Eight thumbs and 32 fingers on the piano
in their own worlds. They never touch.
They are inventors and teachers
and chaos and desperate to learn
and desperate to unlearn and fireworks.
They are the uneven legs of a caterpillar,
sausages from different packets sizzling
in a nappy white pan. They are spaghetti jazz.
They are now and then. They are soft knuckles,
courageous slugs, a bag of giving it a go.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

After Bill Callahan

Sometimes I wish I were an eagle
or something that knows it has claws.
Hold on. Let’s search online
for what keeps an eagle floating.
No, let’s guess. Hard work and magic.
Or maybe because it was born with wings.
Sometimes I wish I could remember
what I used to wish for. I would dance
with no T-shirt on in the living room
because I heard some men get paid for that.
I am wearing the thickest jumper I own.
It’s November and I’ve got shorts on.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

I pretend to drink the fake tea you offer me
because I am terrified your heartbeat;
an earthquake across plans we no longer make.
I don’t understand how your nose was made,
it is no one’s and everyone’s.
I can see your veins. You look at me
like you understand what I’m saying.
I’m not the leader, mate. But I’ll do my best
to find them for you in my skin.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

and someone else doesn’t know
how to respond so raises their eyebrows
up to the sun in the hope
they will push it round
to the other side of the world.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

I don’t know the names of plants
but I like looking at them. I like
thinking about them drinking water
and wondering if it’s going to rain
that day or if they’re going to be
in danger or pointing at buses
and getting excited by drums
in the intro of a song or learning
how to say Snack or wearing
a Flintstone’s jumper from the 90s
or teaching me the importance
of remembering mud exists
to be enjoyed.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

We’re in a sitcom –
the kind with a studio audience –
trying to work out where the jokes are.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

Sunday Brunch on Channel 4
is a hangover on an uncomfortable sofa.
Matt Goss is knackered.
Rachel Riley is explaining BODMAS.
I don’t have the energy to have opinions
on the best and worst biscuit.
James Blunt is working hard.
Guy Garvey is the King of the North
with a festive gin in his right hand. White
sits across his chin like teeth in a smile.
Whitney Houston and Clean Bandit
are telling me not to trust my feelings
in the ad break; Haliborange offers children
Normal mental performance.
My scrambled eggs looked a bit grey today,
maybe it was the chives.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

You build towers
because you can.
Colourful bricks patiently
put on top of each other,
gently pressed down
until they are secure.
We’re all waiting for you
to knock them down,
but you don’t –
for now.

© Carl Burkitt 2021