement: a dream up on aisle 12.
© Carl Burkitt 2022
A border terrier bounces
on the sand-dusted path
running next to the River Mersey.
Its owners hold hands
as tightly as a found lucky stick
between miniature canines.
They smell of avocado,
poached eggs and hollandaise.
Their shoelaces look light
with nothing but the future
to walk towards. A bottle
of fake Lucozade lies wonkily
in my bag, digging itself
a home in my spine.
© Carl Burkitt 2022
There is a curled hair
spiralling out
of the side of your head
like an idea
trying to wrap itself
around reality.
You pull it
with a finger and thumb
and watch it
bounce back ready
to go again.
© Carl Burkitt 2022
The leaves are on the road
doing whatever the hell they want.
© Carl Burkitt 2022
Carl tells tales 