Author Archives: carltellstales

Stuff just always happens

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I try to cross the road
and I can hear at least two sirens behind me,
a muffled argument in the distance and what
sounds like a window cracking around the corner.
The cartilage in my hip is grinding
like the table leg sized pepper
in the restaurant to my left
with too many different coloured lights.
I can see a puddle swallowing
the reflection of a miserable pigeon
and a bus driver is texting at a red light
while an estate agent is holding a phone
between his ear and shoulder at his desk,
flicking through paperwork with one hand
and tapping his laptop with one finger on the other.
Someone in a pub laughs and a cat licks its paw
and the wind is sideways and the moon blinks
and an old lady forgets me forever.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

Rubbish

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Every night
before bin collection day I forget
whether it’s general waste and cardboard
or glass and plastic I need to put out,
so I look outside the living room window to see
what bins the next door neighbour’s lined up,
the one to the left
who trims her shrubs with a smile
and has hair as snow white and trustworthy
as David Attenborough’s.
In the short walk down the stairs
towards my front door I think I hear
her husband in his purple trilby laughing,
convinced today is the day he’s finally tricked me.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

A mess behind the door

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My fridge situation is all out of whack.
I’ve got half a jar of olives
next to an Oreo Dairy Milk I don’t remember.
There’s out of date hollandaise
sitting on cans of ale I can’t pronounce.
I’ve got five eggs in one packet of 12
and two eggs in another packet of 12.
Someone’s hidden their jar of tahini
behind my reduced Milky Bar yogurts
and they’ve smuggled in microwave swede mash
alongside springs onions and fake ham.
I’m not proud of the pre-sliced Edam cheese
or unopened bottle of Pigs In Blanket Mayonnaise.
And don’t get me started
on the accidental smooth Branston Pickle.
I’ve got eyes made from onions,
my nerves are the ghosts of old spilt milk.
Every bit in the orange juice with bits
is a chunk of guilt directly from the bottle.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

Visions

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What took you so long, Russell Crowe?
I had visions of meeting over foamy pints
and shouting through drum and bass
in a smoky club we couldn’t remember
who suggested we head to
before giggling over a slippery kebab
on a walk through thick Bournemouth air
on the way to my Uni halls
where we’d put a dusty copy of Gladiator
into my creaking TV/VCR combo
and every time Joaquin Phoenix would appear
on screen you’d shout WHACK and slap my back
and force me to neck a tequila
until I fell asleep to the sound of you
convincing yourself you’d make a good Robin Hood.
But it’s 14 years later and here you are,
sitting in my room asking my 3 month old son
Are you not entertained?
and I don’t know what to do.

© Carl Burkitt 2020