You’re sat on my lap
and a man with leather tight skin
has a shotgun in the mouth
of a man with chin stubble.
You don’t even flinch.
Your limbs relax
into the soft of my stomach
as your bullet eyes shoot
across the eight inches they can see,
stealing all my oxygen.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

Untouched bubble wrap begging to be popped,
the sun refusing to go down on the day,
your name in lights across a palm-sized screen,
a gap for a bum on the chipped window sill,
unusually forced conversation, silence,
the news, freezing cold magnolia walls, silence,
broken white blinds, a deflated football,
one beige curtain peppered with bullet holes,
a birds eye view of my dangling feet,
a discarded chicken wing shaped like a man,
seven empty pint-glasses lined up like headstones,
a carpet made from the quicksand
of unasked questions and a goodbye.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

A pint for your birthday
will be swallowed without question.
But this year I will bathe my baby before bed.
As I let the water wash over 4-week-old fingers
I will imagine who he will sit with on a school bus.
I will imagine who will copy his German homework.
I will imagine him being a below average goalkeeper.
I will imagine him asking me to learn to ride a moped.
I will imagine him all over the local news
and the two grey hairs in my beard will be a sad man
standing behind a plinth reading memories.
Tonight your dad will set off fireworks at home
while I grab a dry towel and get used to now sharing
more in common with him than I did with you.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

I have never lied to anyone
as much as I lie to my barber.
It’s usually things like Not much,
when he asks what plans I have that day
or No, I’m fine actually,
when he asks if I would like a drink.
Once, when he said he was thinking
of getting into yoga, I said
I’ll text you the place nearby I used to go,
despite never doing yoga and not having his number.
And when he asked if I believed in God, I said
Not one entity, I’m more of an energy kind of guy,
despite not understanding what I was saying.
Today when he asked how I was, I said
Not bad, despite being on top of the world.
And then there was the time I made up the names
of hair products I’ve tried. I think I said
something like Hope, For Men.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

An offshoot from the Seagullean word Kaw,
meaning To shit.
An 18th Century title given to young boys
deserving of only coal from Kris Kringle.
An extinct Viking term for a matted mulch of curls.
The collective noun for Scarlets.
An acronym for Cute Arse, Rubbish Legs.
An ancient misspelling of Snarl.
A 12th Century prince who, rumour has it,
spent too much of his time questioning why
he had fingers, he forgot to leave the house.
The original spelling of the word Can’t.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

The coffee table water-ring was eyeing me up
like it knew every mistake I’ve ever made.
No doubt it had been chatting to
the chocolate fingerprints on the fridge door,
the fallen curly hairs on the toilet seat,
the teabag juice up the wall behind the bin,
the toenails in the landing carpet,
the words from 20 and 15 and 12 and five
and three years ago painted across
the inside of my eyelids at night.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

You were a fish remembering it was a fish.
You were a jet ski instructor.
You were Marti Pellow coming up with band names.
You were Kevin Costner in Waterworld.
You were Michael Phelps with his knackers out.
You were Free Willy.
You were a 50m badge sewn to a Speedo.
You were a hot and cold tap cocktail.
You were condensation down a champagne glass.
You were serenading dolphins in their language.
You were every puddle and every river
and every lake and every ocean
ever created on a planet designed for you.
You were just a clueless baby
forced to have a bath.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

The lady asked for a large cappuccino.
The barista asked Wet or dry?
The lady said Dry
and everything I knew about milk
and water and cream poured from my ears.
As dry as possible, she said.
I found comfort in the image of an old couple
sat at a table, peacefully reading
separate copies of the same newspaper.
As I floated by to find the toilet
I saw they were silently doing the same crossword
in separate copies of the same newspaper.
As dry as possible.
Words stopped making sense.

© Carl Burkitt 2020