Words are learning how
to make their way to your mouth.
Fingers clinging to the slippery handrails
of your ribs, feet struggling to grip on
to the thin steps of your spine.
They have no time to wait;
they keep
climbing,
shaking, www
until up www
they up wee
burst up eee
their up eee
way up eee.

Carl Burkitt 2022

Three thousand fully clothed teeth
nod their heads in a dimly lit mouth.
Bar staff gather in gums, shoes stick
to a beer-soaked tongue. Purple shines
over a man who will set himself on fire,
sweat collects on his back like a crowd
melting to the joy of tasting vibrations.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

Laces thinning from tying self too tightly,
tongue big and silent, mud dry and stuck
in any cracks it found. The garage is cold
enough for it to remember wet Sundays,
a chance to forget about the things it
couldn’t do and the people who thought
it was pointless. The concrete floor makes it
feel like a tap dancing shoe, clip clopping
through a changing room with mates
who wouldn’t be here forever, but had hearts
for enough time to tell it to kick while it can.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

Grab a hold of your chest skin tight enough
to remove it without causing pain. Peel it off
and show the youngest eyes in the universe
that what lies beneath is every known colour,
the chance to wake up feeling useful, a bowl
of Weetabix and songs about excavators,
a train track built from cherry tomatoes and cheese,
a pair of boots dirtied with mud from countries
and towns and planets that refuse to be found,
juggling balls, uncut hair, clashing outfits,
the space between expectations and a terrible
imitation of a lion, an empty calendar, a yellow cap,
the urge to play the drums or paint a goat
or count butterflies or fly to the ocean
and the flair to sit up and fail.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

They put their coffees down
and stand by the canal
watching monkeys navigating boats.
They watch the antics on the water
and offer advice like neatly peeled bananas.
It’s been a lifetime since they didn’t know
what they were doing. Their skin is
stone holding in a river of freedom.
Later they will tell their friends
about the animals that came to visit
and compliment the way they turned
in such a tight space.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

They feel sadness in the same way
they feel the joy of an ice cream van
plink plonking its way through the street
they grew up in and learned how
to put both feet on a pogo stick
and spell the word SHIT in chalk on tarmac
before drawing a temporary tennis court.
They will not know how to continue
tomorrow but will get up, eat Cheerios,
wear their favourite Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle
t-shirt, point at the sun and say Sun.
They will feel dried tears on their cheeks
and remember the taste of something
they didn’t enjoy rolling away.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

is sitting on a narrow boat
when everyone has gone to bed
and looking up at the stars
pretending I know who they are.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

Give it to us. We want it.
We won’t strip if for parts,
we will sit it down and scour
the brain of its cab for stories
about tarmac, dead trees,
the way clouds change shape
depending on your mood,
the smell of roadside bacon,
the folded corners of A-Z maps.
We will follow every line on its grill
back to the beginning.

© Carl Burkitt 2022