sitting next to each other on a bench
on a public patch of grass
as the afternoon light hits their
walnut foreheads. They’re both
wearing sunglasses. Their mouths
have teeth the colour of factor 50
sun cream. I’m too far away
eating cheese sandwiches
and strawberries to hear
what they’re saying, but I imagine
a silver plaque dedicated to their laughter
being screwed to the back rest
in a few years.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

Because he climbed inside
when things fell apart.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

The twenty-foot long mop bursts
through the open top floor window
like a puppy entering a school playground.
Welcome to Monday! it yells,
Why not try a slice of cake with your tea,
wear a cap in your video calls,
put the TV while sorting your admin?!
White suds splash on the kitchen floor
like clouds who didn’t listen to the directions.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

Sit down, let me do it for you. I will
paint your eight foot forehead
on the empty billboard, flick freckles
on with bristles and gather buckets
of cement to make your shoulders.
I can sculpt your eyes out of the wheels
of delivery trucks, surround them with glasses
frames made out of pork pie crust and mustard.
There are plenty of fallen leaves and twigs
for us to make homes for the birds you feed,
a place for them to sing about
how your dashboard sized hands
are softer than a white loaf you know not to give.
Advertise your brand on this roundabout,
let people see every side of you,
if you’re ready.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

and it really is banging. Seriously.
The breakfasts are massive.
They have fruits and meats and juice.
You should feel the sun, it’s really hot.
I am literally looking at twenty seagulls,
they are gathered on the beach
like they’re having a natter, every beak
is the mouth of someone I have met
and not a single one of them is talking
about you. They are pointing at the waves
folding, the sand lying perfectly still,
the way the sky hangs with no help.
Not a single one of them is talking
about you. I have a few eggs on toast.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

We sit like we used to,
a cup of tea telling my hands
to wake up as soon as they can,
backside on a hard-backed stool,
bones crumbling like over-cooked toast,
eyes remembering Saturday breakfast
fried eggs at lunchtime, you
dancing to the sound of the bin men,
poking a finger into a bowl of Weetabix,
holding a spoon in the air
like you invented it.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

On a road parallel to this one
I see myself and he is
eating vegetables, booking dentist
appointments before fillings break,
moisturising his hands, stretching,
putting important documents
into a filing system, talking kindly
to himself, massaging his scalp,
reading the important books,
wrapping presents, following up
on messages, watering plants,
breathing, breathing, breathing.
I nod to him until the tarmac melts
into a river and I watch as he
uses his ability to swim.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

Take the midnight roof off this flat
and the clouds will see
the crumbs of motionless bodies.
Remove the walls and you’ll see
how close their heads are
to toilets, boilers, ovens.
Remove the floors
and they will float
in the comfort of each other.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

To be honest, I was just about to eat
a sandwich before you called. Cheese
with a healthy dose of salad cream.
I used to eat when I was young,
when my knees didn’t dream of a furnace.
I’d usually have a crisp bit of lettuce
buried under an unnecessary layer of butter
on the top slice of brown bread,
but what we have left has rotted
in the vegetable crisper next to a tomato
slowly leaking like a brain taking on too much.
How about you?

© Carl Burkitt 2022

He’s sat in a Vauxhall Corsa
with dinosaur shaped wellies
shoved over both of his hands.
A probable chocolate stain
is resting on his cheek next to a tear.
A woman is in the carpark
walking towards the train station,
she yells the words while pulling
her phone out of her handbag.
A man behind the steering wheel
pulls the car away before a wave
has the chance to live.

© Carl Burkitt 2022