I’m excited
to one day
meet the man
who seems to live
behind my eyelids
at night
and set fire
to his pupils.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

You
sitting on a birthing ball
crying into a Cornetto
as a fictional fire fighter dies
is how I want to remember
our old life.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

I am five and you are 2,000 years old,
a firework of beige whistling
through the front door.
You light a fuse on the sofa next to me,
a Catherine wheel of chatter
spinning stories I don’t understand.
Your teeth are sparklers shining
to every out of date reference.
My toffee apple eyes melt
beside your ancient warmth
and crackle to dreams
of a darker-haired you
telling tales to half my foundations.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

There’s a cat-flap on the side of my head.
April walks through it most nights
between awake and asleep.
Her misty morning eyes blink behind mine
like soft showers tickling cracked patios.
I can feel her midnight tail against my skull.
She hisses when I think the wrong things
and hides behind nightmare sofas.
She still has a chip out of her right ear.
She still doesn’t tell me how she got it.
In the early hours April chases
the loose threads of my mind and kneads my brain
with the warmth of my favourite baker.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

The endless yogurt lids stuck
to the underside of the creaky pedal bin.
The Spider-Man t-shirt
that hasn’t fit my frame in 12 years.
The certificate
for Carl with a K.
The Pukka Pad diary
with that entry from that night.
The woolly hat
I wish I knew how to love.
The crusty shin pads
that snapped when I stopped defending.
The splodge in my brain
that tells me I don’t deserve nice things.
The wonky bedside table
that makes me feel at home.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

Today scientists discovered that worry is a blood type.
The sight of a goalkeeper rushing off his line
is a lorry running over my chest.
I can barely stand watching leaves fall.
Hope is making a new friend
in the knowledge you will both die.
Every supermarket name badge is you –
letters trapped in colourful coffins.
Her mouth said Everything will be OK over and over
until the words became wallpaper
in a flat she never visited.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

I’m gonna be a wreck.
I’m gonna be squeamish of fictional injuries.
I’m gonna be wet faced as families reunite
and clog my mouth with starch.
Tonight Matthew
I’m gonna be King Edward.
I’m gonna be an easy target, a sniper’s dream.
I’m gonna be the dust down the back of the sofa.
I’m gonna be a fossil with a wandering mind.
Tonight Matthew
I’m gonna be pointless.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

You are every face I’ve ever let down.
I once bought a Snickers
for a train conductor I said a horrible thing to,
I didn’t know what else to do.
He said he preferred Mars Bars before Thank you.
There’s a group of gentle teenagers stuck
in the 90s hating me with just cause.
I used to think of them when I hurt myself.
You are the goosebumps on my neck
when I press send to the wrong person.
I can see you in the pub,
an imaginary 32-year-old receding hairline
charming former rivals to your table,
healing old wounds with your plaster cast smile.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

Why does it feel weird
to bite a corn on the cob with your eyes closed?
Is there anyone in the world
called Pat Test or Lou Brush?
Where do people get the confidence
to use the middle of three urinals
when all three urinals are empty?
Why don’t we just have ten thumbs?
Is a carvery the only restaurant occasion that
everyone is happy to get up at the same time and
leave their bags and coats at the table unattended?
Do Chris Hoy’s friends greet him with Ahoy Hoy?
If I didn’t go on that football weekend
would he have driven his moped down that road?
Will I ever know?

© Carl Burkitt 2020