The substitute goalie is set to play.
He hopes his gloves are as sticky
on the outside as they are on the inside.
His team’s fans are on the other side of the moon.
The sun is in his eyes. He can hear
his manager’s chewing gum taking
one hell of a beating. The whistle blows
and a thousand different colours
start running around the green lava.
He could’ve sworn people had faces earlier.
All he can see is every mistake he could
possibly make today and the ball floats
into his box and the blobs at the end of his wrists
catch it. He stands still. He has a chat
with his defenders. He wants to ask them
how they are, but just screams
they should be working harder.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

It was like nothing had happened.
People still waved to each other,
cats meowed, dogs tried
not to eat their own turds,
supermarkets opened and needed
bread to be stacked on their shelves
by confused seventeen year olds,
mayonnaise stayed thick, eggs cracked
under pressure, crumbs fell,
muscles and bones and skin grew,
grass got mowed, footballs got kicked,
tarmac still existed: solid,
warm in the sun, death
on countryside lanes at night.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

and the world decided to shine for the day:
puddles didn’t climb into soft trainers,
cats on their second or third or fourth (etc) life
reset back to their first, conkers grew polished,
clouds looked like whatever you wanted,
people said the word Cheese and meant it,
crumbs took time off, small talk
sounded like an on-form orchestra.
We got dressed up, like kids
with the time and space to be anything.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

He drinks thick chocolate drinks
in tea cups in coffee shops
so the other adults don’t notice.
The frothy brown moustache
gives him away
but we don’t say anything.
He pretends to look at the crossword
and hides a novelty gingerbread head
up the sleeve of his denim jacket.
He has the eyes of a man
who loves a fairground,
the wet nose of a puppy,
the tight chin of hidden concerns.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

After Simon Armitage

And out of the void
poured a man made from gravy.
His muscles felt like old times:
excited for Sundays, eyes waiting
for the opening credits of Heartbeat,
teeth a packet of peanut M&M’s.
The driveway was full of pogo sticks
and the stream flowed with water again.
The sun was a Yorkshire pudding.
The birds were salt and pepper.
The grass was the middle shelf of the oven.
He didn’t care how hot his skin was;
you cannot dissolve what is already liquid.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

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