I knew a man
who used the skin under his eyes
to carry the memory of adventures.
The black of festival night skies
stretched above his cheek bones,
sprinkled with stye-shaped stars.
They bulged with midnight conversations,
24-hour buses, the wrinkles of knackered smiles.
No one knows quite when it happened,
but he emptied the bags
and filled them with bad news.
He looked left and right and left and right again.
He carried the weight of coffins on his face.
His cheeks dropped
like a dream into a river.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

If my life is a dream
within a dream
within a dream
within a dream,
I can’t complain
at my imagination.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

you say
I have the potential to do amazing things
and the letters smile,
grow legs and whisper their way
around the board to spell
More than you realise.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

He’s pretty tall.
He sings in the shower.
He talks a lot about his goal at The County Ground.
He thinks his beard is nice.
He talks a lot about his goal at The County Ground.
He really likes Pringles.
He cries a lot at films.
He doesn’t like coconuts.
He makes decent fried eggs.
He cries a lot at adverts.
He think his scrambled eggs are good.
He cries a lot at books.
He likes Mum a fair bit.
He cries a lot when he thinks I’m not looking.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

A shark used to swim
through my veins.
I could feel its fins
against my bones.
It never slept,
until it slept forever.
I miss it sometimes
and feel guilty
for even thinking about it.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

I’d bite anything
if it was made of fingernails.
Right down to the cuticles.
I’d happily swim in judgement
as I nibbled a translucent puppy,
a crunchy postbox.
Imagine the filth underneath a sofa
made of fingernails.
It would taste like pudding to me
in a world of stress relief.

© Carl Burkitt 2020