The sign outside the church said
A fresh approach to funerals.
I imagined the bodies of loved ones
popped in rockets and fired back to the universe.
I imagined a rollercoaster hearse,
a Live At The Apollo eulogy, a Nando’s wake.
I imagined hologram gravestones, BBQ cremations,
an Order of Service not made in Microsoft Word.
I imagined a corpse on a bouncy castle, ball-pit coffins,
climbing frames made from rib bones.
I imagined He was such a sweet lad
balanced with every mistake he ever made.
I imagined them not happening at all.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

Gravel Faceplant
Crispy Quiff
Mince Pie Nightmare
The Tall Boy With The Small Boy
Mustard Pupil
Discarded Foreskin
Kann Ich Bitte Meinen Blazer Ausziehen?
Tonsil Blisters
Chicken Pox Shaft
Crow Toe
Tequila Bile
Nightclub Loafer
Stoic Eulogy
Therapy Virgin
Knackered Optimist

© Carl Burkitt 2020

There’s a bench in my local park
dedicated to the loving memory of a woman
with the same initials as me.
I like the idea
of being useful when I’m dead.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

Made a risotto. Driven a car.
Enjoyed a bath. Shaved my head.
Successfully wiped my arse sitting down.
Disliked my voice in the shower.
Won the lottery.
Properly got rid of my stammer.
Bought an animal.
Screamed as loudly as I’d like.
Finished a sudoku.
Pulled a moonie at a funeral.
Admitted how hard I find things.
Peeled off my skin and removed some ribs
to make an umbrella.
Not puked after tequila.
Genuinely been happy with a mirror.
Held a snake.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

And that’s how it happened.
In the blink of an eye in the dark.
But then you know that
because you were there,
living an earthquake I never saw.
A moment that turned my bones
into the chassis of a car I’d never drive
and my skin into ham
for the sandwich at a wake.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

My skin is the only onesie
that seems to fit me.
But from time to time
it feels like I’ve slipped
into someone else’s.
On the occasions I’ve wished
to tear those off,
the zipper on my spine has jammed;
a set of smiling metal teeth reminding me
that sometimes things are not easy,
and that’s OK.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

Whatever you’re doing right now –
whatever you’re making or saying
or eating or yelling or discovering
or losing or breaking or kissing
or staring at or buying or standing on –
you are the only person on Earth
that is doing that exact thing right now.
Unless you’re synchronised swimming.
But even then, you’re the only one
swimming or drowning in that specific
patch of water. So splash about.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

Let’s dance.
You and me.
Let’s dance
like everyone’s watching
and welcome them.
They’re only watching
to learn how to dance
like nobody’s watching.
Let’s dance.
Let’s two-step
our way into a world
that doesn’t care
(in a good way).

© Carl Burkitt 2020

I met someone who worked
the night shift on reception.
I could see why. A fire exit shone
where her tonsils should’ve been.
She spelt Hello with an F,
a U, a C, a K and an OFF.
Her name tag read Don’t Bother,
her job title None Of Your Business.
The Grim Reaper gave her a wide birth.
The lines under her eyes were contours
from Earth’s first geography book.
They say If you don’t have anything nice to say
then don’t say anything at all,
but I’m worried no one would know she existed.
Before she was born, at least one person said
I can’t wait to meet her.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

If a vaguely familiar royalty-free hold music
started playing every time I bumped into
a friend of a friend of a friend
called Joe or John or Jeff or Joe or John or Jeff
on a train station platform or Post Office queue
or in the pub at a funeral wake
and we plunged into the deep end
of an oxygen-starved awkward silence,
I probably wouldn’t wish my brain and heart
lived in a different post code to me.

© Carl Burkitt 2020