I built a train track with six drooped curves.
The pieces were grey and dark grey and black
and stretched across the beige carpet
underneath a dining table I don’t own
and a piano I can’t play.
I watched the red automatic train
know exactly where it was going.
The little smiling driver in the cabin
was covered in blue.
© Carl Burkitt 2021
In 2018 I was trampled by cows.
People say things and move on
with no clue about the day they’ve exploded.
The dishwasher can’t exist
when I don’t know
how many cows stepped on her.
The teeth my son hasn’t grown yet
are every bone I imagine she broke.
I can’t watch the telly
until I’ve been told every cow’s name
and whether or not they were actually bulls.
The cars outside my house have udders,
the postman is a rump steak.
How can I ever walk on grass again?
© Carl Burkitt 2021
I will take photos of you
until your soul is swallowed.
I will ruin precious moments.
I will turn strangers against me.
I will test the patience of friends.
I will make you a stamp on time’s envelope
for a creature I will never meet
to one day wade through
dusty loft boxes and say
I wonder who that guy is,
he looks content.
© Carl Burkitt 2021
I covered my day with gravy.
It was the only way
to make sense of the pastry
crumbling all around me.
© Carl Burkitt 2021
We’re watching DS Arnott
looking for bent coppers
and you’re too young
to even be arrested.
Your smile is a crime
but I ain’t saying nothing
to no one.
© Carl Burkitt 2021
I wonder what was
the last film you watched.
I bet it involved cars
and ended with a moped.
What were you eating?
The day we sneaked in
to Gangs Of New York
you had a large sweet popcorn
or small salt popcorn
and a regular Fanta
or a bottle of water
and a knowing smile
and a heart beating blood.
I was drunk, pretending to be 18,
forgetting all about 17.
© Carl Burkitt 2021
There’s a tortoise in the utility room.
His neck is dry and nervous.
He doesn’t have a job.
He’s just sitting there
wondering if he’s awake.
© Carl Burkitt 2021
I’m watching you
watching a piano leave the house.
The keys are the teeth you will grow
and the black bags under my eyes.
You are watching intently.
What do you think is happening?
Who do you think the men are –
the two with matching masks over their noses
pouring water down their muscular chins.
They have wheels and ramps for ease
and dust sheets to protect the wooden frame
inside their massive removal van.
Your friends after ballet class or chess
or karate or pottery or boxing will ask
Why can’t your dad drive?
You will shrug on the walk home
when I ask about your hobbies.
© Carl Burkitt 2021
You yawn like you mean it:
your eyebrows two fed up caterpillars,
your nose a scrunched up fist,
your mouth a doorway to your feelings.
I once worked in an office with no windows
and yawned until the back of my chair snapped,
throwing me to the floor. The stiff carpet
was the one in my primary school classroom
where we were told
You can be whatever you want to be.
© Carl Burkitt 2021
We will go to the beach.
We will have buckets and spades
and a lightweight cricket set.
We will have factor 50 and pointless windbreakers.
I will tell you I hate the feel of sand
and you will put some in my socks.
I will be jealous of your waistline
and SpongeBob SquarePants swimming shorts.
The ice cream seller will get the sauces wrong
on our 99s but we daren’t say anything.
I will promise to get better at skimming stones.
The tide will be described by other writers
and the emerging curl in the centre of your head
will be controlled by the moon
as you whistle at the crabs in rock pools.
© Carl Burkitt 2021
Carl tells tales 