One episode is enough to wonder
if your television is trying to kill you.
They’ve shoved the lot into one creature.
Cut her open and her bones will be
sticks of rock with the word glitter
running through the middle. She smells
like candy floss and a week off.
Has your head ever been hit like a piñata?
I think about the animators.
Do they walk to work and see the hope of sunshine in a grey cloud, the glow
in lightening, the cleanliness of a hearse?

© Carl Burkitt 2022

They sit in cupboards unsure if they’re green
in AirBnBs and caravans in the ‘90s.
I like drinking orange juice from them
and thinking I am in an American diner
waiting for pancakes and eggs over easy.
The person I’m with probably has
a chocolate milkshake she needs to try
really hard to get through the straw.
I sat in the bathroom at a house party once,
a Coca Cola glass being topped up
with Portuguese rosé by one of my hands
that hadn’t been very nice to me.
I sipped it until I was in a Welsh chalet
counting my holiday money
to see how many goblets I could afford.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

The stick is wider than the path
and is hanging out of both sides
of the dog’s mouth like a fisherman
showing off his afternoon.
Strangers are smiling as they step
into the road to let him by.
They are willing to die
for him to do what makes him happy.
A man in a bottom of the ocean black suit
is on the other side of the street,
his steps not reaching their potential.
The blue tooth headset in his ears
makes it look like he is telling the world
I’m not sure how long I can do this.
Nobody breaks their stride.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

They’re pecking at each other –
from the way they are dressed
to their favourite type of crisp
to the Pokémon cards they’re opening.
The shortest chicken does not want
to walk alongside the tallest chicken.
The tallest chicken tells the shortest chicken
he hates the way he clucks so loudly.
Come on, little chickens, Mother hen says
from way out in front. Let’s go get some nuggets.
The little chickens nod their plucked heads,
link wings, and fly 20 feet together.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

Jaw like a Pukka pie, scampi eyes,
crispy battered cod hair. He is easily
confusable with the drinks fridge.
A Tuesday cuboid. Refreshing to see.
He’s left his armour at home. His sculpted chest
is tightly wrapped in a red, white and blue
hoody with a star in the middle. His jeans
are dappled in salt stains. I can count four
biceps per arm. Vinegar? What do you think?
He is ready to tear off the rough of his mouth,
peer inside his skull and count the fires
he’s put out today.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

I remember when they were bodies
without name badges. They had
the kind of arms you could bend with until
speakers died, legs longer than beaches,
hands built for bags of Sunday night reductions.
Our skulls were yet to be invented.
We would listen to people smarter than us
talk about things smarter than us
and see how many peanuts we could fit
into our belly buttons. I sit behind a desk
and imagine fresh suits asking shoulders
that once helped Bournemouth back to its feet
how they got to where they are today.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

I will be 11 years old and the skin on my cheek
will dissolve like butter in the bottom of a soup
pan. Grandma will be there, scouring brush hair,
gently simmered leek palms, softened
potato eyes. The next time I fall over
I will be 18 years old and I will enjoy it
and the next time I fall over I will be 25 years old
and the world will hang from a wooden beam
and the next time I fall over I will be 28 years old
and my brain will land in a set of open ears
and the next time I fall over I will be you
and my mouth will be wood chips
and my chin will quiver and I will stand
like I was born standing. I will try again
and I will keep falling.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

She is a mountain
in the mouths of her friends.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

Your hands are wrapped
around a balloon filled
with the warm air
of a stranger’s reassurances.
Your eyes are puffed,
part deflated. We’re here
to pick you up, lift you up,
to hear about your morning.

© Carl Burkitt 2022