There is a miniature wooden kitchen
standing in the window
next to our full sized kitchen.
It has a soft basket on it stuffed
with a tiny fluffy pineapple,
pink sausages with hot dog buns,
a slice of cheese with a few holes in,
a green pepper, and a yellow fish.
There is a door with a grey handle
and a circle made with white paint behind it
to make it look like a microwave.
Every inch of the unit is covered
in fingerprints made out of recipes
they haven’t eaten yet from towns
they don’t know how to pronounce yet.
The rings of the hob shine like 5am eyeballs.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

She is walking across my television
with a purpose carved from stone.
Her jaw is a fist on fire.
Her eyes are tired but no one knows.
I like listening to the sound of her heels
on office floor tiles like a heartbeat
that has decided to go go go.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

They are cheersing
the birthday of a dead man.
He would have been 52 today.
He would be having
a chicken madras
and 4 cans of Stella
if he was ever old enough to drink.
I selfishly think of you
and don’t tell them
how happy I am
to know the memory of people
who die in your teenage years
never burns away.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

until someone told us he was a girl
and she had to become Denise Van Outen.
It’s been a while since I’ve been asked
What advice would you give your younger self?
but the answer would be
Slow down, take a breath, stick to your guns.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

When time feels sticky,
my mind a closed fist,
air thick custard, to do lists
written in the wrong language,
skin a gentle flame,
I imagine I am in a documentary
giving a director Good stuff.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

A small girl in bare feet came running up,
the kind of girl who looks like she isn’t actually alive.
There was a horrible pause.
I jumped off the bike
careful to avoid the casual use of metaphor.
Now, I’m lying in bed with the lights off
like a thing made of actual holes strung together:
a sulky eyesore without redemption,
a long random number into the keypad,
vodka out of a Sports Direct mug,
a small corner of rapture,
a chip pan fire in the kitchen:
relentless and inescapable.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

They call you a puddle duck:
your bald wings flapping in the pool,
upright beak, featherless chest
showing nipples the size of breadcrumbs.
To me you are a shark
making me hold my breath
until your head bobs back up alive
from a surprise plunge below.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

A horse trotting past
the second Waitrose in the north
with two men eating salt popcorn
sitting in a homemade carriage
is a quick and easy way
to remind yourself to check in
and see if you are awake
or in your head.

© Carl Burkitt 2021