I see you,
spinning your keys
around your finger
with a mouth that looks
like it wants to whistle
and hide something
it could tell me
but won’t.
© Carl Burkitt 2021
like a non fully formed kneecap,
a garden pebble for brunch,
a floater at bath time,
two eyes following a forefinger,
a wave without a cliff face,
lightening without the thunder.
© Carl Burkitt 2021
a poorly lit garage,
a bird in a tree unaware what time it is,
the smell of absolutely nothing,
a slap of darkness,
a reflection of unread books
and lines in foreheads,
a couple of thumbs,
an empty pack of Mini Cheddars,
tomorrow and yesterday,
sunburnt fingers,
a collapsing of energy,
a renewal of energy.
© Carl Burkitt 2021
I met a broken traffic light.
Whenever you’re ready,
she said. Go ahead,
I’m listening.
No need to stop.
© Carl Burkitt 2021
Your fingers and tongue are yellow
because you’re eating buttercups.
I’ve read too many websites and books
the grass is now a helicopter.
I think about hobbies, handcuffs, suffocation,
a reflex comment or quick look
I will forget in seconds
that will tattoo itself on to your decisions,
and the man on TV last night
who got so close to the world’s largest tarantula
he coughed and itched his skin for 12 hours
then climbed out of a log covered in filth
with a smile bigger than the rainforest.
© Carl Burkitt 2021
I hear you
laughing in the next room
and all of the dead
poems die.
© Carl Burkitt 2021
I watched a squirrel watching me
through the patio doors.
Its tail was up, answering the question
Where is that bright light coming from?
Its nose danced to the beat of its paws.
It could tell I was human
because I was eating Crunchy Nut with a spoon
and crying for no reason.
© Carl Burkitt 2021
My body travels
through new rooms
with an ease
my mind has never
kept up with.
© Carl Burkitt 2021
Here I am again listening to sad music,
hanging my head with Johnny Cash.
It’s nice to know my hands like my body
these days, how I can swim
with the man who comes around and not drown,
how I can remember that outside my window
are trees preparing to be climbed
by a bullet with seven teeth.
My headphones are dry,
the room I’m in smells of a pastéis de nata
and marshmallow shower gel
wrapped around a freshly made cup of tea.
© Carl Burkitt 2021
Carl tells tales 